From the time we reach about the age of four, we want to be big girls, we want to know things, we want to see things, we want to grow up, we want to wear high heels, we want to watch rated R movies, we want to get big girl jobs, wear big girl makeup, and fall in big girl love. We want to buy our own big girl houses since Mom keeps telling us, "When you buy your own house you can do whatever you want in it, but not in mine." Big girls are the epitome of everywhere we want to go, be, see, and experience, with great boobs to fill it.
And then eventually you stop wanting to be one and start feeling like one. Big things happen, some you probably weren't ready for and some that couldn't come soon enough. There are these great moments: the time you drove your car home by yourself from the license bureau, the time you got baptized fully clothed, in broad daylight, at eighteen years old, the time you put on high heels and a great black dress and went dancing with your girlies, the time you got accepted into college and then got a kickass scholarship to boot, the time someone you spent your entire life being impressed by told you that they were impressed by you, and the first time you really fell in love. And then are those moments that rock you to the core: the time someone important to you dies, the time you almost or actually get arrested, the time you break someone's heart, and the time someone breaks yours all the way to the core. We don't all have the same moments, but we all come together in that moment when we realize the only rational thing to do is call your mama and cry your eyes out. When I called my mama and cried, she told me to pray, to grow, to keep going, to remember, and to write it down so I don't forget. The thing is, the bigger girls we grow into, the more we realize how precious that hopeful, bright, enigmatic little girl was, how much we could learn from her, and how important it is to never leave her behind.
She didn't know much about guilt or worry, only that if you cut the cat's fur, it might take a while to grow back. She didn't ever have to worry about girls calling her mean names, I mean, I'd take fancy pants over bitch any day. She had great hair, it wasn't colored or straightened or too short or too long, it was just great natural hair. She was quiet and good at listening, sometimes too quiet though. She liked writing stories, kissing the neighbor boy, swinging on swings, and playing Marti and Coswell with her baby brother. She liked Limited 2 and Harry Potter and then the Greek Festival and making collages all over her walls and more than anything, getting A's. It all happened really fast and somehow she fell away before all of the cracks could get filled in and all of the bruises didn't turn into scars but man, some of it really did hurt. She'd be proud of me on most days and really disappointed in me on other ones. I didn't become a mermaid or seduce Daniel Radcliffe and these would be unforgivable to her. I hope in some other universe, she doesn't have to go through some of the experiences I had to, but then again, if that happened, she'd never become me. Yeah, on most days I hope she'd like who she became.
My favorite days, though, are the ones where I realize we are still the same girl. I'm not a little girl or a big girl, I'm just a girl who is constantly growing and evolving and letting life spill out all over her canvas, messy as it may be. Its probably going to get much messier and, sometimes, much darker, but what is there to be afraid of? It's a big world, and when I want to be, I am a big girl; so let's get on with it...
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
Potential
" I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume
that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential.
I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest
potential of a man, rather than with the man himself, and I have hung on
to the relationship for a long time (sometimes far too long) waiting
for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I
have been a victim of my own optimism.”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love
I stumbled upon this quote today and couldn't help but realize how disturbingly reminiscent it is of my own tendencies in life; I have a bizarre, ignorant tendency to hope for the best in people, the writer in me, rather than the scientist. My life has been sprinkled with a few wonderfully broken individuals, beautiful train wrecks who could make such a difference in the world if only they realized their own potential. I become so attached to these people, so determine to make them see their righteous path, the path that they could so easily stumble unto if only they changed their footing slightly, that I often take much of their burden on myself.
I spent a lot of my teenage years in nursing homes, designated driving, pulling hair back from toilet seats, writing papers that weren't mine to write, and trying to convince people that they were in fact worth something. I'm not complaining or asking for sympathy or even saying I regret these decisions, I don't for a second. I probably did grow up a lot faster this way, and if my mom had had her say it might've gone down a little differently, but I now know that being that person, that endlessly giving, constantly sacrificing friend/girlfriend/sister/etc. has its consequences.
Growing up, I watched my mom counsel her siblings on the phone for hours on end, constantly playing the shrink, the voice of reason, the shoulder to cry on, the vessel upon which some weight could be unloaded, only to constantly be let down by them in the end. My mother strives to make everyone feel loved and accepted and welcomed in every possible way, she gives beyond herself, and for that I admire her infinitely. However, I've also been the person who keeps her secrets, who listens to her rants or disappointed meltdowns, the person who tries in every way possible to fill all of the voids the others refused to. Watching my mother be so open and giving and infinitely kind has made me different, I am cordial to strangers but I do not greet them like old friends. I don't tell people things, I don't confide in anyone. I am a closed book, my trust is not yours to gain, my heart is not up for bidding, but to every rule there is some exception.
