in the mood to lose my way...

New Blogs

2011-09-06T22:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader:

It's been awhile since I've posted here. And this will actually be my last one. But don't worry! If you kinda, sorta, maybe liked this blog, it is now at a new site: tolosemywaywithwords.wordpress.com

Also, I decided to start a running blog. You can read it at: takeitontherun.wordpress.com

And for a little shameless self-promotion, if you want to read the non-blogging writing I have done, you can find it at lauraroseallen.wordpress.com under the writing page :)

Intuition

2011-06-28T17:07:00.001-07:00

It was just the three of us, sitting in a corner booth at a chicken finger fast food joint called Cane's. I picked at the two small chicken fingers and fries I ordered (the kid's meal because any more grease and fast food surely would've done me over) and stared up at the Sex and the City photo overhead. This was really only my third time spending time in Columbus and I wasn't sure quite what to think of it yet.

My recent past experiences with Columbus aren't the most memorable. In high school I spent a gloomy weekend there in a tiny church with my church youth group. It was an odd experience, and it didn't help that my friend's car got towed overnight. God may be forgiving but those tow-truck people surely aren't. Then in college, on our way to a race at Penn State, we got into a four-car accident right outside of Columbus. We met the tow truck people again because one car was totaled (she avoided the accident but the semi behind her didn't - it totaled her car and the people inside were honestly lucky to walk away without a scratch). Things started to look up this past December when my boyfriend and I drove out to see a Pens-Blue Jackets game. The game was a blast - my only complaint was that our dining options prior to the game were very limited. Regardless, my feelings toward C-bus have been a little apathetic.

But I still wasn't sure what to make of it. With time to kill I asked if we could take a look at Ohio State's campus. My new friend Yappy was more than happy to show me around.

We drove around the campus - me asking what every building was, Yappy explaining, and my friend Ryan complaining because he is a Michigan fan. We stopped and took a visit inside the student union. It reminded me of Ball State's student center, only a tad bit cooler. As we continued exploring, I realized, based solely on aesthetics, that I really liked Ohio State. I liked the size of the campus. I liked how many people I saw, despite it being summer. I liked the vibe I was getting from it. As we continued driving and I saw their version of a village, it clicked with me: this was the college I had dreamed of my whole life. This was the place, that had I explored more, I would've ended up going to.

It is big and thriving, contrary to the town Ball State sits in. Some may call it Funcie but I usually find nothing fun about it. I confessed to my OSU friends that had I known what Muncie really was like prior to deciding on Ball State, I probably wouldn't have gone. I would picked the rural college town of Miami. Or Ohio State. Or Penn State (if I could have afforded it). Of course it's too late to realize these things now: after this summer I'm officially done with my undergrad.

I don't know why places and locations matter so much to me. But for a minute there in Columbus I felt a little sorry for myself. Sorry that I missed out on a school like Ohio State and a town like Columbus. Sorry that Ball State was not located there. Sorry I hadn't done my research and simply went with my gut.

The good news is though, I did not go with what I found aesthetically pleasing. I did go with my gut. Long before ever seeing Ball State I had a feeling that was the school I was going to end up going to. As far as journalism schools went, it was the only other one I had heard of that wasn't too far from home, and wasn't OU. Call it intuition, but I think I was right.

Although I will never love Muncie, and I will never get to know what it would be like to attend college in a town I actually like, I will never regret my decision to attend Ball State. I wanted to attend college with the intention of learning about how to be a writer. While the learning process has only begun, I would say my time at BSU was a success. Plus, hearing my boss say he would consider me for a position if Cincinnati Magazine was hiring also kind of reconfirms that :)

My loyalty will always lie within a little city in the Hooiser state. But it was fun getting to be a temporary Buckeye.

Wasting Time

2011-06-27T16:20:00.000-07:00

As 9 p.m. rolled around on Saturday, I was somewhere on I-71 heading north. Just me, an extra set of clothes, and a big mom van. Destination? Columbus.

It was one of those few times since graduating high school that I would be seeing people from my graduating class. Aside from my girls, most people I knew from high school I lost contact with. I wasn't "close" friends with a whole lot of people. I mostly kept to the cross-country team and young life. And even there I lost touch with a lot of people. With the exception of the few who I plan to stay friends with for the rest of my life, I was ready for a fresh start the moment I walked across the stage at commencement. That included leaving people behind.

Yet there I was, three years since high school and carving a chunk out of my weekend to see - get this - people I wasn't even really friends with in high school. People I never hung out with and barely talked to. So how on earth, in three years, did I go from "forget Fairfield" to suddenly spending the night with friends I was never friends with? Answer: twitter.

I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but somehow in the past three years three friends all acquired a twitter account; then we all began to follow one another. Then we began to tweet/mention one another. At first it was about random stuff: how will the football game go, what movies do I need to see, and so on. But as time began to continue on I realized a friendship was blooming. We'd joke to each other, or if need be, offer words of encouragement when times weren't so easy. What 12 years of school didn't do, twitter was able to accomplish.

I never thought highly of the whole "online friendship" thing. I guess it reminded me of my younger days when I was a middle schooler and had nothing better to do but to roam the web. I thought AOL chat rooms were cool, until I realized they were a magnet for all of the weirdos in the world. That's a big thing: people can be creepy and the best way to avoid the creepers is to stay far away from them. This means don't find friends via the web. Another part of me always thought it was kind of pathetic. Why do you need to find friends online when you can go out in the real world and find them? I always thought the ones who made friends online were the lonely weirdos just looking for company.

I still kind of feel that way...I guess. It depends. And my situation is unique because I already knew these people. They weren't random strangers. But to be fair, I have met strangers (see, that still sounds bad to me) online and they seem like rather normal people. I think. I hope. Maybe I'll never know.

The point is social media did what I thought it could never do: form genuine relationships. Now I'm not advocating that you should find your best friend or future spouse via the web. And it's certainly true that I am closer to the friends I hang out with more than the ones I simply tweet. But if it hadn't been for twitter, I would have never gone up to Columbus to hang out with the friends I was never friends with. I would've probably never seen a Crew game. And I'm almost certain my weekend would've been ten times more lame.

Ironic thing is I deactivated my facebook and decided to temporarily stop tweeting that Friday night before. I got annoyed with it, and I couldn't help but think to myself "This is stupid. Why do I care about these websites?" Little did I know that I would later realize how useful social media can be.

The moral of the story: Twitter is more than "status updates" as some would say. I realize it is a medium to connect with people I probably would've easily lost touch with, just like the others. So I'm glad I still use my social media outlets and I'm grateful for their existence. Even if they still feel like a complete waste of time.

Ignoring Yiayia

2011-06-24T21:42:00.000-07:00

I met an old friend for ice cream today. I've known her for at least a decade, as she is my pastor's daughter, and over time she became a good friend. In high school she was the girl I would call up when I was having boy troubles. We'd offer one another advice and dreamed of what life could be like with the man we'd call "the one."

Catching up with her today was no different from back then. She told me of the sexy young lad she is teaching English to and I updated her on my relationship. Naturally, she asked about our future, the one thing that remains a big question mark. I told her that with him moving to Milwaukee for grad school, and having to be there for at least 6 years to get his doctorate, Milwaukee is my goal. But then she also went out on a limb and asked a question very few people have asked me: Are you going to live with him?

I've assumed that no one has asked me this question for two reasons: 1) When I tell them "I am planning on moving to Milwaukee to be with my boyfriend" they automatically assume we'd be residing in the same location. 2) They're too afraid to ask or they don't want to know. I have been vague either way. Moving to Milwaukee does not mean I will be living with him. Nor does it mean I won't be. Either way, I could not avoid her straight-forwardness.

So I went with being honest. Yes, I told her. I want to live with him.

Of course, luckily for me, even though she is the pastor's daughter she has a very open mind. She understands my desire to live with him; she also understands my concerns about living with him. Either way, she does not judge me. And in that I was reminded of why she is such a good friend.

Unfortunately, I doubt everyone in my circle of family and friends will feel the same way. Some have been very supportive; specifically those who are wishing to live with their significant other. Some are apathetic, such as my father, who said, "Eh, I don't care. It's your life. Do what you want." And then there are those who are against it. This would be my mother. Although her exact response was "Um, I have mixed feelings about it," (which is code for I don't support this at all), she gave me the same wide-eyed look of shock as the time I accidentally said the F word in front of her (oops).

So in hopes of avoiding all of those against (except for my mother) I decided I would not share with people my exact plans. I would not tell them that I am already planning out how I could help pay for the rent, or that we've discussed who would take care of what household duties, or where we would get the necessary furniture. Nope. The plan was to be vague and avoid all Milwaukee details until I could avoid them no longer.

But today I decided - I don't care.

A friend recently wrote a blog recalling an encounter which when told to in person made me laugh to the point tears welled in my eyes. It was funny because he tells of a moment he is terrified of being judged. And in his blog he quoted my professor who said, "You are always being judged. Always." My friend's take from the matter was that you should be careful about what you say and do, because someone is always judging you.

This is true. And perhaps I should be more aware of the things I say and do. I do care about what people think, especially those who are close to me. Sometimes I care too much. But with this? I don't care at all.

I have several reasons for my desire to live with him. And I could list them, but I won't. Because I don't think I need to justify to anyone my reasons for a personal decision. It's take it or leave it, but telling me you don't agree isn't going to stop me (as my Mom has come to understand).

To some, I am making a bigger deal out of this than I should be. It's not unusual for couples to live together before marriage. Some might say it's smart - you get a test run at marriage and if it doesn't work out, there's no messy divorce to deal with. But I suppose it feels like a big deal to me, because I was not suppose to end up in this situation. I was a good Christian girl who was suppose to stick to her religious beliefs.

But beliefs, and morals, can change.

I guess what I'm afraid of is a "Yiayia" reaction. If you don't know what I'm talking about, watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JmD-wDEeOds&feature=relmfu .While I don't think anyone is going to tell me I am going to hell, I don't think everyone will be supportive.

I am always being judged. And I don't care. If I try to care about what everyone thinks of every decision I make all the time, I will run myself into the ground. I am not perfect. The decisions I make are not perfect. And for all I know, moving in with him could be the greatest mistake of my life. But that's a risk I'm willing to take. Regardless of what anyone thinks.

All I Want

2011-06-18T23:44:00.001-07:00

Another typical Saturday night and out of habit/boredom I logged onto my facebook. There in my news feed, in all caps, was a friend's excitement of some news he had just received but couldn't tell. He couldn't tell it, he said, because it wasn't "facebook official" yet. Of course, being "facebook official" usually implies a change in relationship. My guess was that someone got engaged. A text message later, and I learned I was right.

In all previous circumstances I have literally bounced off the walls in joy for my friends. I grin as the girls tell me how he proposed. They show me photos of their wedding gowns and I tell them how beautiful it is. I goggle at their rings, ask them what their song will be, and feel a sincere and genuine sense of happiness for them.

But today, I did not feel that.

Joy did not show up today. Instead, the green-eyed monster made his appearance. The couple I had just learned of getting engaged is younger than me. They have been together for the same amount of time as my boyfriend and I. And they have known each other even less than us. To learn of their engagement, was pathetically a blow to my self-esteem.

Wow, that's really shallow, Laura.

Yes, yes it is. It is shallow, pathetic, and selfish. In a time when I should be happy for them, all I could think about was me. It's wrong. But it's the truth.

I hate admitting it, but learning of so many friends' engagements and marriages is getting old, and it's getting old fast. Don't get me wrong, in most of these cases I am still jubilant for the couple. But as I keep seeing more and more friends walking around with diamond rings on their left ring fingers, a small sense of hopelessness eats at me. Why don't I have a ring on my finger? Why hasn't my boyfriend popped the question? And, even more concerning, why doesn't he even want to think or talk about it?

I got off of facebook and plopped myself on my bed. What is wrong with me? I thought. Why must I compare myself to other couples? Because I am human and when I see friends getting what I want, I can't help but wonder why it's not happening for me.

This has happened before but in all previous situations it was something I could "solve" on my own. Friends get better grades? I'll study more. Friends have cuter outfits? I'll save my money and update my wardrobe. Friends have boyfriends? I'll try to be prettier, funnier, cuter, flirtier, whatever it takes to make boys notice me more.

The boyfriend category was always the hardest.

I was not the girl guys fawned over in high school. I did not wake up at 5 a.m. to do my hair and make-up. I wore sweats and hoodies. Puberty plus genetics were not kind to my skin. I was awkward and shy. And when you have size 0, bleach-blonde cheerleaders running around, it's hard to compete.
But I watched my friends get into relationships. I watched them find dates for homecoming and prom. I felt jealous of them, jealous that they had what I always wanted. And I always wondered what I was doing wrong.

Of course, high school fortunately came to an end and I had much better luck at college. I met the boy who I thought was cute and charming, the one that could make me laugh and give me a shoulder to cry on. From the moment he asked me to be his girlfriend, I've had what I've always wanted.

