42 and So Much More

I truly believe that children unwittingly posses the secrets of the universe.  Hidden inside the innocence of the child's mind is the wisdom of lifetimes. The meaning of life, the answers to moral quandaries, and the reasons for our existence are unconsciously guarded by the youth.

As they fumble through the world, struggling to learn how to be, kids seem to draw from a pool of knowledge that adults can’t access.  Children inherently understand intricate aspects to complex situations. They need surprisingly little assistance to interpret adult problems. Kids simply know what’s going on around them. Then, just as they begin to ask the questions to the answers they maintain, a curious thing happens.  They lose it all.

As they age, this knowledge begins to slip away from them. They learn everything that we teach them, all while losing their grasp on the answers to questions we will spend our lives researching. Children mature into a lost world of confused and misguided intent.

They undergo a period of adolescence rife with intense emotions and feelings of isolation. They become angst-ridden by how misunderstood they are as they cling desperately to the things we have all lost. Teens experience turmoil as the child within them treads water; striving for just a few more gasps of air before the adult suffocates them, and their knowledge sinks below the surface.

Going Back

A few years ago I met a four year old with a peculiar habit of misplacing his possessions. At first he simply forgot them. He'd come to school, place all his belongings in their appropriate space, and then manage to leave without them. His guardians were aware of this. Rather than make a big fuss that he sometimes came home without his coat and/or backpack, they would send him in the next day with a spare. Some days that meant he'd leave with more than he could carry.


In order to help, I began reminding him to double check that he had all of his items before leaving. I'd call out as he ran off to play. He'd return; frustrated and growling. This is when the habit evolved.

Suddenly, this child's belongings were nowhere to be found. It was as if the end of the day had caused everything he owned to vanish. He'd leave for the day bewildered and empty handed, but seemingly pleased with himself. We'd go about our business of cleaning up after the kids, and eventually discover his coat in the corner behind the recycling bin, or his backpack stowed beneath a classmate's who hadn't left yet.

This kid was intentionally hiding his things from us. He wanted to leave them at school, but why? I couldn't understand it.

Until one day when I was playing with him. He and I were discussing an event that was obviously fantasy. However, for my friend it was experienced as a reality. It was after a long weekend, and I asked about what he had done since we'd last seen one another. He responded that he had run away from home.

"Where did you go?" I asked with elevated concern.
"To school," he replied matter-of-factly.

Realizing that this was a complete impossibility, I relaxed. Intrigued, I continued to ask follow up questions.  I listened, as he described how he had lived at the facility over the weekend. With excitement in his eyes, he explained that he played the entire time. He apparently slept upright in his cubby, and didn't eat anything because he wasn't hungry. He was at peace with his perceived experience. This was his safe place.

And then it clicked. In his brief lifetime, this child was only accustomed to trauma. He had witnessed and experienced nearly every type of abuse there is. This kid had seen more than I care to even think about. He had undergone almost constant change, rejection, and neglect. People said they cared about him, but no one paid attention to him, or endorsed his worth. Then, without much warning, he'd be moved to a new environment. He repeatedly had to adjust to different forms of neglect or rejection. Finally, he came to school, and the adults there actually listened to him. They took care of him, and worried about him when things went awry. He met other kids with similar experiences, and he was welcomed. Despite how hard he tried, he couldn't push these people away. It was unfamiliar, but so refreshing that he developed an insurance policy.

In his short life, everything had been taken from him. He was repeatedly uprooted, and removed from the people he thought were his. By leaving his possessions, he provided himself with the assurance that he would have to come back, at least one more time.

It seemed plausible, but I still felt I needed proof. So, at the end of that day, I caught him running off the playground toward his bus. I called him over, and pointed to his back pack and coat, which were curiously tucked underneath a shrub near the edge of the building.

After he retrieved them, I smiled and asked, "What happens when you get home and find out you don't have your things?"
He shot me the biggest I'm-healing-here smile, and exclaimed "I say: 'bus driver bring me back!'"

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Image found here

This post began as a laborious rant about how the universe was out to get me today. I intended to tell the tale of how my afternoon was filled with neurotic episodes of ignorance and uncertainty. I planned to depict the histrionic periods of despair I experienced over my inability to function without my parents. I wanted you to feel my pain as I described the moment I stood (surrounded by busy holiday shoppers) outside the mall food court, and felt so alone while I suppressed tears at the thought that one day I will actually have to deal with this concern. Then, I was going to make you laugh as I explained the circumstances that led to my melodramatic melancholy. I wanted you to be humored and sympathetic over the story of how I locked my keys in my car, left my wallet at the movie theater, broke my really nice earrings, and had to park three blocks from the grocery store on a day I chose to wear heels.

However, it wouldn't come out right. I wrote the whole thing two or three times, and it was enough to exhaust any loyal readers away. It filled too many pages, and sounded increasingly absurd and peevish.  What am I even doing here?! I thought. Then, for the third time today, I cried. 

Torn between anger and amusement at my inability to control my emotions, it all came back to my parents, as I suddenly remembered a childhood interaction with my dad.

I can't recall what had led up to the conversation. It was most likely some inane series of events not unlike those I experienced today. It's not really important. What matters is that I had become upset over something that, in the grand scheme of things, did not really matter. I had found myself sobbing on the floor at the corner of the staircase. I was hysterical, and my father had somehow been tasked with pulling me out of it. So, he pulled out one of his infamous pep-talks.

"Really Mindy? This is what you're crying about?" he said. "This is not even a big deal.  You're wasting your tears over nothing. What's going to happen when something really serious happens? Like when you break your leg, and find out you can’t cry anymore because you used it all up over this? Imagine how you'll feel then."

Not necessarily the most helpful advice to give a little girl on the brink of adolescence, but sooner or later I got the message.

So, I'm going to take a page from my past. I'm putting my big girl pants back on (which is funny because this whole thing began when I tried to get my pants hemmed). I've had myself a good cry, or three, and I'm done now. I’m going to save the rest of my tears for the day when I really need them.

The Mist

 When I encounter people who are impaired, I often see a cloud form around them.  After observing them, it gradually becomes obvious that this person can't see clearly.  It’s not that their sight is weakened. They could have near perfect pilot's vision, but something has occurred to make their life go out of focus for them. It's as if a static takes shape around their bodies.  This static gets thicker as it reflects their level of stress or dysfunction. It quickly becomes a translucent cloud.  Then it all starts to make sense.

It's like they're driving at night in thick fog.  They have no idea where they are, and they can't see any of the landmarks to bring things back into perspective. They are lost inside their bodies.

This is not to say that these people shouldn't be held accountable for their actions. Nor am I saying that nothing is their fault.  They're still driving that body. However, it should be kept in mind that they just can't make out what direction they're pointed in, or where a safe place to stop would be.

But then this can get confusing, as there are different kinds of impairments.