And so, I gave in for my train wrecks, I loved them unconditionally, did everything in my power to heal them and build them up, even though it often left me completely drained. Yet whenever they did reach some resolution, I was always left in the shadows like some crutch or brace that is only needed during times of healing. Although I always gave, gave, gave, my train wrecks only took, took, took. Whenever I thought they would turn and say, "After all along, you are still here with me, my wonderful friend," they only marched forward without looking back. I wrestled and wrestled with these demons, of expectation and longing, and found that again and again, I came up from these matches empty handed.
My dear best friend once told me, "You have so much in front of you, why do you even care what they do?" I don't know why I care, but I do. What I have learned, however, is that caring does not mean giving. I can care, and I always will, but I have nothing left to give to the train wrecks.
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love
I stumbled upon this quote today and couldn't help but realize how disturbingly reminiscent it is of my own tendencies in life; I have a bizarre, ignorant tendency to hope for the best in people, the writer in me, rather than the scientist. My life has been sprinkled with a few wonderfully broken individuals, beautiful train wrecks who could make such a difference in the world if only they realized their own potential. I become so attached to these people, so determine to make them see their righteous path, the path that they could so easily stumble unto if only they changed their footing slightly, that I often take much of their burden on myself.
I spent a lot of my teenage years in nursing homes, designated driving, pulling hair back from toilet seats, writing papers that weren't mine to write, and trying to convince people that they were in fact worth something. I'm not complaining or asking for sympathy or even saying I regret these decisions, I don't for a second. I probably did grow up a lot faster this way, and if my mom had had her say it might've gone down a little differently, but I now know that being that person, that endlessly giving, constantly sacrificing friend/girlfriend/sister/etc. has its consequences.
Growing up, I watched my mom counsel her siblings on the phone for hours on end, constantly playing the shrink, the voice of reason, the shoulder to cry on, the vessel upon which some weight could be unloaded, only to constantly be let down by them in the end. My mother strives to make everyone feel loved and accepted and welcomed in every possible way, she gives beyond herself, and for that I admire her infinitely. However, I've also been the person who keeps her secrets, who listens to her rants or disappointed meltdowns, the person who tries in every way possible to fill all of the voids the others refused to. Watching my mother be so open and giving and infinitely kind has made me different, I am cordial to strangers but I do not greet them like old friends. I don't tell people things, I don't confide in anyone. I am a closed book, my trust is not yours to gain, my heart is not up for bidding, but to every rule there is some exception.
And so, I gave in for my train wrecks, I loved them unconditionally, did everything in my power to heal them and build them up, even though it often left me completely drained. Yet whenever they did reach some resolution, I was always left in the shadows like some crutch or brace that is only needed during times of healing. Although I always gave, gave, gave, my train wrecks only took, took, took. Whenever I thought they would turn and say, "After all along, you are still here with me, my wonderful friend," they only marched forward without looking back. I wrestled and wrestled with these demons, of expectation and longing, and found that again and again, I came up from these matches empty handed.
My dear best friend once told me, "You have so much in front of you, why do you even care what they do?" I don't know why I care, but I do. What I have learned, however, is that caring does not mean giving. I can care, and I always will, but I have nothing left to give to the train wrecks.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Things I've Learned My First Week in Pittsburgh
1. When running do not ever, Ever, EVER, EVER take your eyes from the sidewalk. Not even if there is a fire. These sidewalks are not even, they are not kind, they are not sympathetic of your new "barefooting" shoes, nor do they care that you come from a very small, flat part of Ohio. You will trip, you will fall, you will get skinned up knees and hands, and the other runners will laugh and say, "Oh, she must be new."
2. When wanting to go out to your first college party, plan ahead. By "plan ahead," I mean do not wander aimlessly onto Pitt's campus at 9:30 with your two fellow freshman friends and hope for the best. You will have a conversation. It will go like this.
Boy with water bottle full of mysterious substance: You guys looking for a party?
Us: Yes
Boy with water bottle full of mysterious substance: Follow me.
Us: *tentative glances and remembering things are mothers always told us not to do*
Boy with water bottle full of mysterious substance: Wait...are you guys trying to get onto Frat Row at 9:30?
Us: *crickets*
Boy with water bottle full of mysterious substance: FRESHMAN!