But want never stops. Being his girlfriend suddenly doesn't seem like enough when I see a younger couple, who have been in their relationship just as long, with plans to tie the knot. At first it was just wanting the wedding. The dress, the "I do's", the cake, the dancing. But now I want what the wedding is all about: marriage. I want the commitment. I want the relationship solidified. I want confirmation that we are both comfortable with what we have and are willing to make it work for the rest of our lives.

Fortunately I am dating someone smarter than me, who isn't as rash about rushing into marriage. Because he admits he is not ready, I know I have no marriage to plan for anytime soon. Which gives me the opportunity to think about whether I am really ready for it or not.

Part of me wonders how much jealousy drives a person to do something. How much of an influence do my friends have over me? Do I really want to get married? Or am I just wanting what my friends have? Am I really prepared to handle a lifetime commitment? Or do I just think trying on wedding dresses, picking out cake flavors, and deciding on a guest list would be fun?

Chances are, I am not ready for marriage. Although I have witnessed 21 years of my parents' marriage, I have no idea what it is really like. I don't know how to handle a budget with another person. I don't know the best way to solve an argument. I don't know what it is like the day you wake up and the butterflies are gone and you no longer have the "rush" you once felt for that person. I don't even know what I would do when that day comes. And I'm guessing these thoughts are only hitting the tip of the iceberg.

I do want to get married. There is no denying that. But wanting it and being ready for it are two very different things. And again, fortunately for me, my boyfriend will not ask me to marry him until he feels we are fully ready for it (I was lucky to find someone so responsible…unlike myself).

So I will fight the green-eyed monster, because I know what he wants is fleeting, whereas marriage should be a lifetime. And I will support my friends who have already made the decision, and hope with all of my heart they are doing it because they are ready. Not because it's what they want.

Setting the monster free

2011-06-12T19:32:00.001-07:00

***I wrote this blog on the Invictus website (theinvictuswriters.com) and wanted to share here, for those of you who may not know what this invictus thing is all about. I encourage you to check out the website :) ***

I wasn’t expecting the past to find me today. But alas, as I was scrolling through the documents on my dad’s computer to find a file I had just uploaded, something caught my eye. Shown in the preview of a folder titled “Laura” was a photo I thought no longer existed: a photo of me with my coach.

After the whole ordeal that happened with my coach, I attempted to destroy all evidence of him. With the exception of a journal I deleted all files on my computer that contained anything dealing with my coach. Pictures on facebook were promptly taken off. Printed photos were ripped up and tossed into the trash. Running notes he had given me were burned (literally). I threw a necklace he had given to each of us girls after his trip to Florida into Lake Erie. I was angry, and I wanted all items dealing with his memory destroyed.

Despite successfully destroying most of the items, I was still haunted by what happened. There was no trashcan in my head that I could store my memories into, no button to press “delete.” As time went on I thought less and less of it. But it was always there, in the back of my head, an ugly little monster reminding me of happy memories gone sour. And I wasn’t sure how to get rid of it.

But then this project popped up. And when the theme “mentor” was decided on, I knew this was the story I was going to tell. I didn’t know why, and because of that I struggled with it the entire way. I could not figure out why I was telling the story, what the point was behind it. I was afraid that my desire to tell it was only proof that I wasn’t over it, that, as several of my friends put it, I was still dwelling on it. Every time I sat down to write I would only type up a few sentences, ask myself why I was writing this, and then walk away.

Finally over spring break I decided I would write. What I did instead was dump. Staying up until 4 a.m. almost every night I dumped every memory I could remember onto the screen. By the end of the week I had 29 pages of every event that happened in a span of 2 years.

Of course, dumping is not the same as telling a story, and it didn’t take long for Brad to remind me of that. I remember the afternoon I received a tweet from him telling me not to panic. Sure enough in my inbox was his edits to my story, as usual, covered in red. In that e-mail he said, “I think you are lost in the narrative.” And he was right.

We met at Starbucks to talk about it. He told me what he thought the story was about. “Schoolgirl fantasy meets adulthood reality,” he said. Suddenly it clicked. It was such a simple concept and yet it had been eluding me this whole time. That one sentence finally made me realize what my story was all about, and more importantly, why I was telling it.

Writing Ugly Little Monster was not easy. I had to reach into the past and think not only about what he was like, but what I was like. Confessing that I was that girl who thought she could end up with her coach was embarrassing to me. But being able to tell it was proof to me that it was in the past. And, more importantly, it was freeing.

Which is why I surprised to find that when I came across the photo, I did not have the knee-jerk reaction to drag it to the trashcan. Instead I looked at it, and for the first time felt nothing. No feelings of anger or bitterness. No feelings of sadness or missing what I once had. Instead I recognized it for what it was: a moment capturing the happiness between a coach and athlete, both oblivious to the destruction their friendship/relationship would soon face. A moment that is dead.

So I decided to keep it. Because that photo serves as a reminder to the process I went through in telling this story. Telling my story was releasing my past, so that I could move on. And while I hope others can take something away from my story, I told it for myself. In telling my story, I set my ugly little monster free.

Middletown, USA

2011-06-02T20:27:00.001-07:00

The impossible, and I do mean the impossible, happened to me yesterday. As I was sitting in a Mexican restaurant with a former and current intern for lunch, I gazed out the window at the streets of Cincinnati and thought, "I miss Muncie."

You, or I guess in this situation, I, never thought I would see the day I missed Muncie. Miss my friends? Absolutely. Ball State? For sure. But Middletown, America? Nope. Never.

When I first traveled to Muncie it was "hate at first sight." I had no immediate connection to the city or anything that went on there. And the more I explored it, which I did often on runs, the more I realized my disgust for it.

I'm not quite sure what it is about Muncie I despise. There are a lot of things I can point out that I don't like, such as all the potholes, the lack of attractions, the "White" River, the run-down areas and specific spots that I avoid at all costs. Quite frankly Ball State is the only part of Muncie I found pleasing. As I often say to my friends, had I known what Muncie was really like before attending Ball State, I probably would've passed and settled for an education at a different school with a prettier location. I'm glad I didn't, but that's how much I dread Muncie, Indiana.

I suppose I just never felt a real connection with Muncie and for me that's a problem. I have been in a constant search for the perfect place to live for as long as I can remember. I longed for the days my family and I would travel to New York where I could gaze out at Lake Erie and breathe in the fresh air. I'd count down the days to visit my grandparents in Pittsburgh, where we would sled down its infamous hills in the winter and take only a 10 minute drive to see the sights of the Steel City. I feel a deep connection when I am in those two places. I suppose you could say I feel right at home.

I never felt the right at home feeling with Muncie. At least not when I was living there. I loved the afternoons where I would watch Muncie disappear in my rearview as I drove onward to Ohio. When I returned to Muncie, I would quite literally sigh and think to myself, "Well, here I am again." The only thing I look forward to when returning to Muncie was the people - I never looked forward to the actual place.

After my freshman year I hoped that my feelings toward Muncie would change, but they never did. Day after day and month after month I found myself looking forward to the day I would be free from the city. And just a few weeks ago that day came.

I did feel relief leaving Muncie. I felt happy knowing I would never have to live there again unless I so choose. Muncie is officially in my past - and I have no intentions of it being in my future.

But yesterday my relief and happiness subsided. As I sat in that Mexican restaurant, nostalgia hit me. The two interns were not my ball state friends. The food, the same dish I ordered week after week at Puerto Vallarta's, did not taste the same. And as I looked out the window at the streets of Cincinnati, the place I so often associate as my home, I did not feel at home.

I got what I wanted. I am out of Muncie, back in my beloved Cincinnati, with the opportunity of learning more about this writing career I am attempting to take on. It's a shame I miss what I had all along.

I don't regret my feelings toward Muncie. I know I probably would have never fully appreciated it if I stayed in the city. The only thing I wish I could take back is all the time I spent moping and bickering about it, when I could've been appreciating the few things it did have to offer: the irreplaceable memories that have helped shape me into the person I am today. Those are the parts of Muncie I will remember, those are the parts of Muncie I love.

The Red Pill

2011-05-28T22:16:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. Recently I have found that when I am not paying attention, when I am zoned out in my own little world, I catch myself humming and singing to a recent song that should make me blush in shame: Lady Gaga's "Judas."

The first time I heard it I was driving from my hometown to Muncie. When it popped up I almost turned it off. A good Christian follower wouldn't subject his or herself to a song about their Savior's betrayer. Still, the curious, "try to be open-minded" side told me there was no harm in hearing what she had to say. I listened intently to the lyrics, trying to interpret the message she was relaying. It eluded me. After the song ended I sat there behind the wheel thinking, "Huh?"

Of course my confusion about it only meant that I was going to listen to it more. I wanted to figure it out. Which is what I have been trying to do. I listen to the song. I read the lyrics. And last night I watched the music video. I still don't completely know what to make of it. The best interpretation I could come up with is based off the line "Jesus is my virtue, and Judas is the demon I cling to." Perhaps she is saying she cannot stop herself from sinning and giving into the darker side of life.

Still unsatisfied I decided to investigate some more. Somewhere out there in the world had to be some clues as to how Lady Gaga feels about religion and God. Especially after her Alejandro video, in which she dresses as a nun and swallows a rosary.

I watched and read interviews. She says she is religious and that she prays and believes in God and Jesus. I also learned she attended a Catholic school her whole life. That tidbit of information right there made everything click.

I am not out to disrespect Catholic schools or the Catholic Church or anything of that sort. But I have noticed, with my friends who attended Catholic schools, most of them do not have a close relationship or faith in God. In fact, ironically most of them are atheists. I don't know why this is. All I know is that they're impossible to argue with. They have a wealth of knowledge on the Bible and Christianity and have also spent a decent amount of time seriously reflecting on it and the validity of it all. I, on the other hand, know very little about what's written in the Bible and its validity. I actually know very little about my faith and belief. No wonder I get so frustrated with it.

I find this ironic and silly of me. How can I go around preaching something I barely know anything about? It's foolish. Foolish to put my belief and faith into something I haven't devoted any time into learning about. And as I talked about in my last blog, I fear that my lack of knowledge will cause my faith to be misdirected. I don't want to end up like one of Camping's followers, so certain of something I had very little information about.

So I've decided that my ignorance needs to come to an end. I have just spent the past three years receiving an education in journalism – finding the truth has been shoved down my throat. I've been trained to research, ask questions, and to be "objective." Maybe it's time I take some of these tools and use them for my own good.
I don't really know how to go about this. Should I start in Genesis and just go from the beginning to the end? Should I make up a list of questions and concerns and focus on finding those answers? Should I check out some books? And how do I go about finding the other side of the story? Should I go down to the Creation Museum and then go talk to a scientist who specializes in evolution? Should I keep going to church or should I isolate myself from other believers in hopes of finding how I feel about everything?

I haven't even started and I'm already frustrated.

Good news is I don't think there is a right or wrong way of going about this. So my first step is simple. What's the first thing I always do when I'm confused or frustrated? Actually it's run, but the second thing is: write. Writing clarifies my confusion. And since my faith seems to be the most complicated part of my life right now, I figure writing about it is a good place to start. I have a journal and a pen. And I plan on filling it with all of my thoughts, questions, prayers, and discoveries. My journey starts tomorrow.

I started this blog talking about Lady Gaga. There is a reason for that. Because the more I listen to Judas and the more I read about her the more I sympathize for her. Why? Because I think she is confused as well. I don't think she's out to piss people off. Maybe she is, but I would like to think it's a little more innocent than that. I would like to think she is using her music as a venue for expressing her confusion. I'm not saying she is right or that I agree with some of the things she does; I certainly don't condone her actions. All I'm saying is that I think I get it. I think.

Regardless, her song Judas has inspired me to go in search of the answers I've been asking my whole life. It's time to swallow the red pill.

No Good Deed

2011-05-22T22:52:00.001-07:00

Twitter was the first to bring me the news. It was on Friday, May 20 when I read a tweet that caught me off guard: the rapture is happening. And it was happening tomorrow at 6 p.m.

Well, today is now Monday, May 23, and so far no earthquakes have happened, no Christians have disappeared, and we all know that the prediction made by Harold Camping of Family Radio was a complete and total failure. The majority of people, including Christians, saw that coming. But there was a small group of people who didn't. And as you can imagine, those people are devastated.

When 6 p.m. EST past and nothing happened, I knew it was safe to say that Camping's predictions were wrong. I immediately opened up my browser and began scouring the web for news articles about the failure of the rapture. I specifically was looking for the reactions of his followers and of Camping. I found an article of a woman saying the time was wrong, and that just because the rapture didn't happen yet didn't mean it wasn't going to happen later that day. But here we are, more than 24 hours later, and still, no rapture.

Initially this has all been amusing to me. I thought (still think) Camping was a little looney, and I laughed when I saw that he had already made a failed prediction back in 1994. I logged online Saturday evening because I wanted to see what these nut cases had to say. I poked my finger and laughed.

My amusement was uncalled for.

Afterward it began sinking in with me that a tragedy had really happened in all of this. This wasn't just some crazy guy out shouting that the world was coming to an end. This was a preacher, who had loyal followers. Followers so loyal that some of them gave up their life savings to put up billboards and advertisements about the day of the second coming. Followers who gave up their lives in order to save others. Followers with good intentions. Followers who are now penniless, being mocked, and have had a decent blow to their faith. And nothing about that is funny.