Sometimes it's pretty clear that that person knows about the cloud.  They seem to understand that something is off, and they aren't driving straight. Often, this makes things worse.  They might attempt to communicate to the world that they don't understand, but they do it erratically and lose control. They slip and fall repeatedly. This creates pain, and the cloud feeds on pain.  It gets bigger. The impairment grows.  These poor people just can't get out of the storm, but they know it's there so they keep trying. Sometimes the only thing to do for these people is to grab hold of an anchor, tie yourself off, and jump right in with them.  You have to experience their haze in order to help them. You need to take their hand, and let them know you're with them.  Then, slowly but surely, the two of you can climb out together.

In other cases, the person can't see the problem. This is problematic, because their clouds tend to be the biggest and darkest, but they have no idea.  These clouds take over their entire world, but these people go on as if they hadn't. They just continue moving about the fog aimlessly. They think they're headed one way, but they've been off course for some time.

These individuals pose the biggest threat. They'll veer off track and head right for you without noticing. What's worse is there seems to be no way to show them that it's time to slow down and pull over.

Scylla or Charybdis?

 I did a lot of skiing as a child. Every winter I followed my family up the mountain, and chased them back down.  Being the youngest and smallest, I often found myself at the top of a hill I wasn't quite ready for. Sometimes I'd refuse to do it, and we'd find an alternative. However, a startling number of times, I wound up debating my descent, while the rest of my family slipped right on down.  In these moments, I'd try to be brave and tackle the hill head on. 
That never lasted long.  I'd make a couple of really pathetic turns; get myself just far enough down that I couldn't go back up. Then I did what any logical human being would...

I froze. Bent over my pie-pointed tips like a gaper, I'd start to quiver. In most instances, my mother was near by.  She'd try to coax or encourage me, but it wouldn't work.  My early on-set neuroses had taken over.  This was it. The end was near. I was glued to those hills, and in my mind there was no successful way out.

After awhile, my dad would defy convention, and climb back up to me.  We'd find ourselves across from one another, my exceptionally small stature frozen in an awkward attempt to remain upright, and my dad casually resting with his poles propped under his armpits. Then he'd do what my father always did when I became emotional. He'd reason with me. He'd apply exaggerated logic to pull things into perspective and illustrate the simplicity of the situation. The most memorable and representative of these pep-talks went something like this:

"The way I see it you have two choices. You can stay up here forever.  It won't be very comfortable, and it's probably going to get really cold.  But, I guess we might be able to get someone to bring you food every now and then.  I'm not quite sure what you'll do about going to the bathroom though...  OR you can come with me, and we'll ski down to the bottom."

Oh! Of course! It was SO clear. How did I not see it before?!

There's no reason why a speech like that should ever convince a little girl to do something she didn't want to do! But here I am, miraculously not a mountainside resident. I was presented with choices. I weighed my options, and I rejected the one with the least desirable outcome.

If you think about it, this is really what life is all about. It's a series of choices. Some days you'll be picking between bunny runs and a green circles. Other times it will be a rope-tow or blue square afternoon. But, you will also have days that aren't so great.  Days when the snow snakes are abundant, the hills are steep, and the choices seem low.

When this happens you will try to get through it. You'll slow down to think through every turn. But regardless of your preparations, the storm clouds will gather, and fog-up your goggles. Before you know it you will be caught between a double black diamond and a "no way out" sign.

You will feel like you're out of options, but remember that you're not. Despite how it may seem, there is always a choice to make.

Part of Her World

 My sister and I weren't really kids at the same time.  She was nine years old when I was born.  By the time I had grown enough to have memories of our time together, she was a teenager; stuck somewhere between childhood and the grown up world.

Early memories being what they are, I don't have many of her that are clear. There are images of dancing for her friends, and playing games in the car. But, mostly I have vague recollections of general wordless sentiments.  With my adult vocabulary, I can now label those feelings.  I thought she was glamorous. In my mind, she had status, and I wanted her approval. I remember exaggerating my cuteness to invoke reactions from her.  I remember watching her get ready for her day, and teaching me how to apply makeup.

Perhaps my favorite memory, was our sleepovers.  Every now and then, she'd invite me to spend the night in her room.  I'd bring my Little Mermaid sleeping bag, and we'd lay on the floor.  I don't remember if we talked much. With our age difference, we couldn't have had a lot to discuss. At least nothing of substance.  However, I do remember that she sang to me. We had one song in particular, that was our song.  She'd sing it to me, while I laid in the dark admiring my big sister.

Now that we're both adults, this song still makes me think of her.  It brings me back, and projects me ahead at the same time. I recall falling asleep to my big sister's singing, and I think it's so great that I'm finally a part of her world.

Presque Vu

Lately I feel like I'm just on the cusp of saying something profound. Only, I can't figure out what it is. You know that feeling? Like something is right on the tip of your tongue. You just know that, if you give it a moment, when it comes out it will be incredible.

Except, most of the time it never makes its way out.  It gets lost. The thought slips off the back of your tongue, and falls into your subconscious; never to be shared with the world.

That's what I'm experiencing, but on a meta-cognitive level. It's as if I am about to make an immense proclamation that will, at last, resolve the jumbled mess in my mind. This revelation will tie up some of my loose ends. It will bring peace and order to my semi-chaotic life. 

For this reason, I feel compelled to force it. I think I should shut myself up in a room with some melancholy music and  a glass of wine. Maybe I should go for a soul-seeking late night drive down a back-country road. Afterwards I'll force a cry by watching a beautifully tragic film.

However, I know it doesn't work this way. Thinking about thinking will not cause thought. Exposing myself to more of the same, will only bring about redundancy. I guess for the time being, I'll have to just relax and wait. I will not force empty pronouncements in search of the one which escapes me. Instead, I'll attempt to be comfortable living my life on the brink of epiphany.

Stay tuned...

Blessings from Beyond

Before I tell you this story I must provide a caveat.  You need to know that I would not classify myself as religious, or spiritual in any way.  I don't really put much stock in "signs," ghosts, angels, or a higher power.  I'm not saying that this stuff doesn't exist, but none of it really makes a whole lot of sense to me.  That being said, let me walk you through my last 24 hours or so, to bring you to an unexpected spiritual experience that has just occurred.

"Fort Awesome"

I had a final exam today. So, naturally I spent the entire day studying yesterday. Well, all except for for one brief break that involved a glass of wine and building a fort with a good friend.  -- Stop judging me.  It's a perfectly acceptable way for two grown adults to spend a Monday afternoon.--

Around 5pm, I came home to get some dinner before heading out to a  five hour study group.  When I arrived home, I found a note from my apartment manager explaining that they would be installing new cabinets and drawers the next day, and I was expected to have them all (kitchen and bathroom) emptied out by the morning.  This irritated me.  I know the policy is 24 hours notice before entry, but when it requires me to uproot my entire residence, I think it warrants at least considering an extra day notice. I mean...right?

Nevertheless, after riding my bike home (uphill, in the cold November air, carrying a 20lb backpack) at 11pm, I stayed up in order to empty out all my drawers and cabinets.

Today, I awoke to a developing sinus infection, which made navigating my morning routine amongst all of my items in boxes on the floor or strewn about on counter tops all the more bothersome.  It was a nuisance, and not an environment conducive to studying. In an attempt to avoid any unintentional cranky attitude with the nice cabinetry installers, I left for the day. I spent the day downtown studying in preparation for a test that I was sure to do poorly on.