3. "If someone smiles at you, just nod, do not smile back. You do not know why they are smiling."
-Orientation Leader
4. "Wanna go to Razzy Fresh?" will be asked a lot. You should always say yes.
5. College professors are not mean, they are not unkind, they want you to succeed and do well, and they'll even help you out if you ask for it. But when they begin going on long rants about whatever it is that they choose to rant about it, it's called a lecture, and you're supposed to write things down from it.
6. Chatham girls don't dress like other college girls, we are usually the ones in dresses and sweaters/ blouses and appropriately hemmed skirts. We are classy.
7. The term, "chesbian" is sometimes thrown out referring to Chatham women...I'll let you take from that what you please.
8. Living with someone can be hard and a difficult adjustment, but at the end of the day, you know your roommate will always be there for you. Whether it is to zip your dress, tell your that your stomach looks fine in that high-waisted skirt, or just to make you laugh before you fall asleep--roommates don't have to be best friends, but they can be great friends if you let them.
9. Jaywalking is not a bad thing; it is accepted and encouraged. Everyone will do it, you should do it too if you ever want to be on time.
10. The Chatham cats are truly dependable, reliable friends. From what I've gleaned, they are not gossips at all.
11. Always have friends in your hall who are readily accessible and welcoming who will take you in if you come home to your roommate plus one...in bed.
12. Be on time to class. Be early for class. No one wants to be the awkward late kid, even on the first day.
13. Always, always, always have your student id and room key on you. ALWAYS. Even if that means running with both stuffed in your sports bra...not that I've done that or anything.
14. Get used to hills. Everything is on a hill, near a hill, down a hill, towards a hill, etc. Hills are totally normal to native Pennsylvanians, they don't know why your calves are so sore or why you are crawling.
15. Be where you are supposed to be and do what people tell you to do, even if it doesn't sound fun, even if it isn't where you presently want to be. In the end, it'll probably benefit you more than you expected and if it doesn't, at least you can say you did the right thing.
16. Signing up for every club at the Activity Resource Fair may seem like the right thing to do, especially if you are an overachiever, but in the end, this will only clutter your email and your brain.
17. Pay attention to street signs. If someone tells you that Walnut St. is just a little ways down Negley, they don't mean forty minutes down Negley and Walnut St. hasn't disappeared, you are just not observant at all.
18. Shared bathrooms are just as gross and unappealing as you thought they would be, you would be amazed at how much hair can dwell in a drain...vomit.
19. Coffee is even better in a place where you have to walk a few blocks to get it.
20. And last, but not least, however far away, your family is still probably the answer to most of your problems. Whether its advice, Skype dates, care packages full of money and pillows, or just texts throughout the day to remind you that they still love you and value your existence (even if few people in Pittsburgh are aware of it), they will find a way to make you feel better or to enhance the good that you're already feeling.
2. When wanting to go out to your first college party, plan ahead. By "plan ahead," I mean do not wander aimlessly onto Pitt's campus at 9:30 with your two fellow freshman friends and hope for the best. You will have a conversation. It will go like this.
Boy with water bottle full of mysterious substance: You guys looking for a party?
Us: Yes
Boy with water bottle full of mysterious substance: Follow me.
Us: *tentative glances and remembering things are mothers always told us not to do*
Boy with water bottle full of mysterious substance: Wait...are you guys trying to get onto Frat Row at 9:30?
Us: *crickets*
Boy with water bottle full of mysterious substance: FRESHMAN!
3. "If someone smiles at you, just nod, do not smile back. You do not know why they are smiling."
-Orientation Leader
4. "Wanna go to Razzy Fresh?" will be asked a lot. You should always say yes.
5. College professors are not mean, they are not unkind, they want you to succeed and do well, and they'll even help you out if you ask for it. But when they begin going on long rants about whatever it is that they choose to rant about it, it's called a lecture, and you're supposed to write things down from it.
6. Chatham girls don't dress like other college girls, we are usually the ones in dresses and sweaters/ blouses and appropriately hemmed skirts. We are classy.
7. The term, "chesbian" is sometimes thrown out referring to Chatham women...I'll let you take from that what you please.
8. Living with someone can be hard and a difficult adjustment, but at the end of the day, you know your roommate will always be there for you. Whether it is to zip your dress, tell your that your stomach looks fine in that high-waisted skirt, or just to make you laugh before you fall asleep--roommates don't have to be best friends, but they can be great friends if you let them.