I'm not sure who is at fault here. It would be easy to blame Camping, and many people are. One person said he thought Camping was an atheist, who used his rapture prediction as a way to draw in donations to his ministry. Perhaps he is an atheist with bad intentions. Personally, I don't think he is. I think he is a Christian, who really felt he had both God and the Bible figured out enough to know what God was going to do next. My guess is he felt God was telling him to figure out the date of the second coming and to share that date with others. His message was a success. His prediction? Not so much.

Part of me does blame Camping. I am not in the position to judge, but considering the fact he already made a prediction and was wrong, you would think he would take that as a hint that perhaps God doesn't want him to figure out the second coming. I'm hoping after this one, he gives up on the crystal ball for good. We'll find out later what he has to say.

The followers are at some fault too. They didn't have to listen to Camping. They didn't have to give up their jobs, money, and time. They had a free choice, and so it would be easy for us to say, "This was your decision. Sorry it didn't work in your favor, but it's not our fault. Good luck." And I'm sure some people out there are thinking that. But I hope you're not one of them.

Whether you're a Christian, Jew, Muslim, atheist, agnostic, witch, whatever, I hope you recognize the tragedy in this. I hope you realize the power that lies in faith and the damage it can produce when it's misdirected.

I am not sad that the rapture didn't happen. I am rather glad Camping was wrong because it is proof that no one can predict the ways of God. But what upsets me is the damage that's been done. It breaks my heart to think that someone out there gave up their life savings to spread the word of something they truly believed was going to happen. It takes a lot of guts and courage to abandon your money and life to try to help others for something you believe in. Having to confess you were wrong and deal with the consequences will not be an easy one, and I am praying these followers will be able to get their lives back in order without the criticism of ignorant people. I am also praying they haven't lost complete faith in God.

Faith is a messy thing. It brings people together. It gives us hope. It makes life worth living. But it's also dangerous. It can lead to the devastation these followers are facing, that Christianity is facing. And the worst part is, we never know whether our faith is being misdirected or not. We just have to have faith that we are right. We have to trust our hearts and hope with all of our might our guts aren't the ones taking us down the wrong path. All we can do is listen to our moral compass and pray it is pointing in the right direction.

I am sad that these followers, and Camping, had so much faith in the second coming and it turned out wrong. Especially when, the followers at least, had good intentions. But no good deed goes unpunished.

The Remedy

2011-05-20T08:06:00.000-07:00

It is Thursday night/ Friday morning as I write this. My computer clock tells me it's 1:00 a.m., although I suspect it is still on eastern time and I have moved ever so slightly west into the central time zone. In that case, it is probably just now midnight. Either way, it is long past the time of when I had the intentions of writing.

I could make excuses for my lack of writing. I am at my boyfriend's house in Indiana. My time up until this point has been spent sleeping, petting animals, searching for a cat, bike riding, visiting Milwaukee, cursing at fax machines, making smoothies, watching 3 movies, stuffing my face with my boyfriend's Italian grandma's home-cooking, and passing a total of 13 hours in the car. Listing the random activities I have engaged in makes it seem like I've actually been productive over the past few days. But quite honestly, just sitting here in this queen sized-bed typing while the rest of the house sleeps is the most productive thing I've done.

So here I am. Writing. Not even sure what I want to write about or what I need to say. Which in my case is never good. My blog is driven by my personal experiences, the emotional turmoil of a college girl facing the big questions that seem to determine the rest of her life: Where will I live? Will I find a job? Is it a job that I want? What will my boyfriend and I do? Can we go long-distance? Will I give up my dreams to be with him? Will I give up him for my dreams? Will I be able to have the life I've always dreamed of?

These questions exhaust me. They haunt me. They're my little Caspers, popping up when I'm trying to go about my day and scaring the hell out of me. And I have dealt with them so many times before I don't want to think about them anymore. So I avoid them. And in turn, I avoid writing.

For a while I was thinking I had a slight case of writer's block. I wanted to sit down and write but I couldn't find a topic I felt passionate writing about. And there is plenty I could share. Like being almost officially done with college, or my first impression of Milwaukee, or how I feel about my boyfriend's avoidance on the topic of marriage, or how pumped I am for my internship…you get the picture. But I don't want to deal with those topics. I don't want to sort out the thoughts and feelings for them. I don't want to think about my career or my relationship or my future. And truth be told, I don't think writing about those topics would be much help anyway.

When it comes to my blog, I write for me. I write to sort things out, to see what it is that's running through my mind right before me. My blog acts as a mirror, a reflection of the things that aren't so obvious to me until I take the time to really analyze them. This has always been a useful tool for me. I have little epiphanies when I write my posts. Then I post them, in hopes that someone else might find some use out of them as well. And if they don't, well, I hope they're still at least somewhat entertaining.

But as time has taught me, you can only analyze things so much before you just have to put them to rest. I have contemplated what will happen after this summer numerous times and the result has remained the same: I don't know. I don't know where I will be. I don't know what I'll be doing. I don't know what it will mean for my boyfriend and I. I simply don't know. And I probably won't know until this summer has passed.

Uncertainty frustrates me. But wasting my time worrying about it is even worse. There is no point analyzing how I feel about these things because in the end it might not matter. Only time will tell what my course of action will be. And that time is not now.

But you can certainly bet that when the time is right I will face those questions and hopefully have some answers for them. And when the time comes, I'll be here, writing, questioning, thinking, and over-analyzing away. Until then, I'll shoo those questions away. I have more important things to enjoy than to waste my time with worry.

For the Love of Running: Flying Pig 2011

2011-05-02T07:47:00.000-07:00

It was just a little after 10 p.m. on Saturday when I took a glance over everything before going to bed. Bag? Packed. Clothes? Laid out. Breakfast? Decided. Alarm? Set. Legs? Feeling twitchy and ready to run.

I was ready. Ready to take on Cincinnati's Flying Pig Half Marathon in the morning. And as I looked at everything laid out, I realized I was excited. This was the first time in a very long time that I was this prepared for a race. In the past few years I've gotten use to throwing a few items in my gym bag, grabbing my shoes and a banana and heading out the door for a race, without a care in the world as to whether I forgot my watch or how I was feeling that morning. Racing, these past three years, has been a recreational thing to me. I raced simply because I could and it was always something I had done. I did it just to do it.

But on May 1, 2011, at 6:30 a.m., that wasn't the case.

I woke up at 4:30 a.m., confused as to why my alarm was going off. Then it hit me: You have a half-marathon today. I let myself drift off for ten more minutes before I bounced out of bed and started getting ready.

My parents decided to come down to the marathon so they offered to drive. As we rode down the empty highway in the dark hours before sunrise, nerves began to envelope me. I was getting the pre-race jitters. Adrenaline was already beginning to pump through my veins. I realized how badly I wanted to run this thing.

My race started off a bit slow. Due to a bathroom stop I didn't make it to the starting line until after the gun went off. I was in a mix of runners and walkers. The first couple of miles I let the crowd hold me back. I tend to want to take off in the beginning of a race, as I had done the first time I ran the half-marathon back in 2009, and it ends up hurting me in the end. I was determined not to let the same thing happen.

Not even three miles into the race, just as I had crossed into Kentucky a flash of lightning lit up the sky. I looked up at the clouds and thought, "No storm. You are not ruining this race for me." Fortunately there was only more flash of lightning about a mile and half later and that was it.

Miles passed and I felt good. I pushed the pace. I struggled on the hills. I got a stitch cramp around mile seven and had to slow down, steady my breathing, and relax my posture in hopes of getting rid of it. It helped and a mile later I continued pushing on.

It was around mile nine when a little epiphany struck me. It had been raining the whole time and I was soaked. My feet were rubbing against my shoes and I could feel blisters developing. The side stitch kept coming back and fading. I wasn't feeling my absolute best, but in that moment I distinctly remember thinking, "I love this."

The last three miles of the half-marathon are all down hill. I was getting tired. I had passed mile 11 and was desperately searching for mile 12. I never saw it. We ran around a bend and I knew the end was near. Someone in the crowd said there was only a quarter-mile left. I tried kicking, but the stitch came back. I've never had a stitch at the end of the race, but let me tell you, when you get one and you try kicking, it's hard. Really hard. My form was out of whack as I tried to fight through the pain. I made it through the finish line and started to walk it all off.

I was sure I had done better than I did back in 2009. In 2009 I did not train. AT ALL. I showed up on race day and simply ran it. I struggled through the last half of the race and felt like shit at the end. In 2009 I stopped to use the bathroom halfway through the race, which lost me a few seconds. Plus back then I weighed 10 pounds more. Surely, I thought, I did better than then.

I was wrong.

As I saw my official time on the website my elated feelings about the race left me. My time in 2009 was 1:56. My time this year? 2:01. I didn't even break 2 hours.

I was furious. How did this happen? I knew my training wasn't perfect, but I did train. I thought I had a fairly smart race plan. And unlike 2009 I felt good throughout the race.

But numbers don't lie. And my number was not below 1:56. It was five minutes above it, never dipping below a 9 minute pace. I was crushed.

I sulked for a few hours after that. But as I made the two-hour drive back to Muncie I started thinking about it and I realized how ridiculous I was being.

Runners tend to put success in terms of numbers. For a lot of people, like myself, it's the time. Hitting a certain pace or setting a new PR. For others it's about place; where you placed in your age group or in the race. For those who run for the health benefits, it may be a specific weight or waist-size. Everyone seems to have a certain number they're trying to hit.

When I didn't hit my number, I felt like a failure. Those 13.1 miles seemed like a waste. All the enthusiasm I felt over the weekend was gone. I was angry, and all I wanted to do was start training for a new half-marathon so I could redeem myself. I wanted to forget about the Flying Pig 2011.

But on my drive back, I realized my initial reaction was wrong. This weekend was actually a success. And I was letting a number ruin it.

The race was a success for several reasons. It was a success because I enjoyed every painful second of it. It was a success because I remembered what it was like to get so pumped over a race. It was a success because I realized I still do enjoy racing. My reaction to my time was a success; I still care about how I do.

This weekend I found the competitive girl in me I have been searching for since cross-country of 2007. I don't know how or why, but the apathetic runner in me died this weekend. The past three years of not caring about races or training or how I performed seemed to have finally come to an end. I don't regret those three years; I needed them. I needed a break from caring about running - in high school I cared about it too much. I needed to find a love in running that was independent and solely for myself. I needed to rediscover and confirm my love for running. Those three years took care of that.

As for the time? Well, I thought about it and I realized that even though I didn't train in 2009, I was still in better shape. I finished my final track season in 2008 and had been consistently running with my run club in the fall. So even though that spring I barely ran, my body was still lingering in my high school running shape. Three years of inconsistently running threw my shape off.

And now I have motivation. I want to do better. I want to break that 1:56 PR. I want to redeem myself from this past race. It's only the first day after my half-marathon and I am itchy to pick a new race and start training for it. Pushing myself, going outside of my comfort zone, and competing are all calling my name. I can't wait to answer them.

But in the end, I don't run for time. I don't run to beat someone or to prove anything to anyone but myself. I run because I love it. And I am thrilled that my love for racing has returned.

Why We Care: The Royal Wedding

2011-04-28T05:56:00.001-07:00

This blog is for all the men who ask me, "Why do you care?" in regards to the Royal Wedding, so instead of explaining it over and over I can just refer to them here.

So, why do we (women) care?

It's a good question first off. I can see why my boyfriend and several other guys have asked that question. I know why they give us strange looks when we tell them that we're getting up at 4 a.m. to watch it on television. I understand they think it's ridiculous we keep our noses behind computer screens and scroll through all the wedding details and look at the photos of Kate and William. Guys, trust me, I get it. I know what you're thinking. But if you really want to understand why we care, it starts long before Kate and William ever even met.

About 15 years ago I was six years old, growing up in a red-bricked cape-cod house in the suburbs of Cincinnati. I had a father who was off delivering packages for UPS and a mother who stayed at home to take care of me and my two younger sisters. I had a wild-eyed imagination and like many little girls I had one inspiration to fuel it: Disney.

Disney was the source for all childhood dreams. My sisters and I watched Disney movie after Disney movie. Snow White, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, Little Mermaid... you name it, we had it. And we ate it up. We loved the idea of these beautiful women getting swept off their feet by the handsome prince. We dreamed of what it would be like if we were those princesses trapped in the tower, waiting for the day our knight in shining armor would come to rescue us. Men, if you want to know why women care so much about romance and why we want to look like a princess on our wedding day, you can blame Disney.

And that was how most of my childhood was spent. I believed that love was being a damsel in distress and the most perfect guy in the world would come along and save me. A lot of little girls grew up thinking real life could be a fairytale.

Until that fatal day we realized it's not.