Despite all those irritating circumstances, my day was actually quite lovely. The sun was shining (which is a rare occurrence for a Portland November). The air was crisp, and the trees were a delightful variety of fall colors.  All things I adore. I spent the morning and afternoon studying and giggling with a pair of lovely ladies.

Then came the exam, which was as highly stressful as I had expected it to be. However, on the MAX ride home, I took part in a cathartic debriefing that was beneficial to my mental well-being.

Before re-entering Portland city limits, I received an e-mail announcing that my score was available.  I was pleasantly surprised to learn that I had gotten an A!  This was entirely unexpected, as I my previous exam results in this class were...um....well...let's say: "less than great."

At this point, I had almost completely forgotten about the whole cabinet and drawer debacle. While I searched for my keys in the hallway outside my unit, I prepared myself for the headache of seeing my apartment in shambles over a cosmetic "upgrade" that was not needed.

Imagine my astonishment, when I encountered some very aesthetically pleasing new additions to my kitchen.  And...

...a few random items not belonging to me.  These were mostly throw-away items, like a receipt for Crate &  Barrel belonging to a previous tenant, a few unidentified ziploc bags, an old tag from an item of clothing which was probably also belonging to a previous resident...and this:

My initial thought at seeing this was, "how sweet, my apartment manager left me a birthday card." (FYI tomorrow is my birthday).  Then it occurred to me that this did not happen last year.  So, now I'm confused.  I then open it up to read this:

"My lovely Granddaughter - I think of you with much affection and love. Have a wonderful birthday. With my love and blessings, Grandma F."

Now, I'm utterly bewildered.  I swear to you, that is my late Grandma Francis's handwriting! I also promise you, that this card is exactly the type of card and message that I received from her every year of my life until I was 18.

The logical, grounded, agnostic in me is compelled to point out that obviously this coincidental. It was found amongst a pile of garbage, that had clearly been discovered while reinstalling the cabinets and drawers.  It means nothing.  For goodness sake, it was included with a receipt to a store I have never visited, some busted-up garbage ties, and a few wrinkly old ziploc bags!  It's nothing.

However, another part of me can't help but feel overcome with emotion.  I don't know what this means, but it seems like something. Is it a sign?  I mean, it's as if my deceased grandmother is here with me, and trying to tell me something.  I know that she wasn't, but I just can't shake feeling, like she visited my place today, and I just missed her.

Is that absurd?  Has anything like this ever happened to you?

Putting It All Out There

For nearly a year now I have been interested in tracking my blog statistics. Given that I apparently want to be famous when I grow up, my statistics are not as great as I would like them to be.  This perplexes me. I mean, I think I have something to say, and that it is worth taking two minutes out of your Facebooking routine to read.  However, it's becoming increasingly evident that I am wrong about this.  I'm not happy with this realization, and I would like to change the circumstances that have led up to it.

I thought that maybe emulating my most popular posts might be a good place to start.  So, I did a little research.  I was surprised, and subsequently embarrassed at what I found.  My most popular (by far) post, is from a few years ago. It's a neurotic little rant about a crappy day that I had when I was underemployed.  I definitely consider it to be a sub par post. It's poorly written, and I'm actually quite disappointed with it. In fact, I'm not even going to link you to it. That's how strongly I feel about this.  However, and this is completely beyond my comprehension, it has drawn a lot of attention. This particular post (find it on your own if you're so curious) surpasses all of my others in readership.

Now, I find myself in a blogger's predicament. Do I replicate that whiny uninsightful window into my past just to gain attention? Or do I stick to my plan, muse about the world and the various aspects of growing up within it, while simultaneously coming to grips with my less than desirable reader counts? I mean, who is this really for?

I find it especially hard to make this decision when the only feedback I receive comes from my mom. Her unfailing support is nice, but not exactly helpful (love you mom). So, I've decided to do something that makes me completely uncomfortable......

I'm just going to put it out there, and ask for your attention for a moment.

If you find yourself clicking on my link today can you help me out? First, thank you for momentarily abstaining from your Facebook addiction.  I know how hard that is, and I appreciate you for doing it.  Now, leave me a comment.  Tell me what you thought.  If you truly like it, subscribe. If you're not sure, click around.  See what I have to say. Here are some posts I'm especially proud of:

Expose Yourself
Meaningful Moments
Steve the Housefly
My Own Personal Undertoad
My Anonymous Childhood Boyfriend


After you've done that, and you just can't stand to be away from Facebook any longer (let's face it, that's what's really going on here), go ahead and go back.  But, when you do: share a link to your favorite post (it'll make my day), or "like" and follow Mindy's Musings. Because if you don't do one, or any, of the above...I might have to do something even more obnoxious to get your attention, but I promise that it will bother me more than it bothers you.

Evolution of A Childish Aspiration

When I was just a little girl, I wanted to grow up to become a chemist. I wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but I knew I liked mixing things together to see what happened. So, I told everyone that I was going to go to Stanford, and one day I would impress the world with my chemical skills.

Later on, I adjusted my dream. I began to participate in community theater. I pranced about a poorly ventilated room, in a stifling cowardly lion costume in the middle of a heat wave, and told myself that one day I was going to be discovered. Filling various background and secondary character roles, I made believe that I was astonishingly important. I told myself that someday, someone incredible was going to see me and know that I was destined for the world stage.

In my adolescence, I began to sing. I was in choirs, and the occasional musical. Every so often I'd have a brief solo, but nothing momentous. Mostly, I just stood in the front row (for height reasons  ̶  don't get excited), and blended the discordant voices. Nevertheless, I had my dreams. In my world, a famous relative of a classmate would pick my voice out from the chorus, and ask me to sing with them. That, or an unknown music executive would hear my latest Car-eoke session (it's a thing), and think "give that girl a record deal." After all, I am a rock star behind the steering wheel.

Now I'm an adult, and I'm pursuing a grown-up career. I've moved beyond my childish dreams of fame resulting out of mediocrity. Instead, I'm electing to make an impact on a smaller, less appreciated, scale. Meanwhile, I'm going home to my computer, and writing about my experiences. I post my thoughts, and interpretations to a blog, and link it to the social media world in the hopes that someone, somewhere, will notice and appreciate my skill.

But, that's different.

Officially Unnoticed

Here I am, crossing the finish line, going entirely unnoticed.

As I have mentioned, I had a unique upbringing rife with dudes in lycra costumes atop various versions of an odd two-wheeled contraption.

My parents are ACTIVELY involved in the cycling community. They're famous even. As a result, we were always at bike races. They were so common place to me, that I thought all sports had a bell lap, and I didn't realize most men don't shave their legs until I was in middle school. I can barely remember a spring or summer that didn't include me going to a bike race.

I had a brief period in high school when I was "too cool" to hangout with my parents. When that stage hit, I opted to stay at home during several of the weekly races (at this time I think there was a race four days a week), but I still came out every now and then. When I went off to college I missed every race in the spring, and there was a couple of summers I had a job and couldn't go. However, I've been back, and regularly officiating or helping out for three years straight now.