9. Jaywalking is not a bad thing; it is accepted and encouraged. Everyone will do it, you should do it too if you ever want to be on time.
10. The Chatham cats are truly dependable, reliable friends. From what I've gleaned, they are not gossips at all.
11. Always have friends in your hall who are readily accessible and welcoming who will take you in if you come home to your roommate plus one...in bed.
12. Be on time to class. Be early for class. No one wants to be the awkward late kid, even on the first day.
13. Always, always, always have your student id and room key on you. ALWAYS. Even if that means running with both stuffed in your sports bra...not that I've done that or anything.
14. Get used to hills. Everything is on a hill, near a hill, down a hill, towards a hill, etc. Hills are totally normal to native Pennsylvanians, they don't know why your calves are so sore or why you are crawling.
15. Be where you are supposed to be and do what people tell you to do, even if it doesn't sound fun, even if it isn't where you presently want to be. In the end, it'll probably benefit you more than you expected and if it doesn't, at least you can say you did the right thing.
16. Signing up for every club at the Activity Resource Fair may seem like the right thing to do, especially if you are an overachiever, but in the end, this will only clutter your email and your brain.
17. Pay attention to street signs. If someone tells you that Walnut St. is just a little ways down Negley, they don't mean forty minutes down Negley and Walnut St. hasn't disappeared, you are just not observant at all.
18. Shared bathrooms are just as gross and unappealing as you thought they would be, you would be amazed at how much hair can dwell in a drain...vomit.
19. Coffee is even better in a place where you have to walk a few blocks to get it.
20. And last, but not least, however far away, your family is still probably the answer to most of your problems. Whether its advice, Skype dates, care packages full of money and pillows, or just texts throughout the day to remind you that they still love you and value your existence (even if few people in Pittsburgh are aware of it), they will find a way to make you feel better or to enhance the good that you're already feeling.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Snowbirds...
Papa,
I've been meaning to write to you for a while now, but between cheerleading, Madrigals, work, school, college applications, and life, I just haven't made time. I've been meaning to ask you about Heaven, about God, about Chris and Bawky and Bean and your family, I've been wondering if the potato salad in Heaven really is better. I've been meaning to follow your rules: to not take anyone's shit, to keep my head held high, to never let anybody tell me I can't do anything...but let's be honest, when do I ever not follow those rules? I've been meaning to be stronger for Poozer, to be the one person who doesn't put everything on her shoulders, but I'm usually putting the most on her shoulders. I've been meaning to hug your little woman harder, to still make her feel like the most special woman in the world even though you're not here to tell her she is anymore.
I've been meaning to do a lot of things, but I guess sometimes I get so caught up in life that I forget to, that's really not fair though, huh? I could make a million excuses, but I know you and I know you'd call bullshit on me. Most days, I just try not to think about it, I try not to remember last February and the day God took you home, that overwhelming void in the room, that feeling that life as we knew it had forever changed. I remember the last time I ever kissed you, it was my birthday and you had the flu, you were trying to get me to go get money for myself out of the play room and I kept blowing you off. I remember you just smelled different, not like you, I remember asking that night if death had a smell. I wish I could go back to this day last year and just sit in your chair with you for a while, listen to you muse about things or tell me about teaching Jackie O how to ride a horse or maybe just bitch and moan; I'd just like to tell you how much I love you one more time, I'd just like to hear you sing to me one more time.
You taught me to be a stronger woman than that though, you taught me about passion, about capability, about laughter, about loving people hard, and how to swing a golf club. You taught me more about life than anyone else I know, yet for the majority of mine, you were sitting in a recliner. So I know you wouldn't have wanted me to cry every day, to sink into a whole with no light to lift me out, to even miss you; you would've wanted all of us to go on like you were still here to lift us out of the darkness and kick our asses into gear, because that's just what you did.
So I hope you're having a hell of a time up there: drinking an uncomfortable amount of Wild Turkey and flirting with Marilyn Monroe, tell her I can't wait to meet her. I hope you're catching up on all the time you lost with Chris and Bawky and your dad and Josephine. I hope you're hugging and squeezing and kissing your little Blonde Bear every single minute of every single day, because she really needs it. I hope we're all making you proud down here and if we're not, I hope you're having some talks with God about our behavior. I hope you're still feisty as hell and swearing and screaming at everyone, and then loving them into submission; there needed to be more angels like that anyway. I hope you're not disappointed that I chose medicine over professional golf, but I was always much better at bandaging you than I was at hitting balls and that ridiculous contraption you bought me. I hope you're looking down on your baby girl and just shaking your head and smiling: she's just too damn impressive. I hope one day I fall in love with someone who loves me just like you loved Nanny; too much and too hard and diamonds should be involved too, just mull that over for me, will ya?