I'm not sure when it struck me that my ideas on the matter of love were not realistic. Perhaps it was as early as third grade when I had a crush on a kid in my class and he didn't seem to want anything to do with me. Or eighth grade when I had my first "boyfriend" and we said I love you over AIM (real romantic, right?). Or maybe it was tenth grade when I got up the nerve to ask a guy to homecoming and he told me no. Either way, somewhere along the way I realized love, and men, weren't what I made them out to be.

Now that doesn't mean that love isn't all it's hyped up to be. I still believe it's very possible to live happily-ever-after. It just doesn't come as easily as expected. Men don't ride white stallions, we don't receive invitations to fancy balls, and love at first sight is, in my opinion, a myth. We usually don't get to see our Disney dreams come true.

But tomorrow morning, at 4 a.m. Eastern time, we do.

I doubt Prince William and Kate Middleton's relationship has been anything like a fairytale. In fact it seems rather normal. They met in college, became friends, dated, broke up, dated again, and so on (according to my sources via the internet). But tomorrow we will witness a fairytale. Kate will marry a Prince. And women all over the world will be celebrating it.

So men, don't roll your eyes when you hear us gush about her dress or talk of how handsome Prince William looks. Don't give me a funny look when you hear I'll be setting my alarm at 3:50 a.m. Even if you still don't get it, just understand that this is something we have to do. It's for the little girl we once were, who just wanted to see her fairytale dreams come true.

Time, why you punish me?

2011-04-19T07:30:00.000-07:00

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock is taunting me.

It's an ugly Tuesday morning and I am sitting at my desk trying to cross more things off my never-ending list of to-dos but I'm having a hard time concentrating. Because just over my shoulder is the robin's egg clock on the wall, going tick...tick...tick...tick...

I think this is one of the few times I've actually noticed that clock and the ticking sound it produces. Normally I am so wrapped up in what I'm doing I barely hear it. It's just background noise I've learned to subconsciously ignore. But here I am, with less than three weeks to go at Ball State, and all I can think about is the tick...tick...tick...

Time, normally my best friend and most precious gift, is turning into my worst enemy, constantly chopping off the seconds of the little time left remaining. I can't stop it. I can't prolong it. There's nothing I can do to fight it. I just have to brace it, and try my best to appreciate the few days, hours, minutes, and seconds left remaining.

Time made itself known to me just the other day when I was walking to my boyfriend's house from the library. As I crossed campus on an unusually warm spring evening I noticed how beautiful campus was. And out of nowhere it occurred to me: this is one of the last times you make this walk from the library to the house. Which in turn led to thoughts of, this is one of the last times you'll be on campus as a student. And before I knew it my face turned red and the tears began falling. I tried to fight them but the more I tried the sadder I felt. Even though I felt sad, I realized my tears weren't necessarily a bad thing. They're simply a testament to the past three years I've had here at Ball State.

I've said this before and I'll say it again. I am one of those people who just doesn't know how to live in the moment. I've been getting better but I still find myself constantly yearning for the future and missing the past. Of course, I've begun to realize I miss the past so much because I was looking forward to the future and didn't appreciate what I was experiencing right then and there. Living in the moment is not something I've ever been able to fully accomplish.

Until now. Because now I realize I am going to miss my university. I am going to miss being a student. I am going to miss my friends, my experiences, everything I've gone through in the past three years. All I can do now is try to desperately hold onto what is left.

This also has turned me into the clingy girlfriend I've never wanted to be. The future, which I once felt so calmly about just a few months ago, has scared the shit out of me again. Because after these three weeks my boyfriend and I will see each other just a few more times before I start my internship and he starts working. And then after that he will be in Milwaukee. And me? I have not a clue where I'll be. All I know is my goal is still New York.

So then what? Let's say things work out as I hope. Let's say I do land a job in New York City. How long will I be there? For the rest of my life? What about my boyfriend? He'll be in Milwaukee for at least six years working for his doctorate. Does that mean that after these next three weeks we'll be long-distance for perhaps six years?

You can see now why I panic.

I shouldn't panic though. Milwaukee, wherever I am, will only be a drive or flight away. After going to England and seeing how easy it is to travel from place to place, I've realized that distance is not something to fear. Distance is not what separates me from the person I love. The only thing that really separates us from one another is time.

When I was in England I was fully aware that it only takes a minimum of two flights and in less than a day I could be reunited with my love. The problem was I could not hop on a flight whenever I wanted. I had to wait. I had to wait six weeks before I returned to my country, and even a few more days afterward before I saw my boyfriend again. Distance was not my enemy. It was time.

And that's what I'm afraid of. That in my future I will be wasting my most precious resource because it will also be my greatest separation. I will wish the seconds to go even faster and then later wish they had slowed down. I will hate time for separating me from my boyfriend and then hate it even more when the time I spend with him flies by, all while appreciating the few seconds I get to spend with him. As of right now, there is no win-win with time.

But now I must return to my homework. I still have two weeks of classes and one week of finals. I still have much to accomplish and much to appreciate. And not nearly enough time.

Dreams of my Father

2011-04-16T16:19:00.000-07:00

"Do what you love, love what you do."

It's a simple, perhaps cliché, saying but it's one that's been engrained into my mind since I was a child. Over the past 21 years of my life my father has repeated that phrase to me, constantly reminding and encouraging me and my sisters to chase down our dreams. When I set off for college in 2008 my parents knew my dream was to become a writer. Contrary to the negative comments I've heard about aspiring writers, no such words spilled from my parents' mouths. They did not tell me to go for a job that would make more money or one that would guarantee financial security. In fact they were very supportive of my decision to major in journalism. And there was my Dad, always reminding me to "do what you love, love what you do."

On Wednesday, April 13, I finally realized the beauty of those words.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

My father grew up in my hometown, a suburb of Cincinnati. His father was self-employed, the owner and employee of a flooring company. While I don't believe my father ever lived in poverty, money was tight in his household and it must've been through his up-bringing that he learned the power money plays into one's lifestyle. When it was time for him to go to college, he wanted to major in something that would allow him to work at a local paper-producing company. His parents however, encouraged him to major in accounting. My father was good at math, and so accounting was the path he decided to embark on.

By the time he graduated college though, my father was already working as a driver at UPS. The job paid well and offered decent benefits. He knew if he were to quit his job to start a career in accounting he would be backtracking financially. He decided to stick with UPS.

But my father, like his father, ended up taking an interest in the stock market. He bought books and learned the rules of the trade. I remember when I was younger, before cell phones were around, my father purchased this cute little blue beeper, that would send him updates on the stock market. He kept his computer on and would call the house if he needed someone to make an adjustment to something. When I was in my preteens my father paid me to review the stacks of charts he printed out and taught me to search for patterns.

"If this line goes above this mark," he would say, "make a note here." I had no idea what any of it meant, but for the sake of a few bucks I happily obliged to help him out.

It was during high school that my father decided to leave his route and took up working at night at UPS. He wasn't getting paid as much, but he did for two reasons: 1) So he could attend mine and my sister's after-school activities. 2) So he could focus on his dream of playing the market full-time.

His night-shift gig didn't last for too long though. After I went off to college and my younger sister attending the next year, he went back to driving for the financial reasons. He had to, for the sake of his family, put his stock-market dreams on hold.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It wasn't until my second-year of college did I realize the sacrifices my parents made for me and my sisters. This holds especially true for my Dad. As I've worked harder and harder to try to achieve my dream of being a writer, I've begun to realize what it must be like for my father, who wants so badly to succeed in the stock-market, but cannot take the financial risk to give it a try. Because he goes to work day in and day out, and delivers packages to hundreds of people and businesses, I am here at Ball State with the opportunity to go after my dreams.

The more I thought about it, the more it broke my heart. My father has done so much for the happiness of his family. There are the big financial things, like getting a pool for the backyard and taking us to Disney World. There are the little financial things, like paying for my gas and cell phone when I can't afford it. There is time. The time he took to watch every cross-country and track meet he could possibly attend. Or driving down to EKU to watch my sister's french horn performance. Or going to the high school's play, just to see the set my other sister worked on.

The list goes on. Needless to say, even as I type this, I am getting teary-eyed thinking of all the things my father has done for me, just to make me happy.

All I ever want to do is make him proud. __________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

On Tuesday, April 12, I realized I accomplished my goal.

It was a beautiful sunny day when my father called me. For the most part of conversation was a fairly normal one; we talked about running. He told me how he did in a recent 5k and the new runners he met. I told him my lack of training for a full marathon and how I will be dropping down to the half marathon for the Flying Pig in two weeks.

And then we got onto something else. My story that just got published in Running Times magazine.

My father is proud. He was proud before the article came out. He was proud before he even knew if I was going to get published or not. Just the mere idea that the editor from Running Times magazine, one of his favorite magazines, was interested in my story was enough to make him happy.

Fortunately for me it did get published. My father text me the day the magazine showed up in our mailbox, thrilled to see my name in the table of contents and my story on page 53. My parents then went out and bought four more copies. My father has shown pretty much every person he knows my story. A family friend from church told me on facebook, "I told your VERY proud dad I would have to pick up a copy." Knowing I made my Dad this proud was the best thing I could've ever asked for.

But then he told me something that I never expected. When my father called me it was around noon and he should've been off working. But he had a cold and UPS told him to stay at home. So before we talked, he was at his computer, looking at the stock market and doing more research. And over the phone he told me, "You know I always tell you guys it only takes one thing. For you it's one book. For Julie it's one painting. For Beth, it's one song or performance. All it takes is one thing and you're set for life. And after seeing you get published, I realized, 'Hey, maybe I should take my own advice.' So now I'm trying to get back into the stock market."

Although he never directly said it, I knew what he meant. The man who is the reason I have decided to embark on my dream of being a writer, was telling me that I inspired him. All I could do was smile.

The next day I went to Books a Million and bought four copies. One for myself, one for my boyfriend, one for my professor, and one to show my friends. I found my story and I sat down on a comfy chair in the bookstore and read it. And I realized how my father was right. Writing is the only thing I really want to do with my life. And I love it.

The funny thing is, after all of this, I don't think my father has directly said, "I'm proud of you." In the past he's said this but I don't think I've heard him say it about this story. But he doesn't need to. His actions, as always, speak louder than words.

Speak Memory

2011-03-30T11:07:00.000-07:00

I have what feels like a million other things to do right now. Research to do. Interviews to conduct. And several, several drafts to work out. But I feel compelled to write this, because I'm hoping I'll figure something out.

Last night while I was pounding out a story for my news feature writing class I took a brief break and checked my facebook. There I found a message from a friend. She had found my blog and was reading it, telling me how much she enjoyed it. A little while later I received another message from her, saying how she couldn't stop reading my blog. I was flattered but my first thought was literally, "Wow. People actually get something out of my ramblings."

After reading that I came here, to my blog, and looked over the things I had written in the past year or so. I realized there is a very prominent theme in every single one: drama. Drama in relationships, drama with my feelings, drama in religious beliefs and so on. It dawned on me that the reason I haven't been writing very many blogs lately is because for once in my life I have no drama. There's always stress with school and the future and blah, blah, blah, but for once I have nothing to be completely concerned about. I know enough of what to expect that I'm not freaking out. I am comfortable enough to not be worrying about the future or over-thinking the past. I've finally struck a nice little balance and I'm happy with it.

Except now I realize I have nothing to write about.

That's not true. I have been writing about something dramatic. In fact it's probably the most "dramatic" story of my life.

My magazine prof recruited myself and other student writers to write a book. A collection of personal essays, we brainstormed themes and were free to choose a personal story we wanted to write about. When "mentor" was decided as one of the themes, I instantly thought of my experience with one of my best, and worst, mentors. For some reason I knew I had to write about it.

So since the start of this school year I have been working on telling the whole story as to what happened back in high school with my cross-country coach. I wanted to get it all out. Why? I don't know. I still don't know. But I just had to.

I've told very, very few people about this little project. I have not told my friends or my family. My boyfriend only knows because he wonders why on certain Saturday mornings I venture off to meet with other writers. And even after that I tell him about the meetings, but nothing else. And I was extremely hesitant to tell him what I was writing about.

I'm not embarrassed of this story. If I was, I wouldn't write about it. But I am sick of it. And I know that my close group of loved ones are sick of it as well. They were there when most of it happened and helped me get through the aftermath of it. While my story was dramatic for me, they were the ones who had to listen to me complain about it all. They were the ones who had to convince me that he wasn't the person I thought he was, no I can't be friends with him, and I needed to move on. And I have. So why write about it?

I haven't told my loved ones about it because I am afraid. I am afraid of what they will think. I'm afraid that in the back of their minds they will think to themselves, "She's still not over it. She still hasn't moved on. She is still dwelling on it."

It may look that way but I know it's not. I know that the reason I was able to sit down and finally completely reflect on it is because I have no more emotional connections to it. I am drained. Maybe a little bitter still, but I feel emotionally exhausted. Writing about this was proof that I feel no connections to the past.

In all honesty, now that I have written about it, all I want to do is print it. Then burn it. And then never think of it again. Impossible, I know. But watching thirty pages of memories disintegrate into a ball of flames sounds so therapeutic to me.

And while I do actually plan on doing that, the fact remains that this is getting printed. It will be bound in a nice little book with my friends' writings of their experiences; some of them happy, others not so much. And whoever gets their hands on the book will have access to my past.