At my greatest estimate, I've missed a cumulative 3 out of the last 26 years of bike races in Oregon. That being said, I seem to have gone unnoticed. I'm at these events all the time, and barely anyone knows who I am. This wouldn't be that surprising to me, if my siblings also seemed to be invisible to this particular community...but alas that's not how it is.

My older brother was absent from bike racing for a much longer time frame than I. He spent multiple summers at camps, and schools in other states. Now that he's local again, he's at easily half of the races that I am, but everyone knows who he is. When he and I walk the course together, people wave and call out to him while I walk alongside quietly making sarcastic comments. No one seems to notice. But, my brother is bigger and louder than I am. He has more of a presence than I do. So, I guess that makes sense.

Explain my sister then. Nine years older than me, my sister has been absent from this community for a long time. I have markedly less childhood memories that include her at the races. Then she went to college several states away, and worked in the Southwest over the summers. Afterwards, she lived in another state for years. She must have been gone from Oregon bike races for at least ten years. Now, she occasionally helps out, but she's by no means a regular. Despite all this, people still mistakenly call me by her name. I stand next to my parents, as people ask about her, and what she's up to. Don't mind me, I'll just take your registration fees while you chat.

How does nobody know who I am? My father's theory is that people do know who I am. He thinks that they don't acknowledge me because they find me intimidating.

That's really hard to type without laughing. I mean, I'm not exactly the pinnacle of intimidation. I'm rather small. Hell! Just last week, I bought clothes from the children's department, and they fit me perfectly. That's not very threatening. Well, my father thinks the reaction comes from an association with my parents. Okay, I'd agree...except for my siblings don't seem to command the same "intimidation," and they're not only equally associated with my parents, but they're normal sized humans!

None of it makes any sense. I'm around all the time. I'm often scoring your points races, or calling ties off the camera. I am usually the one with photographic proof that you've broken the rules. I'm a person you probably want to know (I like cookies), but sure! Go on thinking I don't exist. Keep wondering who that little girl at the finish line is. Step in front of me in the port-a-potty line, and bump me out of the way at registration like I don't know what's going on. Even more, continue to yell at me for trying to fix your number. You probably know more about it than I do anyway. It's not like I've seen 6 million numbers or anything.

It's actually kind of funny. I get to see and hear things that I wouldn't if people knew I was of the famed Murray family.



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Romantic Blindness

I assume that there is a man flirting with me somewhere in this vision test, but I just can't see it.

Apparently I don't know how to tell if someone is interested in me.  It's like a kind of blindness.  I just don't see it.

For years, I thought that no one had ever hit on me. Then I started thinking about this, and at the risk of sounding conceited (which I definitely am not), this seems improbable. I mean, it's a numbers game.  I don't exactly know the formula, but it must be something like (disclaimer the following formula is entirely made up and does not reflect any actual scientific laws of dating. I mean let's face it, I'm not exactly an expert here):

(my age + the amount of men living in my area ÷ by the number of times I go outside of my house) ± some quantitative value for social expectations with a margin of error of some extraneous variable.

With this in mind, I started looking for it more.  Which led me to the conclusion that I only attract weirdos. This could be flattering... except there was a brief period of time when I couldn't weed them out. This combination posed a serious dilemma for me.  I was out in the world, unable to detect attractiveness, and super susceptible to compliments. Looking back, I was probably an easy target.

Luckily, I prevailed with only minor tales of awkward encounters.  However, I hadn't really learned anything from any of these experiences.  I still felt as though there were no viable dating options for me out in the world.  I began to attribute this to a lack of interest on the part of most nice, attractive, age-appropriate men.  As you can imagine, this has been a blow to my self-esteem (which I have precariously placed on a shelf midway up my psyche).

What usually happens when I get like this, is the logical side of my brain has a little pep talk with the histrionic side. It explains that there's no need to feel how I do.  "I'm perfectly desirable," it says. Emotional Mindy doesn't care about this pep-talk. So they brawl, while I watch romantic comedies in my pajamas.

After the most recent brawl, I realized what's going on here.  I have a social blindness with regards to flirting.  I just don't know it's happening. So, it seems like I'm ignoring it, which sends all the wrong signals.

I'm still not entirely convinced that I get much attention from guys (or maybe just those that I find worthy) in the first place, but I'm willing to admit it probably happens more than I think it does. It just never goes anywhere because I don't acknowledge it.

People aren't much help either.  No one is going to do what I need, which is for someone to explicitly tell me "I'm interested in you."

Come on people!  I need some help here.  I'm not likely to send the right signals, because I'll probably be assuming there's no need. I mean, I've been known to interpret prolonged eye contact as a sign that my makeup is smudged, and I get nervous at the end of things. This means I usually bail on a date before any socially typical closure has occurred, and I miss the signs that it's not necessary.

What's a maladroit to do? How do I over come this?

Am I the only  person afflicted with this particular social blindness? Has anyone else had similar experiences? 




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Expose Yourself

There's a beautiful magic in being vulnerable. It's possibly the hardest thing to do, but when you allow yourself to be exposed that's when you get the most out of life.

It's from this openness, this bare and defenseless state, that the greatest things are going to happen. These events will be truly awesome, and if you place yourself in this position, the world will come to you.  You will experience it all.

People don't do this very often. It's hard to tear down the walls we've built for ourselves. It took years to erect them, but it's more than just that.

To think you can truly experience everything seems wonderful, but if you really give it some thought, you'll find it's rather frightening.

Everything is all encompassing. Good and bad. Magnificent and grotesque.

Those second options are daunting. They seem overpowering, and have the potential to be terrifying. One horrible experience can erase all the others. Suddenly you're living your life in fear. Waiting for the next bad thing, and missing all the good.

Head down, and eyes on the ground, you miss the miracles around you. Nervous for the future, you build a fortress around you. In doing so you deprive yourself of the connection with the world that you crave. It's a self-propelling cycle. You stick to your defenses. Call in the reinforcements, hug your core, withdraw from the nightmare you're worried about.

No doubt that's easier to do. Being vulnerable requires bravery. You have to look up from the ground. Make eye contact with the world. Spread your arms open wide, and bare everything. All the while, not knowing what will come at you.

It's scary because you can't take anything to protect yourself. If you do, it will indiscriminately defend you against whatever comes your way.

The bad, and the good. The grotesque, and the magnificent.




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Rebel on Wheels

OKAY! Fine! Let's talk about it.

I have a bike now.

If you actually know me, you can be classified into one of two thoughts on the subject. One of the groups is probably thinking something along the lines of: "so what?", "haven't you always had a bike?", or "why is this a big deal?"

The other group thinks this is really exciting. They think it's great that I've finally come around, and some of this group may even think I'm assimilating into bike culture. This group, however, may continue to be baffled by how someone of my pedigree has made it into adulthood without a bike (to which I respond -as if it's a defense- "I have a bulky old mountain bike that I keep at my parent's house and never use").