Thanks for all the cashews and all the coke and for being the best friend I ever had; thanks for everything, just not leaving before you turned 106 ;)
Love Ya to Pieces,
Your Doctor
I've been meaning to write to you for a while now, but between cheerleading, Madrigals, work, school, college applications, and life, I just haven't made time. I've been meaning to ask you about Heaven, about God, about Chris and Bawky and Bean and your family, I've been wondering if the potato salad in Heaven really is better. I've been meaning to follow your rules: to not take anyone's shit, to keep my head held high, to never let anybody tell me I can't do anything...but let's be honest, when do I ever not follow those rules? I've been meaning to be stronger for Poozer, to be the one person who doesn't put everything on her shoulders, but I'm usually putting the most on her shoulders. I've been meaning to hug your little woman harder, to still make her feel like the most special woman in the world even though you're not here to tell her she is anymore.
I've been meaning to do a lot of things, but I guess sometimes I get so caught up in life that I forget to, that's really not fair though, huh? I could make a million excuses, but I know you and I know you'd call bullshit on me. Most days, I just try not to think about it, I try not to remember last February and the day God took you home, that overwhelming void in the room, that feeling that life as we knew it had forever changed. I remember the last time I ever kissed you, it was my birthday and you had the flu, you were trying to get me to go get money for myself out of the play room and I kept blowing you off. I remember you just smelled different, not like you, I remember asking that night if death had a smell. I wish I could go back to this day last year and just sit in your chair with you for a while, listen to you muse about things or tell me about teaching Jackie O how to ride a horse or maybe just bitch and moan; I'd just like to tell you how much I love you one more time, I'd just like to hear you sing to me one more time.
You taught me to be a stronger woman than that though, you taught me about passion, about capability, about laughter, about loving people hard, and how to swing a golf club. You taught me more about life than anyone else I know, yet for the majority of mine, you were sitting in a recliner. So I know you wouldn't have wanted me to cry every day, to sink into a whole with no light to lift me out, to even miss you; you would've wanted all of us to go on like you were still here to lift us out of the darkness and kick our asses into gear, because that's just what you did.
So I hope you're having a hell of a time up there: drinking an uncomfortable amount of Wild Turkey and flirting with Marilyn Monroe, tell her I can't wait to meet her. I hope you're catching up on all the time you lost with Chris and Bawky and your dad and Josephine. I hope you're hugging and squeezing and kissing your little Blonde Bear every single minute of every single day, because she really needs it. I hope we're all making you proud down here and if we're not, I hope you're having some talks with God about our behavior. I hope you're still feisty as hell and swearing and screaming at everyone, and then loving them into submission; there needed to be more angels like that anyway. I hope you're not disappointed that I chose medicine over professional golf, but I was always much better at bandaging you than I was at hitting balls and that ridiculous contraption you bought me. I hope you're looking down on your baby girl and just shaking your head and smiling: she's just too damn impressive. I hope one day I fall in love with someone who loves me just like you loved Nanny; too much and too hard and diamonds should be involved too, just mull that over for me, will ya?
Thanks for all the cashews and all the coke and for being the best friend I ever had; thanks for everything, just not leaving before you turned 106 ;)
Love Ya to Pieces,
Your Doctor
Monday, June 27, 2011
Chalking it up to Fate
I believe, strongly, in fate. When my mother got pregnant at twenty years old, it wasn't teenage indiscretion, it was fate (I was born). When some asshole kicked a soccer ball directly into my face, it wasn't his own inability to aim properly, it was fate (I couldn't be a soccer player). When I didn't I have enough money to go to New York for the summer, it wasn't ridiculous pricing, it was fate (New York would have me later in life). I believe that universal forces guide us in our intended directions, whether or not we're consciously aware of this subliminal guidance. I believe that despite our own free will, we cannot miss our fate, one way or another, it will befall us.
It is easy, though, to profess belief in all these divine concepts; it is not easy, however, to realize what you want and what is meant are not the same paths. Fate is a funny, cruel trick; we are taught that we will meet one person and we will know and then, we will love them forever. However, somewhere between life, family, friends, school, jobs, games, lies, disagreements, and passion, this fate proves to be a difficult conquest. You meet people, you get to know them, you make decisions, you form ideas, you care for them, it works, it falls apart, it is just another stepping stone, another brick in your wall, another learning experience.