Why do writers write? We write to entertain. We write to teach. We write because we hope that in some small case the stories we share will have an influence on someone else's life.

I still don't know what I got out of writing my story. I still don't know why that was the story I chose to tell. But my hope is that if I can't get something out of it, someone else will. Maybe someone will take something away from my story. Maybe that's what I need to get out of it; that my story was able to affect someone else.

Is Christianity good for the world?

2011-02-15T08:27:00.000-08:00

I have a paper to write, a design project to work on, three chapters to read, internship applications to send off, a Spanish project to work on, another blog to update, three stories to edit, and an 8 mile run to make up. But you know what? I'm taking this time to do something I love and haven't done since December of 2010. Blog!! :)

Today's blog is about something that struck my interest yesterday. On my way to the library to print off my much stressed about Media Kit for my design class, a large poster with several people standing in front of it caught my eye. The people were in line to write on it. At the top of the board in bold letters was this question: Is Christianity good for the world?

What an excellent question.

As a Christian, the natural answer should be yes. So why did it take me a few minutes to figure out whether I actually agree with that answer?

I began thinking about all the problems and situations I have faced and have seen others face in the 21 years I've been alive. I have seen both great acts of kindness and great acts of hatred. I have learned of people doing amazing and courageous things for the sake of others. I have also learned of some pretty horrendous things. Things like World War II and the Holocaust to child molestation to murder to discrimination, and the list goes on. As these things ran through my head I had to ask myself, "Does Christianity really solve these problems? Is Christianity good for the world?"

I'll tell you right now that I came to believe that yes, Christianity is good for the world. But...I believe there are a lot of Christians out there that are not.

I just read about a gay man who paid to go on the date night at the Creation museum in Kentucky, but was kicked out after the "bouncers" or whoever they were learned it was him and his partner, not a straight couple. This made me want to throw up. What bothered me even more is that when his friends said that it wasn't very Christian to exclude people, in which the "bouncer" replied, "How Christian is it to be gay?"

Eek. What a great question. Because clearly in Romans it says: "For this reason God gave them up to vile passions. For even their women exchanged the natural use for what is against nature. Likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust for one another, men with men committing what is shameful, and receiving in themselves the penalty of their error which was due."

And in First Corinthians it says: "Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived. Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor homosexuals, nor sodomites, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners will inherit the kingdom of God."

And the list of Biblical references to why homosexuality is a sin goes on and on and on.

BUT...

Did not Jesus die for our sins? Isn't it true that if I get jealous I've committed as much of a sin as someone who is gay? But thankfully, out of the utmost act of love, haven't those sins been washed away?

Right. I do believe that Jesus died for our sins, regardless of what they are and how horrible they may be. But the bouncers weren't playing Jesus. They weren't playing forgiveness. They were trying to play God. They saw homosexuality as a sin that can't be forgiven. So they kicked the men out.

And that's where I think Christianity is "bad" for the world. Because of the Christians who think they can play God and tell us what's right and what's wrong.

I can give you a whole list of these things. People who stand outside abortion clinics (which, for the record, some women have to get an abortion done because the baby isn't going to make it and keeping it inside her could potentially kill the mother - is it right for Christians to guilt those who don't have a choice?) You can check out a clip of what I'm talking about here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEFWDYB0rWo

Or the Christians who want to burn Qurans (because burning another religion's Bible is going to win them over). The Christians who judge. The Christians who think they're better than other Christians. The Christians that tell you you're praying wrong or you'll go to hell if you miss church. The Christians that chastise you for having sex before marriage. The Christians that I hear about that make me cringe - because they're making Christianity look so horrendously bad.

I'm not helping. Pointing out other Christian's flaws isn't exactly proving the point I'm trying to make. And these Christians are right - there are clearly things the Bible says are wrong and we shouldn't do. But does that mean we hold those sins against them? What exactly is the point I'm trying to make?

It goes back to what I've blogged about several times before. Christianity is about love. I really believe it's that simple. Jesus lived His life showing His love for others and for God. He didn't throw a stone at the prostitute. In fact he made others realize how they couldn't throw a stone because stones needed to be thrown at them. He forgave. He died for those who were against Him. He was the only person I believe to ever walk this earth and really show the meaning of love.

If all Christians were like Jesus, I would never have to write a blog about whether Christianity is good for the world. It's sad that I have to think about it because of the people representing this belief (myself included).

As Gandhi once said, "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ."

That makes me want to cry. Because it's true.

(For the record, there are several Christians out there that are good for the world, that really represent what Christianity is all about. They show forgiveness and they show love. I don't want people to read this and believe that I think all Christians are bad. That's not the case. The problem I see here is that those true Christians are far and few when you look at all of the Christians in the world. And that's what really upsets me. The majority of Christians aren't representing Christ - and I am one of them).

Merry Christmas

2010-12-25T19:56:00.001-08:00

Season's greetings. Happy holidays. And of course: merry Christmas. You undoubtedly have heard these phrases, received them on cards in the mail, or said them to your friends, family, loved ones, etc. But have you ever stopped to think about who's saying them?

I suppose it doesn't really matter who wishes you a happy holiday. Christmas isn't the only holiday being celebrated this time of year. Hannukah just happened recently as well. Not to mention everyone celebrates the New Year's, so wishing someone a happy holiday is almost the same as wishing him or her a good day. Same can be applied to season's greetings. But the most popular one, the one you see on church bulletin boards, read in texts from friends, and most commonly hear wherever you go this time of the year is "Merry Christmas."

As a Christian, I should love this. But when a Catholic-raised turned atheist friend from school sent me a text wishing me a merry Christmas yesterday, it for some reason caught me off guard. I've been friends with this person since my first year of college. This person celebrated Christmas last year and the year before. In fact, this year this person even gave me a Christmas gift. Until I received that text, it never even occurred to me how peculiar it is that my friend, who believes in no god and certainly not Jesus, fully partakes in Christianity's biggest tradition. And then I began to realize how I have several atheist friends who celebrate Christmas.

And to be perfectly honest, it bugs me. A lot.

The more I began to think about it, the more it made my skin crawl. For one reason, it seems absurd. My friends, who are so bent on the belief that God does not exist and that Jesus, if he did exist, is no savior, why on earth would they celebrate Christmas? Don't they think it's highly hypocritical? Does this mean that Christmas truly has become a cultural tradition rather than a religious one? That anybody has the right to partake in the festivities? Or are they just trying to avoid the crazy Christians who are paying big bucks to have billboards up with messages that say "I miss hearing you say 'Merry Christmas' – Jesus"? Are they just trying to keep the peace and be kind, overlooking the fact they complete disagree with everything Christmas stands for?

Do you get what I'm saying?

It's frustrating enough to see Christians forget the meaning behind Christmas, and it sets me over the edge knowing that people who complete disagree with the entire belief system are enjoying the celebrations.

I know. I sound nuts. It's crazy that I am getting myself so worked up over who can and cannot, or really should or should not, participate in Christmas. And I have no room to talk. I still went out and bought gifts. I was still excited to wake up on Christmas morning to open mine. I prayed last night my thanks for Christmas after the service. But have I prayed today? Have I spent any time today thinking about what this day is truly about? No. I thought about what I could spend the money I received on. I thought about the clothes my mom and sisters bought me, and when to wear them. I have said Merry Christmas countless times today and not once did I think about the meaning behind it.

And I'm calling everyone else a hypocrite?

Earlier today when I thought about blogging out my frustrations I really wanted to take it out on my atheist friends who celebrate Christmas. And I'm not going to lie, I still do. I really want to lash out how it nerves me so much that they attack what I believe but then turnaround and get so excited for the holiday my religion created. It's almost as if they're mocking me.

But they're not.

The reason I am not going to lash out on how much I disagree with my friends is because of what I've been ranting and raving about for a long time now: the true meaning of Christmas. I don't know if I have it exactly right. But I think the meaning of Christmas is more than just the birth of Jesus. It's about God sending Himself to earth to make the ultimate sacrifice. The ultimate sacrifice is death. And the sacrifice of one's life is the ultimate act of love.

In a nutshell, I think Christmas, and Christianity in general, is much more than the complex religious system I have been taught and continue to learn about. I think it's much simpler than that. I think it's really just about love.

Maybe I sound like a hopeless romantic. Or a Beatles-loving hippie. But the story of Jesus' life, whether you believe it or not, focuses on the theme of love. From stopping angry men from stoning a prostitute to denying the devil, everything Jesus did was centered on love. And although Jesus has been gone for more than 2000 years, I like to think that some of that love still exists today.

My atheist friends aren't out to mock me. Instead they're simply celebrating what I consider one of the greatest events of all time. Sure, they're not really celebrating for the birth of God, but it's nice to know that they are enjoying themselves. It's nice to know that they find happiness in a religious event they don't even believe in. It's actually rather ironic. And gives me a small amount of hope.

Maybe Christmas is what I called it yesterday; an ugly beast focused on greed, impatience, and materialism. But despite all the negative I see this time of year, I greatly forget how wonderful it is. Christmas is able to bring even the non-believers together. I think that really says something. That people who don't even care about God are enjoying this day. The least I can do is love them for it.

During my pastor's sermon last night he said something about Christians getting upset over the idea of Christ no longer being in Christmas. He said it'll never happen. It's impossible for Christ to be left out of Christmas. And I agree. As long as there's love this time of year, Christ will never be kicked out of Christmas. Because Jesus is God (Luke 2:11), and God is love (1 John 4:8).

So to my friends, both believers and non-believers, I'd like to add just one more thing:

Merry Christmas ☺

Silent Night

2010-12-24T10:43:00.001-08:00

Sophomore year of high school was the last time I was truly in the Christmas spirit. Once I worked retail my junior year of high school and realized the ugly greed, impatience, and materialism that truly exists behind this holiday, my joy for Christmas disappeared. Although working retail my senior year of high school was a lot less stressful than the first, I still found myself in a slump. I had discovered the true meaning of Christmas for most people and it sickened me.

Going off to college and leaving the retail world didn't help. With the semester ending in the middle of the holiday season, my mind usually became consumed with focusing on surviving finals, finishing projects, and writing last minute papers. By the time I get home, there's usually only a small amount of time before Christmas day and I turn into all the people I judge and turn my nose up to. I stress over with finding "perfect gifts" for family and friends, stress about money and what I can and cannot afford for everyone. Christmas day has turned into a day of "thank God this is over" instead of the joyous "Hooray it's Christmas!!" the child in me knew so long ago.

Of course, no one can expect to be in that childlike happiness of Christmas the rest of their lives. The day you find out Santa isn't real is already a tough blow on the joy of Christmas. But I grew up and learned to view Christmas as not a day for toys and gifts, but as a day of celebrating a great moment in my faith. Christmas switched from leaving cookies for Santa to prayers of thanks for the birth of Christ. Unfortunately, I think for a lot of people (at least from what I observed at Steve & Barry's), many were still wrapped up in the joy of gifts. The world became my Grinch. Reality stole my Christmas spirit.

I was hoping this year would be different. Once I returned to school after Thanksgiving I felt happy and in the Christmas spirit. I would walk to and from campus listening to Christmas songs on my Ipod. I brought my mini tree up and put it in my room as decoration. Since I've been jobless since May, and spent most of my money on my trip abroad, I knew that gift giving would be trickier this year. I figured instead of spending a lot of money on gifts, I would spend money on crafts and make everyone something homemade. Knowing I'd probably be able to skip the shopping madness, I really thought this year I would be in the Christmas spirit.

But somehow, despite all my optimism, I am not in the Christmas spirit. I only have myself to blame. As easy as it is to say that it's the rest of the world that has become the Grinch, reality is I've become my own Grinch. I let the holidays get to me. I let the "real world" stand in the way of what I know Christmas is truly about. I get stressed and angry and every year I secretly think to myself "one of these years I'm really going to skip Christmas, and I'm going to love it."

I don't really want to skip Christmas but I hate how it makes me feel. I wish I could enjoy decorating the tree, making cookies, and sending off Christmas cards as I once did. Although it's a little too late now to try to salvage the holiday spirit, there is one glimmer of hope. It's the one thing that really puts me in the Christmas spirit. Not the holiday spirit, but the true Christmas spirit. It's all I have left.

What is it? It's today. Christmas Eve.

I look forward to Christmas Eve now more than Christmas day. In particular I look forward to the night, when I attend the Christmas Eve service at my church. It is the one moment in all of this holiday madness where I feel people actually stop and take the time to remember what this is all about.

The physical size of my church is big, but the size in terms of attendance is quite small. You wouldn't think that if you attended my church, or my guess any church, on Christmas Eve. I used to judge the people that I never saw at my church except on Christmas and Easter. I felt they were fake Christians, only attending the two services they felt were worthy of their time. Boy was I wrong. Now I'm thankful that so many still do care to show up for the Christmas Eve service. Maybe they go reluctantly. Maybe they go only to show off their fancy Christmas dress or clothes. Maybe they do it for so many other reasons other than for God. But does it matter? They're there. They kneel and pray, they sing the hymns. For at least one hour of this holiday they're there for God. It's comforting to know that even though Christmas has turned into some ugly beast that has nothing to do with the birth of Jesus, there are still a lot of people out there who care enough to go to church. It brings me a little bit of hope.