The back story here is that I've been around bikes and "bike people" my entire life. My childhood consisted of cramming into the backseat of a blue mini van named Pewee, or a red jeep with a porcupine rack loaded up with bikes of all types. We'd travel throughout the state listening to books on tape, and playing I-spy Alphabet, until we came to whatever location in which the lycra-clad were convening that particular weekend. At races, you might have seen me running around collecting rocks or pine cones to sell to my neighbors (no joke). Or I'd hop into the passenger seat of the follow vehicle with a My First Radio blaring the soundtrack to Beauty and the Beast, in order to help my mom by writing down the numbers of riders who fell off the back. Heck, to this day the basement of my parent's house is like an episode of Hoarders: Cycling edition.

One SMALL corner of my parent's basement.

For some reason, my unwillingness to get on a bike and ride confuses people who know my past.  I think it's obvious.  It's like the summer that I discovered bologna sandwiches. I thought they were delicious!  I ate them every day for a ridiculous length of time.  Then, one day I woke up, and just the sight of that Oscar Meyer package started the bile production going. It may not be that extreme with bikes, but the point still stands.

Also, we can't discount the rebel theory here.  I'm a good girl, and I get along with my parents really well, but everyone's got to rebel somehow.  It's a natural part of life. But, how does a good girl rebel?

When you're a Murray it's simple.  Don't get on a bike.

So, about two months ago, I was sitting in my apartment, which seems to be located right in the center of Portland bike-culture.  I was reveling in the irony of my existence at this particular location.  - In my neighborhood I'm surrounded by hipsters on color coordinated fixies doing track stops at every intersection and acting as though they don't want attention for it. Well guys, I'm not impressed.  I've seen it all before. -  I started to come around.  I thought, "maybe commuting on my bike isn't such a bad idea."

About two weeks later, after consulting with my father, I wind up with, of all things, a modified track bike, that has been christened "Mindy's Man Chaser." -- The story behind that title is a bit long, but I may share it at a later date. Now, I'm tooling around my neighborhood, and running errands on my bike.

What has happened here? I'm experiencing some kind of identity crisis. For one, I'm a Murray.  That means I should know what I'm doing right? Wrong.  It means I know what I'm SUPPOSED to be doing. I'm like the ultimate poser, and coming to grips with that has been quite an experience.

I am playing both the part of the official, and the dork with the big helmet and the older sister starter.  Check out my brother the speedster on the left though!

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And I Thought I was Studious

Image found here

It's the return of the exam experience.  Last Wednesday, I was given a take home exam for my research methods class.

"Yes!" I thought to myself. "I'll be able to work on this in my own comforting environment.  I'll sound like a genius!"

Think again.  I didn't get a chance to really look at it until two days ago.  I brought it to my parents house, with all my books, only to discover that I needed easy access to files on my computer.  Not there.  So, I scribbled down some notes, and wrote a half decent answer to one of the ten questions.

Yesterday I took the 1.5 hour MAX ride to school, and hungout there all afternoon in hopes that I would be able to get some stuff done.  I did, but none of the study rooms were open, so I was awkwardly balancing my stuff on a couch in the lounge, with no access to an outlet, and worried that my laptop would die.  Despite that, I answered one question, and jotted down some notes to a second question.

This morning I thought, "I'm gong to get this damned thing out of the way!"  I got up early, and rode my bike the the local library, only to discover that it's not open until noon.

GARH!

But, I was already out and about, so I figured I'll just ride over to the local coffee shop, buy something cheap (which I can't afford) and pound out some responses.

When I arrived, there were no open outlets.  Almost all the tables were full, and there was a damn toddler group happening in the corner.

Ordinarily, I would think this toddler group was the greatest thing ever. It's a man and a women dressed outrageously (one's a fire fighter, the other a pirate).  They're loudly reading books, and singing songs.  They're blowing up balloon animals (and subsequently popping them with their tiny little fingernails), and the cutest little tykes are running around squealing at everything.  It's fantastic...except when you're trying to write a take home essay, about research methods, with the hope of sounding at least partially educated.  Add to that the general coffee making sounds, and the fact that my battery is nearly dead.

I can't focus on this stuff.  I'm sure I sound like an imbecile, and I'm probably going to turn in something that my professor deems worthy of ejection from the program. At this point, I've fully answered one question, and written down some inattentive vague responses to two other questions.  I have 10 questions total, I only need to answer 8 of them, but at the rate I'm going, I'm probably better off answering them all.

Is it possible to avoid taking this exam all together? Or, you know maybe I could just catch a freaking break in the study department.

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Everything and Nothing all at Once

My life is a bit disorganized as of late.  It's probably a stress reaction.  I've noticed that when I get stressed out, I throw everything out the window and focus on relaxing.  As a result, I often don't notice that I'm tense. I mean, I'm spending most of my time relaxing. How could I possibly be worried about anything if I have the time to chill out like this?  I have to admit, it's a nice coping mechanism. Until...

I look around and realize that there's dirty dishes all over the place.  I haven't put away my clean laundry, and now there's nowhere for my dirty laundry to go.  There's receipts all over my car, and I haven't logged any of that in my financial tracker. Therefore, I don't really know how much money I have right now.  Then I start to panic.  Obviously, this means more "chill-out" time with my good friend The Couch. This begets the arrival of Murphy's law, and suddenly I'm locking my keys in my car with the engine on, and forgetting to take my Trimet pass to the MAX with me, and rent is due before I know it.

Unfortunately, this disorganization is not only external.  It took some self-reflection, but I have realized that my physical world is actually pretty representative of my mental world.  At the moment, there is a veritable whirlwind of thoughts spinning through my head. However, these thoughts haven't gathered themselves into anything coherent. Instead, they're leaving dirty dishes in the corners of my mind, and sprinkling receipts throughout the cabin of my brain. Of course, disorganization only leads to further disorganization, and pretty soon it's cognitive chaos.

It's a viscous cycle, and I've decided to end it today.  Right after I finish this cup of coffee I'm going to clean up my act, both literally and metaphorically.  I owe it to myself to organize my world.  I've got some pretty deep considerations bouncing around in my skull.  It seems there's the potential for a pensive revolution in here, if I could just clear away the junk.  So, that's what I'm going to do.


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Filling the Void With Fiction

I currently have this overwhelming, and masochistic, urge to chain watch romantic movies. You see, my life has been entirely devoid of romance for awhile now. Though I'm mostly okay with this, I am suffering a little from the lack of attention. As shallow as it makes me sound, going unacknowledged is messing with my self esteem a little. Also, I've noticed an increase in my need to fill this void. Often, that means taking myself to see some romantic-comedy where the awkward girl gets the charming guy.

That's not obvious or anything. Thanks Subconscious.

The problem is, I don't really know where to meet new people. I mean, there's the ever cliché "at a bar" answer, but I'm not entirely sure that I want to meet someone at a bar. I know that I don't want to have to go to a bar all the time, especially if it's just to meet people. I also know that the type of people that I'm going to meet in a bar are probably not going to be relationship material. So, where do I meet people?