What happens though, when you meet someone who you think is more than a stepping stone, when you meet someone who moves your soul, who broadens your heart, who affects your every thought...what happens when your love for them is not enough to hold them in your life...what happens when the universe has other plans for your life, plans you don't know if you want.
You breathe. You stop thinking, considering, imagining, reliving, regretting. You inhale and then, you exhale. You let go, you let air and life and water and love back into your system. You stop fighting the inevitable, you just float.
They tell you that it will feel better, they promise this. They tell you everything happens for a reason, that what is meant to be, will be. I don't know if these things are true, but I believe them when they tell me. I believe that I have a path already mapped out, I just have to find my way along it. I believe that I am doing the right thing, no matter how hard it is, no matter how bad it hurts.
I believe that in some place, maybe another world, maybe another time, there is a you and there is a me, and they last and last and last, going on loving eachother better than anyone else could, happily unaffected by outside forces. Whenever I find a snowglobe, I will look for us inside. Until then, I'm just going to keep breathing.
It is easy, though, to profess belief in all these divine concepts; it is not easy, however, to realize what you want and what is meant are not the same paths. Fate is a funny, cruel trick; we are taught that we will meet one person and we will know and then, we will love them forever. However, somewhere between life, family, friends, school, jobs, games, lies, disagreements, and passion, this fate proves to be a difficult conquest. You meet people, you get to know them, you make decisions, you form ideas, you care for them, it works, it falls apart, it is just another stepping stone, another brick in your wall, another learning experience.
What happens though, when you meet someone who you think is more than a stepping stone, when you meet someone who moves your soul, who broadens your heart, who affects your every thought...what happens when your love for them is not enough to hold them in your life...what happens when the universe has other plans for your life, plans you don't know if you want.
You breathe. You stop thinking, considering, imagining, reliving, regretting. You inhale and then, you exhale. You let go, you let air and life and water and love back into your system. You stop fighting the inevitable, you just float.
They tell you that it will feel better, they promise this. They tell you everything happens for a reason, that what is meant to be, will be. I don't know if these things are true, but I believe them when they tell me. I believe that I have a path already mapped out, I just have to find my way along it. I believe that I am doing the right thing, no matter how hard it is, no matter how bad it hurts.
I believe that in some place, maybe another world, maybe another time, there is a you and there is a me, and they last and last and last, going on loving eachother better than anyone else could, happily unaffected by outside forces. Whenever I find a snowglobe, I will look for us inside. Until then, I'm just going to keep breathing.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Roadkill
There has always been that joke, "Why did the chicken cross the road?" Of course, whether or not the chicken died, flew, or just wanted to get to the other side has never quite been determined. Why are animals always crossing the road? Don't they see their counterparts in pieces, scattered morbidly across dotted yellow lines? Shouldn't there be some instinctive sense of survival? Wouldn't you think that one brutalized, furry baby would be enough to never make you want to cross the street again?
But then I think about people. Humans are, supposedly, the most evolved members of the kingdom, Animalia. We are earth's representation of all things intelligent and revolutionary; yet, we too are always getting run over.
I wonder what makes risk-taking such a tempting practice. Nine times out of ten, I can predict the sorted outcome of my actions. I know the tears, the disappointment, the pain, the regret that could come with each of my decisions. I know what a smart girl would do, what a good girl should do; yet, sometimes, I find myself running out in front of cars.
There is a sort of screwed-up romanticism about doing stupid things. Being stupid is rarely recognized for what it is. We call it "living in the moment", "going out on a limb", and even, "being young." But in reality, we know better. We all know what happens when you lie to your parents and when you trust someone who makes you uneasy. We all know the difference between love and lust and the difference between right and wrong. Sometimes, though, the chance that our stupidity could result in happiness outweighs the negative consequences.
We cross the road because there's always that hope that it will end in the love story of a lifetime. We cross the road because we want to tell our daughters stories that make them proud. We cross the road because who wants to be the girl that never leaves her the safety of her front porch? We cross the road because it looks magical on the other side. We cross the road because we're ignorant enough to believe that nothing can hurt us. We cross the road because we want to. We cross the road because we know we shouldn't.
Maybe getting run over, falling into the traps, winding up hurt, tire-skidded, laden with regret and shame, is a punishment. But I don't think so. I think we cross the road because we think we have a shot at being the lucky girl; you know, the one whose heart never touches the ground. I think that risk-taking is a beautiful, complicated art; maybe we're not supposed to, but what is 'supposed to be' isn't what ever really happens. So maybe we are stupid, naive, pathetic excuses for women; I'd rather have scars than baby skin.