Aside from the people, it's the service that makes me so happy. It is the singing of the hymns. It is the kneeling and the praying. It's listening to the pastor's sermon as he again tries to convince more people to keep coming to church, even though next service it will have some attendance as it's always had. For the one time in all of this holiday madness, it's about God. And I love it.

My favorite part of the service is at the very end. I'm not sure if other protestant churches do this. I'm not sure if it's a Lutheran only thing, or something that we adapted from the Catholic Church. But most Lutheran churches do the lighting of the candles at the very end. Every person has a candle, and as the hymn Silent Night is sung those candles get lit. By the time the song is in the last verse, most of the lights in the church are off and there's nothing but the light of candles and the sounds of Silent Night. It is the most peaceful part of the service. It literally gives me chills. When it comes to Christmas, it is the one single moment I look forward to. I look at my little flame, I sing along to Silent Night. And for that one moment I remember what Christmas is all about.

Silent night, Holy night. Son of God, love's pure light. If you celebrate Christmas I encourage you to remember what Christmas is all about. It's about the birth of Jesus, the Son of God. Who was sent to die for our sins; to make the ultimate sacrifice, because He loved us so. When it's all said and done, it's about love.

A Little Crazy

2010-12-21T17:05:00.000-08:00

There are days where I think to myself, "what would I honestly do if I didn't have running?" Today was fortunately one of those days.

It was perfect conditions for a run in the middle of December. The roads were clear, therefore no worries about slipping and breaking a leg or ankle on the ice. The temperature was just above freezing. With no wind, this made it feel a lot warmer. Only five minutes into the run and I was ready to take off my headband.

I ran solo. And by solo I mean just myself and my stopwatch. No, I didn't even bring my Ipod along. The battery was near dead and I didn't feel like having to take off my right glove every time I wanted to change songs or adjust the volume (it's an ipod touch). The only sounds that accompanied me were the squishes from my shoes and my own breathing.

It was fantastic.

I told a twitter friend that my favorite runs are the simple runs in my hometown, especially in my own neighborhood. Today I remembered how true that really is. I'm not quite sure why that is. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I started running here. That this is where I discovered my love for the sport. Along these streets is where I laughed with friends, pushed the limits of my body, and learned to deal with any problem that came my way. This is where I became a runner.

If you know me you would think this all has to do with memories and nostalgia and so forth. And it does, but when I go for runs in my neighborhood I don't think about old cross-country workouts and memories don't flood my mind. In fact, on the contrary, I rarely think about the past when I run. I enjoy running on these streets today as much as I did when I was surrounded by teammates. My pace has gotten slower, but I am feeling better. In fact I think I have a much better relationship with running than I did when I was my fastest. I no longer cry at the end of workouts when I feel I didn't do my best and I no longer read Runner's World as if it were the bible. Running isn't something that brings any amount of stress to me anymore. Instead it's what brings me a great sense of joy.

I have been searching for the perfect balance with running since my final 3200 race at the District's meet back in May 2008. My hope for this next semester is that I will accomplish that.

This next semester I am hoping to accomplish what several of my running friends have beaten me to: the 26.2 miles of pain, anguish, and accomplishment, also known as the marathon.

What made me decide that I was going to a run a marathon is something that's beyond me. What I tell people is that I had made a promise back in the beginning of my first year of college to my to-be boyfriend that by the time I graduated I will have a run a marathon. Truth is I'm not sure if I ever really made that promise or if I made that up. My boyfriend doesn't remember, so I have no one but myself to hold accountable. What probably happened is that at the time I decided that on a whim without giving it much thought. Much like my final decision to actually run it.

I think the real reason is that I have seen so many of my friends run marathons, and, here's the key word, they enjoyed it, and so I want to take part in that enjoyment myself. I had a friend run the International Marathon, a race that starts in America and goes into Canada past Niagara Falls in the fall of 2009. I was incredibly impressed that on his own he was able to train and run it. He said he would do it and he did. Another friend ran Grandma's Marathon in Minnesota with her dad. Another friend, who didn't think she'd be able to run the marathon due to injury, ran the Dayton Marathon and qualified for Boston. She and another friend will be running the Boston this spring.

The list goes on. My dad ran the Flying Pig, my boyfriend ran the Tecumseh Marathon when he was 16, and my professor and another friend also took on the trail marathon despite snow and freezing temps just recently. It seems almost everyone in my little running circle has pushed through the grueling 26.2 miles. Except me.

And so here I am. Bored with 5ks, no chance of racing in the 3200 (as far as I know at least) and looking for something to challenge me and keep my love of running alive. The marathon sounds perfect.

I have no PRs for the marathon so there's no stress about setting one. I would like to break 4 hours but I'm not sweating it if I don't. My ultimate goal is to just run this thing without dying and run it at a comfortable but challenging pace. What I would really like to do is to cross the finish line with a smile on my face and think, "That was fun. Can't wait to do it again." That's right, I expect hours of running to be fun. Because running is fun. And I mean that.

I think this is where the whole, "You're crazy" thing comes into play. And I never disagree. Runners are crazy. It is crazy to wake up at 5am to go for a 20 miler. It is crazy to lace up your shoes and go out in the middle of a freezing rain. We're crazy masochists. But we need it. I need it. In a way that I can't even explain. I'm a runner. I need running. I need it to survive, even if it means being a little crazy.

180

2010-12-21T09:44:00.001-08:00

Everything is different.

I had this realization of how much my life has changed the other day when my mom asked me to pick up pizza. We ordered LaRosa's and as I drove into the parking lot of the restaurant, I realized the last time I had been there I was still in high school and it was a carbo-loading pasta night with my cross-country team. Bittersweet memories. But what really woke me up was the person I met inside the restaurant.

Her name is Pam, and she is the daughter of my first cross-country coach, the one who coached me for the first two years of high school. The last time I saw her I swear she was only 11 years old and still running faster than everyone else.

Well, now she's old enough to have a job and she works at this particular LaRosa's. As I was rummaging through my purse for my wallet I heard a voice saying, "Rebecca. Rebecca." Even though it was not my name I had a feeling it was directed at me. Sure enough I looked up and there she was.

I was sweet. I didn't have much to say, but what was there to say? I hadn't seen the girl in years. She recognized me but didn't even remember my name. Our conversation was short and awkward. I left hoping she didn't think I was rude.

As I got into my car though I realized the petty life I was living in high school and how much it meant to me. You see, when Pam's mom quit coaching, she didn't just quit. She took the team down with her. Her reasoning for quitting was that we were a bunch of lazy asses who didn't put forth any work effort. She did however call two runners and told them they were the exception. I was not one of them and this greatly offended me, especially since she had given me an award at the end of the season for being the hardest worker. I would run into her later and she would admit that she thought about calling me, but she never actually gave me a reason as to why she didn't. At that point I was too apathetic to care.

But running into Pam had nothing to do with her mom. It reminded me more of my second coach, the one I'll call, well, I'll just stick to Coach. When he heard about how our first coach quit, he used her daughter to fuel our anger. Her daughter was in high school our senior year and we competed against her. Coach never had any trouble reminding us that she was there, her mom was there, and our duty was to take her down.

I knew what he was doing. He was just trying to get us motivated, get us all hyped up and feel competitive. But it was petty. He used her daughter as a representation of how we felt for our old coach. I specifically remember he gathering us four seniors in a circle to tell us that Pam was just over there, that we would be running against her, and the greatest revenge would be to beat her. Show her mom she shouldn't have bailed on us.

And it worked. We beat her and her team. After the meets I remember him letting us know how we did. At the time it felt great, it felt like we had won. Now it just feels pathetic.

Fortunately Pam never knew that we were secretly plotting to beat her every time she showed up. Pam never knew how we were coached to specifically beat her to get our revenge. She still liked us. What happened with her mom was nothing to her. She saw as old friends – we learned to see her as an enemy.

All of this hit me as I drove out of the parking lot on home. I no longer go to LaRosa's for cross-country dinners. I no longer think highly of Coach. And now I no longer dislike Pam.

Everything has made a complete 180. And while I loved my running career in high school, today I have never been happier. The years I dreaded saying goodbye to are in the past. And I no longer miss them.

Rhyme and Reason

2010-12-10T07:06:00.000-08:00

(My head won't leave my head alone)

At 8:30am on a Friday you can hear the sound of dedicated music majors as you walk down the practice rooms hall at the music building at Ball State. I, a mere journalism student, was among them to brush up on the piano skills I once possessed years and years ago.

While violins, pianos, and other instruments played difficult pieces by Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and so on, I pulled out a piece by Pachelbal. My favorite piece by Pachelbal. In fact, my favorite piano piece ever: Canon in D.

I fell in love with Canon in D when my sister first played it at home. While I had heard Canon in D before, hearing it on the piano, alone, with no other instruments, in the cozy comfort of my house, was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I immediately borrowed the sheet music from my sister and went about learning to play it. The score I have isn't hard, and because I was so determined to fill my ears with its lovely sounds, it didn't take long for me to learn it. Once I learned it I perfected it. And once I perfected it, I memorized it. And then I was able to sit down at the piano any time and breeze through the piece. It was one of the only pieces I had learned to play so well.

Until one day, it wasn't.

I can't remember the exact moment I stopped practicing it, but I do remember the first time I tried playing it and couldn't remember. It was last year when I was an RA in one of the dorms. On a lazy Friday morning, like today, I found myself at the piano in our lounge and decided I would hammer out Canon in D, just for fun. The beginning part was easy. But then suddenly, I stumbled. A wrong note. I played it again. Wrong note. Okay, it's this note. No, no it's not. Is this note? No...

Suddenly I realized that not only had my fingers forgotten their way, I had forgotten how the piece even went. I called my mother and asked her if she would send me the sheet music.

I never did get around to actually practicing it last year. But this year I have gotten in the habit of stopping by the music building on Fridays and playing for an hour or so. I take with me an assortment of sheet music; most of it much more difficult than I had ever learned when I took piano lessons. But every Friday I barely touch the other pieces. Every Friday I sit down and the first thing I play is Canon in D.

I've been struggling with the piece for awhile. Looking at the sheet music actually makes it worse. My fingers have gotten so use to playing without having to read music, that reading music actually throws them off. It's much better for me to just play it by ear and feel, as I have done so many times before, and when needed glance at the sheets.

What's interesting is that my fingers do remember, it's just that I forget. I get nervous at the parts where I know I have a tendency to mess up and in the back of my mind I think "Don't mess up, don't mess up, you've got this..." which of course makes me mess up. Then I try to play it again and the same thing happens. Soon enough my practicing gets worse and worse. Before I know it I'm laughing at myself because I've completely butchered this beautiful piece and my hands are now keeping my head from banging against the top of the piano.

That's what's keeping me from playing this piece flawlessly. My head.

I knew it was all in my head, but I didn't realize to what extent until last Friday when I was at the music building. Frustrated once again for messing up at the same part, I started playing the piece from the beginning. Then I thought I heard voices outside. "Oh no," I thought to myself. "They can hear me. And they can hear how horrible I am." Soon my mind wandered off into this daydream of these music professionals laughing at me as they walk down the hall, or one barging in on me, screaming "You're not a music major! You're not even a pianist! Get out!". As I amused myself with such thoughts, I suddenly realized that I was still playing. Not only was I still playing, I hadn't messed up. In fact, I just made it through the toughest part in the piece without stumbling once. I kept playing and finished the piece. Although it wasn't played perfectly smooth, it was played without hitting any wrong notes. I took a deep breath, packed up my belongings and went home. It was a good enough note to end on.

The piano practices are only a metaphorical reminder as to how my head gets in the way of me all the time. My head prevents me from thinking I can be a writer. My head once kept me from dating the guy of my dreams. My own damn head gets in the way of things more than anything else.

I remember one time I was running 800 repeats and I didn't think I could go at a certain pace. My track coach said me, "The body is willing but the mind is weak." Translation: You have the ability, but you lack the confidence and belief. He was right. I had it in me to do the repeats at the pace he wanted. I had the ability to run the 2 mile (a race I was forced into but ultimately ended up loving). I had the ability to be a much better runner than I thought. But my head, my own mind, was keeping me from doing so.

And that's what I'm working on. These piano practices aren't just about practicing piano. They're not only about learning new pieces and perfecting the old ones. Every week my piano practice is a mental challenge. Will I be able to play Canon in D flawlessly or will my head mess me up? Sometimes my fingers win. Sometimes it's my head. Today, at 8:30am without my cup of coffee yet, I was still in zombie-like state of mind and so my fingers fortunately won. But will I be able to keep it up? Will I be able to break the mental block I keep facing? If the body is willing, will the mind stay weak?

Stay tuned.

Only for a moment and the moment's gone (8/90)

2010-12-01T17:31:00.000-08:00

Didn't know how long it was going to take me, but recently it finally hit me: I miss England.