I understand that I'm pathologically shy around new people, and I often require a transitional friend to try new things. I'm aware that this impedes my success rate in any setting. It pretty much erases the opportunity for a meet-cute at the supermarket. I'm also not likely to approach someone reading my favorite book at a coffee shop, or a guy with a cute dog at the park. However, this doesn't stop me from going to those places in hopes that someone will approach me. This technique is not proving to be very effective.

Thus, I'm stockpiling links to romantic movies, and Hollywood depictions of relationships that defied the odds. Hopefully inundating my brain with fairy tales will trick it into thinking that it's experiencing one of it's own, and I can go on accomplishing the more serious goals in my life (re: grad school & genuine adulthood).

Meaningful Moments

In life, there are moments that are so incredibly meaningful, that they stand out forever. Moments, that alter everything.

Whether awful or awesome, when these moments happen you experience a fundamental changing of who you are, what you stand for, your circumstances, or your surroundings.

As much as I want to, I can't prepare you for the experience. I cannot tell you what these moments are like.  They won't fit into a category.  However, I can promise that they will happen, and you will recognize them when they do. It's impossible to go through life without witnessing at least one.

Sometimes these moments are personal and independent of world events. Other times they are public, and unify entire communities. They will impact you and your world in a way that is incredibly difficult to put into words.

When these moments come, there is a deep-seated emotional reaction. You will feel small in comparison to it. From somewhere within, you will experience a creepy kind of calm. There will be a moment of clarity as you become aware that something greater than you is occurring, and, at least for a moment, you will be dumbstruck. You'll pause. Maybe just for a minute, maybe for days, but you will stop everything while you take it in.

It may not seem real. You might think you're dreaming. Or, it may seem too real, and you might wish you were dreaming.

Slowly, you will begin to process. You will start to understand your emotions. You'll relate to the experience on a new level, and begin to heal from the life-altering change that has taken place. Eventually, life will resume a normal routine. You'll go through the motions, as you acclimate to the new circumstances of the world. All the while, you'll remember what happened as you negotiate who you were before with how things are now.

Then, one day, you'll notice that you haven't thought about it in a while. You'll wonder how long it's been, and whatever the time-frame, it won't seem accurate. You will wonder if you have moved on, and be upset that you haven't devoted as much to the magnitude of the memory.

Checking My Own ID

I am finding that my life is comprised of a series of surreal experiences in which I seem to have tricked people into thinking I'm an adult.

Last week, I attended my first day of class for my masters program (weird right?). I was driving to school thinking to myself, "this has got to be a mistake.  Someone has made a serious error here. No way do I qualify to be doing this." Part of me wanted to turn right around, and hide in my apartment until someone realized that my application was all an elaborate lie. This spurred the reemergence of a similar reaction: I have my own apartment?! How is that possible?

Something is not right here.  At some point, in the last few years, I became an adult. Or that's what I'm told anyway. I'm not entirely convinced.

Inside, I feel like a 14 year old girl stuck between childhood and maturity. Maybe I haven't been given the appropriate time to sit back and reflect on my experiences, but it seems almost accidental that I've gotten to where I am. Hell, I'm just coming to grips with the fact that I can drive! I feel like I'm breaking some kind of rule whenever I order a drink, and I can't even fathom that I have a college degree.  When did that happen?

History would show that I fully qualify to be where I am in life, but my psyche disagrees. What is that about? Is this a lack of confidence? An over reliance on my parents? Or simply a manifestation of my anxiety?

Whatever it is, it's confusing. I can't be old enough for this! It seems absurd to think that I can live my life on my own. This is my first time doing this, and most of the time I'm lost. I yearn for the guidance given to the youth. Where's the template for how to live my life?  Who is going to spell out my expectations, or provide me with an outline for daily living? I need a hand to hold, and a safety net to fall back on.

My Pubescent book of Poems pt. 2

*For an explanation of the origin of this gem check out:  Solitary

The Song of Life
I was sitting here wondering
What the world looked like
Before you came along,
When my life walked up to me
And began to sing a song.
It said:
"Dear sweetie,
please don't cry,
If this guy meant that much to you
He'd make you sigh."
It twirled around making up more chants.
"This guy would make you smile."
It said, "you wouldn't have to worry.
He'd take you in his arms and make it better.
He'd never leave in a hurry."
I thought and wondered for awhile,
Taking it all in.
"Was he really the one? It said,
"Did he make you smile?
It was beginning to annoy me.
My life had made me think.
Made me wonder: "did he really enjoy me?"
I was sitting here wondering
What the world looked like
Before you came along,
When my life walked up to me
And began to sing a song.
It said:
"Dear sweetie,
please don't cry,
You see, it's common sense:
If this guy means that much to,
He wouldn't have said 'Goodbye.'"

Solitary

While looking for school supplies in my old bedroom at my parents house, I stumbled upon a notebook of poems I wrote in middle-school. Most of them are stupid. Some are copied down from books of poems I liked. Others are surprisingly good. This one seems particularly poignant:

Solitary

Hide me in the corner
Where no one can see.
Let me cry my eyes out
Where no one can hear
And if you see a tear,
Just turn your head and glace away
But always remember
That never have I been as brave as I have today.

Check back later for more excerpts from my adolescent period.

Steve the Housefly

One of the boys in my classroom is a guarded 5 year old who, among his many other issues, has suddenly developed a pervasive phobia of flying arthropods. This normally excessively tough little boy is suddenly unable to play outside. He talks about bees all day long, and makes up inane excuses to avoid going outside to play. (For example: "I've never seen a movie before"). Once outside, he is uncharacteristically timid. He stands right next to adults, and twitches erratically in an attempt to avoid proximity to bugs, flies, moths, and butterflies.  He has difficulty walking in the grass on his own, and when outside will make up reasons to go back inside.

A few days ago, it was about 85°, and the bugs were in full force. We were outside together. He was standing near the monkey bars. I was trying to encourage him to play. Then he began to dance around and announced that he had to use the restroom. As I escorted him into the building, his bus arrived and I silently rejoiced that the stressful part of my day was almost over. 

When we arrived in the bathroom, he froze like a spooked horse.  There was a fly, buzzing around in there. I rolled my eyes, irritated that this was going to needlessly prolong the day, then turned on all of my therapeutic skills.  I got down on his level, reflected his anxiety, and explained "that's just a housefly.  Houseflies are nice.  It's not going to bother you.  You can go potty."  I then walked out of the restroom to give him some privacy.

From inside the door I hear a little voice whine "Bulinda!" (Yes, he calls me Bulinda.  No, I don't want to talk about it). So, I took a cleansing breath, and walked back in.

"What's up buddy?" I asked.
He pointed spastically at the fly, "what's it's name?"
"That's a house fly, friend. It's nice.  You don't need to worry about it."
He twitched as the fly spun circles a foot above our heads, and said, "but, what's it's name?"
Confused, I responded "it's called a house fly."