The bottom line is: there is no bottom line, no logic, no reason, no effort, no calculation that goes into making our decisions. We're all just trying to write the best biography that we can and in the mean time, running out of our daddy's arms and into traffic. There isn't much time in life to worry about being the best; most of the time you're just trying to avoid becoming roadkill.
But then I think about people. Humans are, supposedly, the most evolved members of the kingdom, Animalia. We are earth's representation of all things intelligent and revolutionary; yet, we too are always getting run over.
I wonder what makes risk-taking such a tempting practice. Nine times out of ten, I can predict the sorted outcome of my actions. I know the tears, the disappointment, the pain, the regret that could come with each of my decisions. I know what a smart girl would do, what a good girl should do; yet, sometimes, I find myself running out in front of cars.
There is a sort of screwed-up romanticism about doing stupid things. Being stupid is rarely recognized for what it is. We call it "living in the moment", "going out on a limb", and even, "being young." But in reality, we know better. We all know what happens when you lie to your parents and when you trust someone who makes you uneasy. We all know the difference between love and lust and the difference between right and wrong. Sometimes, though, the chance that our stupidity could result in happiness outweighs the negative consequences.
We cross the road because there's always that hope that it will end in the love story of a lifetime. We cross the road because we want to tell our daughters stories that make them proud. We cross the road because who wants to be the girl that never leaves her the safety of her front porch? We cross the road because it looks magical on the other side. We cross the road because we're ignorant enough to believe that nothing can hurt us. We cross the road because we want to. We cross the road because we know we shouldn't.
Maybe getting run over, falling into the traps, winding up hurt, tire-skidded, laden with regret and shame, is a punishment. But I don't think so. I think we cross the road because we think we have a shot at being the lucky girl; you know, the one whose heart never touches the ground. I think that risk-taking is a beautiful, complicated art; maybe we're not supposed to, but what is 'supposed to be' isn't what ever really happens. So maybe we are stupid, naive, pathetic excuses for women; I'd rather have scars than baby skin.
The bottom line is: there is no bottom line, no logic, no reason, no effort, no calculation that goes into making our decisions. We're all just trying to write the best biography that we can and in the mean time, running out of our daddy's arms and into traffic. There isn't much time in life to worry about being the best; most of the time you're just trying to avoid becoming roadkill.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Here, there, and somewhere in between
In the past seventeen years, I've been a lot of different girls.
Growing up in a tiny town where intersections felt more like walls and street fairs were the social events of the summer, I learned to invent.
I was boy crazy; just maybe not with real boys. I discovered Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone in third grade, and, in three more weeks, I was head over heels for some wizard boy J.K. Rowling pulled out of her...mind. I followed Daniel Radcliffe all the way to Broadway, saw him naked, and I was over it.
I was a nerd; just maybe not in the ordinary, social pariah way. I went to the library for therapy instead of watching The Notebook. I wrote countless stories about girls who were better than me, prettier than me, luckier than me; and in a little blue book, I wrote about a girl who was the same. I fell down literally every set of stairs I encountered. I wore glasses and took all the "smart" classes, and I never realized blonde girls weren't supposed to be intelligent because no one ever informed me.
I was mean; just maybe not enough to let it eat the good. I turned thirteen and became obsessed with my clothes, my eyelashes, my body, and all of the girls who outshined me in one or all of these categories. Then I befriended them, then I learned all of their secrets, then I usually found some way to undermine them, then there was usually a fight at recess. Then I watched Mean Girls, and I realized I was not an evil genius, I just had a vagina. I don't like this side of me and I think for the most part, I've made up for all her ugly. If you cross me, though, I will be glad to introduce you to her royal highness.
I was an idiot; just maybe not when it counted. I dyed my hair purple and snuck out tiny windows and left the sweet innocence to go on adventures with the big kids. I fell in love with the rush, the trouble, the excitement, the secrets, the journey we were all on together. I wanted to be bad, but I wasn't any good at it, and when I watched my best friend becoming such a pro, I realized I could never be this girl.
I was a baby; just maybe a really tough one. I slept in bed with my parents the first time a boy broke my heart. I called them mommy and daddy until, well, I still do. I slept on the couch when I saw a spider underneath my bed. I left my feelings lying all over the ground, and when they got stepped on, I was surprised. But I was never anyone's baby, I was just my own idea of a girl.