Thing is, I'm not quite sure why. I very much enjoyed my time in England, but I was still homesick most of the time. By week 5 I was ready to go home. I was tired of always moving, always trying to see and do more. I missed my boyfriend. I missed driving. I missed Mexican food. I was ready before everyone else to pack up my bags and head back to the states.

Maybe I miss what I missed out on.

The more time passes here in the states, the more I wish I would've done in England. I wish I would've gone out more. I wish I would've hung out with my friends there more. I wish I had gotten to know the British more. I wish I had visited Oxford again. I wish I had ran around the Iffley Road Track. I wish I had traveled somewhere up north. I wish I would've gone for more walks and explored the city more. I wish I had purchased a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. I wish, I wish, I wish...

Funny thing is this wishing only set in recently. Everyone else seemed to have missed England the moment we arrived in Dayton. Everyone else seemed to want to go back immediately. Everyone else loves England and feels it's where they belong.

Me? Nope. It took four months for me to start thinking of England and actual miss it. Probably after three weeks of being in England (probably when I realized how much I crave mexican food) I realized I belonged in America. I belong in the country where stores are open 24/7. Where football means the scoring a touchdown instead of scoring a goal. Where people drive on the right side of the road. Where you don't have to pay to pee in a public restroom. You get my drift.

So why do I suddenly long to take a boat ride along the River Severn? Why do I want to go dance with my friends in one of the trashy named clubs like Sin & Bushwackers or Tramps (craft names aren't they)? Why do I want to go for a run in the Malvern hills?

Because I loved it.

Being homesick and missing loved ones did put a slight damper on my time in England. But it was still a dream come true. I was still in England. I got to see the English countryside I had literally dreamed of. I got to visit my dream European city. I got to hear English accents and visit so many places. I had high tea at the Pump rooms in Bath. I stood at the exact same spot where McCartney met Lennon and got chills; and I'm not even a Beatles fan! I almost cried at the track where Roger Bannister broke the 4 minute mile. I kissed the Blarney Stone in Ireland, tried Guinness for the first time, and saw Dolores O'Riordan (lead singer of the Irish band the Cranberries) house. I had one hell of a time in europe. And that was only visiting two countries.

There are always experiences I'll want to live over. There's always going to be things I wish I had, or hadn't, done. Not just in England, but wherever go and whatever I do. I'm sure once I'm done with college I'll look back and think of things I regret and the things I wish I could've experienced. It's a shame you can't do it all.

I guess it just goes to show that you really do have to live in the moment. While I was in England I shouldn't have been counting the days til I was home. I should've been trying to experience it all while I was right there in the middle of it. It's too late to realize that for then, but at least I'll know for the future. Because I will go back. I made a promise when I left England that one day I will return.

Pen Pals (7/90)

2010-11-30T06:16:00.000-08:00

I'm in a good mood this morning.

For starters, I think my headache is starting to go away. Why? Because I'm drinking coffee which is full of caffeine and I am really beginning to believe that my now frequent occurring headaches are caused by something other than the weather. Considering the last migraine I had was the day after I had a lot of caffeinated beverages, and it did not go away until half an hour after drinking coffee the next day, I think it's safe to say I might have a caffeine addiction. I would try to break it right now but the headaches hurt and I need my caffeine to keep me going throughout the day. The semester will be over in three weeks and then I'll have three weeks to get a start on weening myself off of this drug. But for now, I need my coffee.

Second of all, I finally read my friend Rachel's memoir. She sent it to me the other day and forgetful me didn't realize until last night that I hadn't read it yet. I was able to read it this morning.

My friend is a very talented writer. I've always known this, but with us attending different schools and now only seeing each other a couple times a year, writing is usually only brought up when we're venting about school and how we can't wait for it to be over. Fortunately last week when we met up with another friend at Starbucks she told us about the memoir she was writing and asked if I could look it over for her before she turned it in. Although I dread editing others work (mostly because I don't think I'm very good at it) I wanted to read her writing and I was flattered that she wanted my feedback.

So I read it. And I loved it. Rachel has a way with words I've tried to mimic but have always failed in doing so. She's poetic and has a great way of describing events, people, places, etc. I on the other hand, well, I don't know how someone would describe my writing. But unlike poetic, I feel like I'm very blunt. I think it's fair to say I do my fair share of butchering the English language. Just because you want to be a writer doesn't mean your grammar doesn't suck. Trust me, after seeing plenty of read on my papers from my magazine class, I became very well-aware of the improvements I need to make with my writing.

What's ironic though is she and I are both facing similar problems with telling our stories. With her draft she said she feels she doesn't have a good ending for it. It needs a sense of completion. But how can she complete the story while the problem still exists? She's still in the middle of the story. It hasn't ended yet.

I can relate. As I'm trying to write about my story from high school, I too feel as if I'm still in the middle of the story. But the story is over. What's done is done. But it's missing a sense of completion. My big struggle isn't how it ends though; that's already been taken care of. My problem is, what did I take from it? It's the reason I've been hesitating on writing about it. In the back of my mind I keep thinking, "Is this really that important? So some drama happened a few years ago and your coach got in trouble. Big deal. What's the point in telling this story?"

I still don't have a definite answer for that. All I can say is that if you feel compelled to write about something, then it's worth writing for a reason.

So what am I going to tell her? I'm not sure either. Storytelling is still a craft that is going to take a long time to master. I have no expert advice to offer. I'll give her the best feedback I can and what I think might work for the story. Let's just hope I help her story instead of hurting it.

In the meantime I have to her thank for this blog. After reading her work I felt inspired to get another blog out of the way (since I'm still behind...fail). So what have I learned this morning? When facing writer's block, read your friends' work. Seeing how great of a writer she is encourages me to continue trying to be one as well. I guess if you believe in what someone else is doing, it may give you the confidence to keep trying yourself.

Ready? Set? Go! (6/90)

2010-11-29T18:56:00.000-08:00

Procrastination. Something I'm very familiar with. Yes, procrastination and I have been great friends. For as long as I can remember actually. In fact, I'm sure my first homework assignment was the first time I was introduced to Procrastination. While my mom told me to go work on math or social studies, Procrastination told me to go watch Brace Face on ABC family. You can guess which one I listened to. Besides, elementary homework doesn't take long to do. 15, 20 minutes tops (or so it seemed). I thought Procrastination was great.

That was until I made it to high school. Where assignments suddenly became tougher. Where projects take more than an hour or so to get done. Where studying for tests was more than just reviewing some notes right before the test is handed to you. Freshman year of high school I had what I think can be defined as a panic attack when I realized I had a track meet, work, and an entire history project to finish before the next day. That was when I realized Procrastination has a dark side.

I've been good and bad since high school when it comes to procrastination. This year I've actually been particularly good. I've been working on my assignments as soon as I get them (usually because I have nothing else to do). Starting projects early. Studying way in advance for a test. As far as grades go, this might be the best semester I've had simply because I decided to put procrastination on the back burner.

Until last week.

Silly Laura, what were you thinking when you said you'd get so much done over Thanksgiving break? Why did you decide to go home a day early when you even contemplated showing up at the library and getting stuff done? Did you honestly believe you were going to go to the library at home everyday? Did you really think that you would get it all done and these last two weeks would be smooth-sailing?

Sadly, yes.

I don't know what it is but there's something about going home that puts me in the mood to do anything and everything but the things I actually need to get done. I would rather clean the entire house than sit and work on Spanish. Fortunately into my third hour of my Big Bang Theory marathon I pulled out my Spanish homework and got most of it done. Of course, I didn't completely finish it all until today. A couple of hours work was all it took. I could've easily sailed through it had I gone to the library at home and glued my ass to the seat for the day. I would've accomplished even more actually. The stress I'm starting to feel build would be non-existent.

You want to hear a secret though? I actually love it.

I know that sounds ridiculous, especially since I'm the one giving everyone else crap about being too stressed, doing too much, never having time to just breathe. I'm a hypocrite. I love it when I have a lot to do. I love being under stress. I love the pressure that comes with it. The deadline. The feeling of "you have to get this done or you will fail!" I love working under a clock and accomplishing a thousand things in one day even though I know I won't get any sleep. Although usually somewhere in that day I still have that moment of "Why didn't you work on this when you had the time?" It doesn't matter. I procrastinate. I stall and enjoy doing nothing. Then when it's time to get cracking, I'm completely focused. All or nothing. Do or die.

These next two weeks are going to be stressful. Projects, papers, everything coming to an end. And then when those are done, guess what's next? Finals!!! Oh the joy.

I guess I should get back to my work. Do or die. All or nothing. Last three weeks of fall semester 2010? Bring it.

Weep not for the memories (5/90)

2010-11-27T21:59:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning I had an appointment at my new doctor's office. I arrived, and after filling in the necessary paperwork and signing over whatever the doctor's office requires, I made my way over to the magazine stand. I was only in for a mere check-up and physical exam. I discovered that a "new patient" appointment was needed before any actual doctor's appointment, you know, the one time you really need to see a doctor, when I called a month ago with a virus infection. Thank goodness for Urgent Care.

So there I was for my "new patient" appointment. Since I was not dreading seeing the doctor I for once felt comfortable perusing a magazine (in most situations I just sit there nervously twiddling my thumbs as I silently count the seconds before I have to see the dreaded physician). What was I going to check out today? There was a beautiful cover of Bazaar. Did I want to read up on the latest fashion styles that I can't afford? Or what about Fitness? I'm sure there was something in there about getting flat abs and a smoothie recipe that's going to help me a lose weight. I continued to scour over everything until suddenly there it was. In that bright red border I saw the only story on the cover, interesting enough that I immediately grabbed it and whisked it with me to the nearest seat in the waiting area: Alzheimer's.

I have been curious about Alzheimer's ever since my grandma was diagnosed with it a few years back. My mother was the first to pick up on the signs. She noticed my grandma was not acting her normal self. My grandma started to realize it too. My mom encouraged my grandma to go to the doctor but she refused. By the time she did go, it was already too late.

Of course it didn't help that the doctor who saw my grandma didn't believe that she had Alzheimer's. You see with alzheimer's patients, they seem to have episodes or incidents. Sometimes they appear normal. That's why I never picked up on the signs until later when the alzheimer's had progressed. But my mother, a nurse I might add, who was very close to her mother and was able to witness things that were oblivious to the rest of us, knew that something was up. She called the doctor and begged him to put her on some medicine. It took the doctor awhile before realizing my mother was right. Every time my grandma went to visit she seemed fine. But soon enough the disease made known its presence and the only thing the doctor could really do was put her on meds that would hopefully slow down the progress.

And in reality that's the best thing he could've done anyway. Alzheimer's is like cancer. There is no cure, and there's really no way of understanding how it happens. The best you can do is try to live a healthy lifestyle, exercise your brain, and hope and pray that something will come out that will prevent you from receiving this death sentence.

In fact, dare I say, I do believe that Alzheimer's may be the worst disease out there right now. I know I'm biased because I witnessed the horrific events of watching someone I loved die from it. There doesn't appear to be any pain, physically at least. Emotionally? Terrifying. My grandma no longer recognized me. Didn't know my name. Couldn't remember memories. This isn't The Notebook where they portrayed Alzheimer's in a way in which your entire life can flash back to you. No. Alzheimer's patients soon forget how to take care of themselves, and remembering happy times is a thing of the past.

The last, happy moment I had with my Granda was one of the times I visited her in the nursing home. It was just my mother and I and we were leaving. As I said goodbye, I leaned over, hugged her, and told her I loved her. She looked up at me and said, "Oh sweetheart." And for a split second, one little moment when I looked in her eyes, I could swear that she remembered me. That she remembered who I was. And that she somehow knew the situation she was in and sympathized with me. I know it's crazy. It's illogical to believe that someone with advanced Alzheimer's could have a moment like that. But I don't need logic to explain what I experienced. I fully believe that for that one moment in time, she remembered.

The first time I saw her there I freaked out. Literally. I ran out of the room, down the hall, back to the front desk and locked myself in the bathroom to cry. It didn't help that I had just been to her husband's memorial service that morning. The husband she didn't remember. The husband she would never realize was gone. Once I was able to calm myself down and face reality, I went back and kept my cool. Then before we left we put a vase of flowers from the memorial service on a table and my grandma went and looked at them. She admired their beauty and found them lovely. I was horrified that she was admiring the flowers from her own husband's memorial service. But perhaps for her emotional health, her unknowingness was for the better.

Needless to say, her Alzheimer's was an experience I witnessed that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

So when I saw the Times magazine with Alzheimer's on the cover I had to read it. I plopped myself down and immediately began flipping through pages until I found the story.

Unfortunately I barely got a page in when my name was called. I put the magazine back and followed the nurse into the exam room. I decided I would ask my doctor about Alzheimer's.

The other day I was driving in Muncie when radio talk show host Kim Ireson came on Indy' station 99.5. She talked about Alzheimer's disease and mentioned a blood test that could predict if you had the gene that would develop Alzheimer's. And she asked the listeners if they would get the test. Would you want to know if you could, or were going to, be diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease?