Now sounding annoyed and still jerking his arms and head randomly, the boy asked a third time.  I repeated my answer. We went around like this a few more times. Eventually, knowing that he was stalling and attempting to avoid the restroom, I replied:

"Friend, I just told you his name. He's a house fly.  He's nice, and he's not going to bother you.  Now, your bus is here. It's time to go potty.  I'll be out here." But, before I could leave he asked me one final time.

Now, I'm not really sure what was going through my head when I responded.  Possibly I was exhausted, maybe I was done being therapeutic for the day, or maybe I'm just nuts.

Clearly exasperated, I threw up my hands and sighed "dude! I don't know his name. He doesn't have one. I guess we could make one up for him. What do you want to call him? Steve? Okay. That's Steve. He's Steve The Housefly. He's a friend. He's just visiting. Steve is not going to bother you. Now go potty." I then strolled out of the bathroom looking bewildered.

Because of the elevated tendency for trauma reenactment and high need for supervision, the door to the bathroom is always left open for adults to monitor. This means you can hear everything going on inside.  On this particular day, I stood in the hallway and listened as an anxious 5 year old argued with a house fly named Steve. "What have I done?" I thought to myself, as I heard the following:

"Steeeeeeve! Steve! Stop it Steve! Quit looking at me! Bulinda! Steve's staring at me!"

At this point, two of my colleagues walked by and, upon hearing the one-sided conversation inside the lavatory, shot me quizzical looks.  I shrugged and explained, "he's in there with Steve The Housefly." Then I called out to my phobic friend, "Steve will stop staring at you if you go potty."

"That's an interesting intervention," my coworker said as she walked away.

At last, the little boy came out of the bathroom. He stood in the doorway with a complacent expression, as he gestured back inside. "Steve's crazy," he stuttered.  He then joined me in the hallway, but not before yelling "YOU CRAZY BABY STEVE!" over his shoulder.

The Usher in my Mind

I've always been somewhat of an enigma. I'm overly rational and incredibly emotional at the same time. It's common for me to find myself torn between two completely opposing psychological responses. I've always been aware of this.

I recall a conversation, when I was about 12 years old, in which I described how my mind works. I likened it to an old fashion movie theater in town. This theater only has one auditorium, and it is huge. It has an upper section of seats (the size of a small modern theater), and a larger lower section that would rival the size of most theaters. I went on to explain that being inside my mind was like being an employee at this theater when there are only two patrons. 

One of the patrons sits in the very front row and is completely run by her emotions. She's exuberant and garrulous. This young woman is irrational, and doesn't seem to realize she's in a movie theater. She honestly believes that, if she cares enough, she can change what happens on that screen. For this reason, she's screaming at the bad guys, jumping out of her seat when the good guys do well, and she cannot contain her anxiety when the music becomes ominous. This young woman has all kinds of ideas of what needs to be done, and she's sharing them all at the top of her lungs. She seems to think she's the only one in the room, and that she has control over whether or not the heroine goes up those stairs.

The other patron sits in the very back of this theater, and cannot stand that twit in the front row. The person at the back knows it's just a movie, no one can hear the cheering and advice from the audience. She can't understand why anyone would even think this was possible, there's no evidence supporting that theory. She just wants to sit back and watch the show. She knows that it's not necessary to get all worked up, because in the end that's all it is: a show. Emotional responses aren't going to change anything, and there is ultimately no control over the final result. This movie will end how it's going to end no matter what she does about it. She's logical to a fault.

Working this shift can be rather difficult. The customers are completely different, and it's damn near impossible to please them both at the same time. It's a complicated job, but that's what I've been tasked with.

Venting

It would seem that lately, I've been suppressing some feelings. Outwardly, I'm expressing frustration at my circumstances. However, for fear of  being dramatic, I've been containing the rest. This is not okay with me. Historically, holding back my emotions has resulted in worse turmoil then letting it out. 

Discussing it, releases me of the negativity.  I feel better once I've complained. I no longer carry it around, as it expands inside me. This is especially true for things that I know don't matter, and that's the point. Why let it fester inside of me? Why let a little thing grow?

This emotional load I've been bearing is one of these things. It doesn't matter. In the grand scheme of things, it's miniscule. In the end, I know where I'm going, and not much will change that. However, I'm here now, and I need to deal with it.

I'm a careful person. I plan and prepare in order to set up best case scenarios. That makes it especially aggravating, when it doesn't work. When I squeeze every ounce of myself out, to make sure my decision is supportive for all those it effects, only to learn it was pointless, it makes me want to scream. I feel jaded, unappreciated, and bitter.

Don't feel the need to console, commiserate, or empathize. I don't want any of that. Nor should you tell me to get over it. That's just what I'm trying to do. I know that this issue, like all others, shall pass. I'll get over it. In time, I'll forget I ever felt this way. But for right now, I'm getting this toxic time bomb out of my mind before it explodes.

My Own Personal Undertoad

There's something that happens to young skiers as they learn to descend a mountainside on the planks attached to their feet.

They fall down.

A lot.

Sometimes they fall because they are new to the sport, and they have yet to master it. Sometimes they fall because they are relatively new to the world, and are still rather clumsy.  Other times the snow is sticky, or hard, or the hill is uncharacteristically bumpy.  Then, there's the inexplicable fall.  This occurs when everything is going great.  You're on your skis. You're making all the right turns. Conditions are good. You feel like a pro. When all of a sudden....Bam! Yard sale. You're ear deep in a mound of powder, one of your skis is twisted beneath your legs, and the other one is 2 feet up the hill between you and your poles.

As a child, I found this type of fall especially troubling. See, I hate falling. I hate it so much, that I rarely took risks on the hill.  Sure, I could get up a good speed, and do relatively well on the more advanced runs. However, if I perceived even the slightest loss of control, I'd pull back.

So, as you can imagine, it was particularly hard for me to cope with falling when I felt that I was completely in control. "I don't know what happened?" I'd cry. I didn't understand, and that was aggravating.

However, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, always had the answer: It was snow snakes.

According to them, snow snakes were just that: snakes, that live in the snow.  They lived where it was cold. Slithering around within ice patches, and freshly frosted hillsides. I couldn't see them because they were white, and dwell within the snow. But nevertheless, snow snakes were there.  They were mischievous little creatures that found amusement in gliding beneath the skis of inexperienced humans. As my parents explained, snow snakes liked to trip people.

I can't even explain to you how much I latched on to this explanation. In my youthful eyes, snow snakes were real.  They had to be! Why else would I fall over?  I went so far as to look for them when I rode the chair lift, or sat at the bottom of the hill contemplating the next run.  I never saw any, but I always knew they were out there. Waiting to get me when I least expected it.

As an adult, I reflect on this memory and I'm not amused by my innocent acceptance of this inane theory. I'm blown away at how unknowingly accurate I was.

Snow snakes are absolutely real. They are out there, invisible to the human eye, and waiting for the perfect moment to trip you when you least expect it.  However, my parents were misinformed about one thing. Snow snakes live in every climate.

Mom's Turn

There are very few good pictures of me and my mom. This surprises me. I spend a great deal of time with her. She's an amazing person.