I was someone's person; just maybe not a good enough one. I spoke the same language, imagined the same magic, and grew up with a built-in maid of honor. I never knew what it was like to be the girl who had a bunch of "good" friends because I was always content with having one "best" friend. And then when I got stabbed in the back, I accepted it, and I learned the magic of "good" friends who love you and don't want to suck your blood. But I will always be a little bit of that person, because you were mine.
I was in love; just maybe in a different way than I'd always imagined. I was in love with kittens, with bike trails, with cotton candy, with NYU, with fake chicken nuggets, with beautiful people, with tattoos, with mermaids, and then, with a boy. I was young and wild and free and he was all of that too, and we ran together...far, far, away. We couldn't be touched and we couldn't hold any more love or we'd explode. We were, are, the simplest, purest definition of happy.
I was a woman; just maybe a really small one. My papa died and took my heart with him, and when I made a new heart, I realized how much more careful I'd have to be with it. I built fortresses and plans and stories around my new heart and when it overflowed, I made it bigger. So, I suppose, I wasn't very careful, but I was whole & teeming with red love & experience, just how a woman should be.
I was a thousand & one nights and girls and stories and mistakes and stories and letters and pieces of my mother and secrets and brown eyes that are sometimes green and I was okay with it. I am okay with it.
Growing up in a tiny town where intersections felt more like walls and street fairs were the social events of the summer, I learned to invent.
I was boy crazy; just maybe not with real boys. I discovered Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone in third grade, and, in three more weeks, I was head over heels for some wizard boy J.K. Rowling pulled out of her...mind. I followed Daniel Radcliffe all the way to Broadway, saw him naked, and I was over it.
I was a nerd; just maybe not in the ordinary, social pariah way. I went to the library for therapy instead of watching The Notebook. I wrote countless stories about girls who were better than me, prettier than me, luckier than me; and in a little blue book, I wrote about a girl who was the same. I fell down literally every set of stairs I encountered. I wore glasses and took all the "smart" classes, and I never realized blonde girls weren't supposed to be intelligent because no one ever informed me.
I was mean; just maybe not enough to let it eat the good. I turned thirteen and became obsessed with my clothes, my eyelashes, my body, and all of the girls who outshined me in one or all of these categories. Then I befriended them, then I learned all of their secrets, then I usually found some way to undermine them, then there was usually a fight at recess. Then I watched Mean Girls, and I realized I was not an evil genius, I just had a vagina. I don't like this side of me and I think for the most part, I've made up for all her ugly. If you cross me, though, I will be glad to introduce you to her royal highness.
I was an idiot; just maybe not when it counted. I dyed my hair purple and snuck out tiny windows and left the sweet innocence to go on adventures with the big kids. I fell in love with the rush, the trouble, the excitement, the secrets, the journey we were all on together. I wanted to be bad, but I wasn't any good at it, and when I watched my best friend becoming such a pro, I realized I could never be this girl.
I was a baby; just maybe a really tough one. I slept in bed with my parents the first time a boy broke my heart. I called them mommy and daddy until, well, I still do. I slept on the couch when I saw a spider underneath my bed. I left my feelings lying all over the ground, and when they got stepped on, I was surprised. But I was never anyone's baby, I was just my own idea of a girl.
I was someone's person; just maybe not a good enough one. I spoke the same language, imagined the same magic, and grew up with a built-in maid of honor. I never knew what it was like to be the girl who had a bunch of "good" friends because I was always content with having one "best" friend. And then when I got stabbed in the back, I accepted it, and I learned the magic of "good" friends who love you and don't want to suck your blood. But I will always be a little bit of that person, because you were mine.
I was in love; just maybe in a different way than I'd always imagined. I was in love with kittens, with bike trails, with cotton candy, with NYU, with fake chicken nuggets, with beautiful people, with tattoos, with mermaids, and then, with a boy. I was young and wild and free and he was all of that too, and we ran together...far, far, away. We couldn't be touched and we couldn't hold any more love or we'd explode. We were, are, the simplest, purest definition of happy.
I was a woman; just maybe a really small one. My papa died and took my heart with him, and when I made a new heart, I realized how much more careful I'd have to be with it. I built fortresses and plans and stories around my new heart and when it overflowed, I made it bigger. So, I suppose, I wasn't very careful, but I was whole & teeming with red love & experience, just how a woman should be.
I was a thousand & one nights and girls and stories and mistakes and stories and letters and pieces of my mother and secrets and brown eyes that are sometimes green and I was okay with it. I am okay with it.
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