When I think of my her, I think of my youth. I remember being carried at bike races. I recall resting my head against her chest, and listening to her voice as she bellowed about incorrect number placement or announced the on-deck rider without a megaphone. The sound was loud, but for me it was reassuring. No matter what was going on, my mom would pick me up if I needed it.

My mom is always trying to make things easier on me. She's there to assist me, whether I need it or not. I know I can call her for anything, whether it's what aisle the Texas Toast is in, or how to do my taxes. She listens when I complain about things that don't matter, and she indulges my dork-moments.

There are times when I wish I could shrink back into my 5-year old body, and crawl into her arms, because I know she'd make the bad world go away for a little bit. I'd listen to her voice echo in her chest, and know that everything will be alright. I think letting go of my mom's hand is the part of growing up that's been hardest for me.

She's the first person I think of whenever I need help, and I'm most excited to share my stories with her. She's my greatest advocate, and I'd be lost without her.

Essay on my Father

As we once were.

My dad regularly mourns the loss of his children.

This is not to say that I have siblings who have passed. My father simply explains child rearing as akin to making a friend who slowly dies.

That sounds exceptionally bleak. Maybe it is. Maybe I don't fully understand. What I think is: my dad thoroughly enjoyed raising the three of us. We were fun little kids to have around. And while he loves us individually as adults, we no longer are who we once were.  Sometimes I feel bad about that. I worry that my inevitable maturation is distressing for him.

Then, I reflect on the times we spend together, and marvel at our conversations. I'm amused by our mutual sense of humor, and I appreciate my ability to understand him on a new, more grown up, level.


It's pretty cool that we get two chances to develop a relationship, and learn about one another in entirely different ways.

Dad and I after a ceremony symbolizing my entry into adulthood.

My Anonymous Childhood Boyfriend

I used to believe that there was one person for everyone. This was not so much a hopeless romantic thought as it is an innocent yet irrational child pondering.

When I was little, I honestly believed that people were somehow assigned to one another by a higher power (FYI: I'm not religious at all). I used to think that there was a boy out there that was literally my counterpart. To me, this meant that a young man existed, somewhere in the world, who was exactly like me. Not only did this boy think like me, act like me, and want the same things as I did, but we had simultaneous actions.

I gave this a great deal of thought. From early on, I have memories of exploring parks while my parents participated in a bike race. As I climbed trees, spun on the merry-go-round, and pumped my legs in the swings I envisioned that somewhere, someone special was doing the same thing. Sometimes I'd argue with my brother, and then run to my room. Once there, I'd console myself with the idea that someone knew how I felt because he had just fought with his brother (or would it be sister?). Also, I would harbor immature amusement, and then subsequent bewilderment at the idea that he used the restroom at the same time as I did.

I no longer think this particular man exists. He's not out there writing a blog contemplating my existence. Nor, do I believe that people are arbitrarily assigned to one another by some magical power. However, I do think some people are meant to be together. Those connections present themselves differently, and at different times, but they are always clear.

Bookmarked and Waiting for the Next Chapter

Location: Bedroom
Mood: Benign

I think a lot about relationships in all their various forms. This often starts with me pondering the various intricacies that make up a particular connection in my life, be it a bond between myself and a family member, an interaction with an acquaintance, or the dynamic I have developed with a client. Recently, these pondering have routinely turned to one of two subjects:

My romantic relationships, or my relationship with myself.

Lately, I find that one begets another. It seems that I've reached some kind of interpersonal stalemate.  I have been single for the last two years, and this time has been incredibly valuable to me. It seems weird to say so, but I had no idea how much I didn't know about myself. Don't get me wrong, I'm in no way saying that any of my previous relationships have kept me from learning about myself. However, they've definitely served as a distraction from me and my own world.

I think that everything about me is somewhat contradictory. For example, I'm pretty neurotic, and relatively insecure. In contrast, I'm comfortable in my insecurity, and I find most of my neurosis empowering. I'm able to laugh about myself, and accept teasing or criticism in most instances. In fact, I often invite it as an opportunity to connect with others.

In the past, I allowed myself to become distracted by romantic relationships. This effectively kept me from embracing who I am, and it was easier that way.  I couldn't describe why I was the way I was, because the opposing aspects of my personality were confusing and stressful. Instead, I unknowingly ignored it. Thinking I knew who I was, I forged on with external relationships, before cultivating the one that is the most important and will stay with me for my entire life. I don't think this was unhealthy, but I do think it set me back in creating a future for myself.

In the last two years, I've had the time to get to know myself in a way I never really did. I've acknowledged the enigmatic aspects of my personality. I've embraced the parts of me about which I am unsure.  I have developed a trust in who I am, and what I am capable of. I find solace in my introspection, and enjoy the idiosyncrasies that make me who I am. I'm sassy and sweet. I'm wrecklessly cautious. I'm silly, but serious. I'm gracefully clumsy, and accommodatingly ironic. I'm insightful and entertaining, and I'd have it no other way.

 There are roads I plan to travel, and places I intend to take myself in this journey. I'm prepared to grow, and learn, and laugh, and love. Despite my fears, I'm ready for this life. But, like I said, I've come to a stalemate. I've reached a page break in the story of my life.

I've cultivated my relationship with myself; it is strong and reliable. Which means it's time for me to look outward, and develop other meaningful relationships. One begets another.

Standing Up For Myself

Location: Apartment
Mood: Irritated

I've reached my breaking point. I'm done. I'm tired of dealing with this crap.

What am I talking about? Glad you asked.

It turns out I've surrounded myself with a group of people who are not so great at the whole friendship thing. For awhile, I thought maybe I wasn't trying hard enough to keep contact. So, I turned that up. I made every effort to contact distant friends, and make plans. I called, texted, and wrote, but got minimal response.

Then I thought, maybe I was bailing on my "friends" more than I should. That's when I decided to try a little harder in that department. I started dropping everything whenever they called. This is when I realized something: They don't call me. They are standing me up. They are being flaky and passive aggressive with me.

For this reason, I'm over it. I'm done. I don't care any more. I'm out.

I'm tired of pretending we're friends. Let's call it what it is: We're not really friends.

If we were: You would be calling me too. You would be making an effort as well. You would not be texting me once every 6 months telling me you miss me and we should "hang out soon." You wouldn't be telling me you'd love to hang out if your prior commitment ends early enough. You wouldn't blame it on the 11 miles between us. You wouldn't say "if I wasn't so tired," or "our schedules are just so different." If we were friends I'd hear from you, I'd see you, and I'd know what was going on.

I have a few friends I can rely on. You know who you are, and you know this doesn't apply to you. For everyone else: That's it. I'm done trying to contact you. I'm not going to expend the energy, and ultimately end up alone on my couch because you slept in, or forgot we had plans. I deserve better than that.

Don't get me wrong. I still care about you, and I'd love to see you. However, it's your turn to make it happen. You need to take a second to figure out if you actually want to see me too. If you don't, than this is it. No more. I'm not going to be the reliable one anymore. The ball's in your court. Try stepping up to the plate, and working around my life for a change.