I thought about this. Would I? Would I really want to know if I was going to end up like my Grandma? Would I want to have that terminal sentence hanging over my head? Would I want to know that one day I was going to forget my family, my loved ones, my life, even myself?

The answer? Yes. I would want to know. I would want to know as soon as possible. I would want to know that I needed to cherish every memory. All of my friends know how often I dwell on them; it would make appreciating them even more. I would write more about my life. I would take more photos. When I got married and had children I would tell them what I would want them to do if, or when, I am diagnosed with the disease. I would want to be prepared. They would know I would rather take death over deteriorating away in a nursing home. Lord, if any thing ever happens to me, I do not want to spend my last days cooped up in a place like that. Life, in that state, is not worth living.

So naïve and paranoid me asked my doctor about this test. I learned that this test is still being developed; it's not completely ready. I also learned that this tests for a gene that causes alzheimer's; there are other factors that can trigger it that can't be tested for (at least not yet). And last but not least, I embarrassingly learned that I, a 21 year-old, should not be worrying about getting this test done. No one would pay for someone my age to find out if she was getting Alzheimer's. In fact, if I am ever to be tested for it, it won't happen for at least another 30 years. My deep contemplation on getting this test done was apparently a waste of my time.

In the meantime, all I can do is try to live a healthy lifestyle. Work out almost every day. Get my fruits and veggies. Read and do other things that'll exercise my brain. Other than that, there's not much left to do. I won't know until I'm well into the majority of my years on whether I will have the disease. And by then hopefully more research will be done. Hopefully they'll know more about preventing it, and may have developed some better medicines for fighting it. Hopefully.

Until then, cherish your memories. Be grateful that your forgetfulness is usually limited to "where did I put my keys?" and "what was the homework for tomorrow?" Not staring at your brother and wondering who he was. And keep in mind that there are people struggling with this disease and have loved ones fighting with them as well.

You can learn more about Alzheimer's here: http://www.alz.org/index.asp

I also encourage you to check out this: http://www.alz.org/shriverreport/about.html
It's about how women, the primary caregivers, are taking on the fight against Alzheimer's. My mother, who did her best to care for my grandma, is a testament to what women are experiencing with this disease.

Black Friday? Bah Hambug! (4/90)

2010-11-26T12:53:00.000-08:00

Eek! Somehow I always forget to write! Good thing I have all day today to make up for, um, I think three blogs haha.

So yesterday was the Friday after Thanksgiving. Black Friday: the biggest shopping day of the year. Stores open at times when most people are in the middle of their REM cycle. Crowds of people swarm local malls and outlet stores, all in the spirit of savings and getting a start on holiday shopping.

I used to think Black Friday was a great idea. Some sort of American tradition; let's get fat on turkey, go to bed early, get up and go shopping. A perfect transition into preparing for the next big holiday. I used to be one of those people getting up before the sun (or just staying up all night) to hit the stores early. That was of course until I had to work it.

I started working at Steve & Barry's collegiate retail store my junior year of high school in 2006. I was essentially hired for the holidays but luckily they kept me around afterwards. But hired for the holidays I was. I got to see firsthand what it was like to be on the other side of the holiday craze.

Luckily for me Steve & Barry's was not one of the stores that opened ridiculously early or had ridiculously low sales. But that didn't mean we still didn't experience the craze. With our already low prices we still a saw a slew of people coming and going from the minute we opened up to the minute we closed. And as bad as Black Friday sounds, I quickly learned that it's only the beginning of the madness. From Black Friday to about two weeks after New Years we were as busy as ever.

When I was hired in early November of 2006 one of my managers asked me if I had ever worked in retail during the holidays. Answer? No. I don't remember verbatim what he said after that, but it was definitely along the lines of "You'll hate Christmas."

I was skeptical of this. I knew that it was going to be stressful and we would be working a lot, but I didn't think that working in retail during the holidays would suck the joy out of them.

Boy was I proven wrong.

The second year came and I was prepared for the madness. I knew I'd be dealing with bitchy customers and long hours. My joy was focused on the fat paychecks I was receiving. Other than that, I felt nothing of the Christmas spirit.

Working in retail showed me a different side to this holiday season. I was bitched out at for things I had no control over. I saw customers grouch at each other, loved ones included. I saw their stress and anxiety. All over buying some clothes? Really?

Yes. And that's when my love for this holiday began to die. When I saw what Christmas is really like. Everything I heard about the true meaning of Christmas being dead was proven true. No one seemed grateful or happy. No one seemed humble. On the contrary, almost everyone I saw was in a rush to buy the best gifts at the best prices and damn you if you stood in their way. Greed and selfishness were what I mostly saw. Their greed killed my love for Christmas.

Even after I was done working in retail I still found it difficult to get into the Christmas spirit. Shopping for gifts suddenly became a stressful chore and every time I set foot in a store I was reminded of the greed I see this time of the year. I had no desire to decorate the tree or ice the cookies. Even the Christmas jingles on the radio were of no avail. I felt like the grinch.

For the first time since then I think I might actually get in the Christmas spirit this year. I'm too poor to buy gifts so I'll be making them, helping me surpass the annoyance of wandering stores in search of perfect gifts. I think I'll actually make gingerbread cookies. I think I'll decorate the tree and I think I'll listen to my Christmas playlist. I think.

In the meantime, I still hate Christmas shopping. I still hate Black Friday. I see how people get this time of the year and it angers me. It's frustrating to see people get so upset over material items at a time when we're not supposed to be materialistic. The purpose of Christmas, the true meaning behind it, is non-existent in America.

This should come as no surprise to anyone. It's obvious the true meaning of Christmas has been lost for some time. I think it's funny that I have friends who have no belief in any sort of God but they fully believe in sharing gifts, decorating a Christmas tree and being a part of the Christmas season. Christmas obviously has become more cultural than religious.

So what does this mean for those of us who still believe in Christmas for what it really is? What does this mean for those of us who find more joy in going to a Christmas Eve service than opening gifts on Christmas morning? Those of us who just want to be with family and enjoy icing cookies, decorating trees, and still being a part of all the hoopla while keeping in mind the whole purpose behind this holiday?

I can only offer you one piece of advice: Never work in retail.

What are you thankful for? (3/90)

2010-11-25T09:13:00.001-08:00

Perhaps this is cliché, but in the spirit of Thanksgiving I feel it's appropriate to do at least one blog on being thankful (since I already missed one day and now need to write two today). At first I began writing a list. Then I realized how boring it was. Friends, family, the same stuff everyone else is thankful for. So then I began thinking, what am I thankful for and how is what I'm thankful for different from everyone else? And then it dawned on me, that it's not the things I'm thankful for, it's why I'm thankful for them that make them interesting. So I'm going try to compile a list, a list of memories and specific events in my life that have brought me to realize why I'm grateful for all of these things.

Hmm. Where do I even begin?

(In no specific order)
1. I was in sixth grade when I realized I no longer wanted to be a gymnast. I was tired of showing up to the gym and practicing the same routines over and over. I wanted to learn new stunts and try new routines; my coaches wouldn't let me until I had perfected the ones I was working on. Seeing that competitive gymnastics was not the sport for me, my dad encouraged me to take up running. So I signed up for the cross-country team for seventh grade and that summer was when I began training. Every week my dad would take me to the track and we would run whatever the coach had said for me to run. Stride by stride, my dad helped me go from running only one lap to twelve laps. Cross-country season started and I was hooked. From that moment on, I loved running.

My dad was no longer my coach, but he was always there for me. He made it to almost every meet, track or cross-country, from seventh grade until my senior year of high school. He was there to hug me when I did well and talk to me when I did poorly. My dad never once discouraged me. And this doesn't just apply to running. Every goal and endeavorer I have taken on my dad has been supportive. Now every time I come home we talk about running and he encourages me to go after my journalism dreams. I'm thankful for my dad for introducing me to the sport I love, and for always, always being there for me.

2. It started with making spaghetti and ended in a nursing home. Seeing my grandma's alzheimers progress was one of the hardest experiences of my life. From watching her lose track of time and seeming forgetful to forgetting my name and being unable to recognize my face, I lost her long before she died.

She was the grandma on my mom's side, so we would trek to Pittsburgh to see her. Each visit got harder and harder to take. The nursing home she lived in became hell on earth. The only way I can describe what it was like being in that place is that it felt like life was being sucked out of you. Literally. There is no joy visiting a place where everyone is waiting for their turn to die. It was a living nightmare.

Time after time I would visit with my mom and it never got easier. I watched my mom spoon-feed my grandma, brush her hair, hold her hand. My last visit there I suddenly realized the strength it took for my mother to visit her mom in such a state. To watch her slowly deteriorate and be unable to do anything about it. To be able to muster up the effort to drive 5 hours to care for her for only an hour or so opened my eyes to a side of my mother I had never seen before. My shy, conservative mother was suddenly the bravest person I knew. I am thankful for my mother for being the strong woman that I know and for showing/giving me her selfless love.

3. When I first arrived at Ball State one of the first things I did was go run. I didn't venture too far off-campus for fear of getting lost, so I didn't have a good idea of any places to go run. At one of the first run club practices I asked one of the members where I could get a good hill work-out in. He laughed. I said I was serious. He said he was too.

Muncie, Ind. is the flattest place on earth. Every time I come home now I never take the hills that we have around here for granted. I am thankful for any chance I have to run on hills.

4. This past summer I went to England for six weeks. It's the farthest I've ever been from home. With an ocean separating me from my boyfriend, my family, and my friends, I relied heavily on technology in order to stay in touch. It was one of the few times I didn't take having a cell phone or internet for granted. As much as I hate to admit it, I am thankful for technology.

5. This one could, and honestly, deserves its own separate post. There are so many memories I don't know if it's possible to pick just one to write about. So I won't. I am thankful for the amazing boyfriend I was able to snatch. Rarely does a day go by where I don't think about how lucky I am to have him.

6. At the end of my six-week endeavor in England our group hit a minor bump in the road. Continental airlines accidentally switched all of our flights to one of the girls in the group who extended her stay. Instead of leaving Birmingham on August 3rd, we were scheduled to leave Scotland a week later. Finding a flight back to America was a true pain in the ass, and considering I was homesick enough, this was not helping. Three days later I woke up at 3am England time and didn't arrive at the last airport until 10pm EST time. Almost 24 hours of being up and traveling. As much as I loved England, arriving in Newark, NJ was one of the happiest moments this summer. Although England wasn't a huge culture shock, I did miss America a lot. I am thankful to live in this country. Travel all over the world? Yes please. But at the end of the day, this is where I want to be.

7. Sometime when my friends and I get together we play a 20 questions game. But unlike original 20 questions, this game is just asking one friend 20 random questions we want to know. Usually the question, "What is one moment you wish you could live over?" comes up, or similar, "What's the happiest moment of your life?"

In 2006 I went to San Antonio with my church group for a one-week retreat. At the very end of the trip we went to the top of the Hilton hotel where you can stand on the roof. The trip itself was a blast. Few memories can compare to everything that happened. Sad that it was over I was incredibly grateful for everything the experience. As crazy as it sounds, being on the top of that hotel I had a moment of complete peace. I felt pure happiness. I felt the closest I had ever felt to God. I don't know how else to describe it. But I do know, that I am thankful for my relationship with Christ.

8. ABC parties. Movie nights. Ice-skating. Get togethers at starbucks. Getting chased by cops. Girls nights. Late night road trips. Pulling pranks. Shopping trips. Race weekends. Concerts. Hugs. Talks. Lots of laughs. I'm thankful for all of my amazingly awesome friends.

9. Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur. Happy kitty, sleepy kitty, purr purr purr. I'm thankful for my pets.

10. All the other things I need to mention: my car, running, writing, Ball State, Fairfield, New York, coffee, the people that inspire me, photos, music, memories, traveling, new opportunities, love, Big Bang Theory, and a gazillion other things.

Happy Thanksgiving. What are you thankful for?

So Right (or not) (2/90)

2010-11-23T20:15:00.001-08:00

I'm always flattered when one of my friends says it to me they wish they had what I have when it comes to a relationship. Which happened today when I received an e-mail from a friend who needed to talk about what was going on in their love life. I read what they had to say and gave my best response.

The key word here is response.

I think this friend was asking for advice. They didn't say it, but they explained what they planned on doing and wanted a reaction out of me. Whether it be reassurance or something else, I know this friend wanted to at least know what I was thinking. And I told them.

But I didn't give them advice. I don't believe in that.

I've only had one boyfriend and it's serious, so for starters I don't think I have too much advice to offer. I can only give my perspective on what I've experienced. I've never dated any other guy for an extensive period of time and I have no idea what it's like to go through a break-up. I can only go off of what I know and that's only what I've dealt with in my relationship with Joe.

Some would say that means I have great advice to offer. That if my first relationship has lasted this long and is going strong, then I know a thing or two about relationships. As much as I would like to believe that, quite frankly I find it bullshit. Yeah, I know what works for Joe and I, and I know what doesn't. And maybe it's ridiculous to pull out the "fate" card, but I do believe a certain amount of luck and just the right timing played a part. But I certainly don't think that I am in any position to offer love advice.

And to be honest, I really don't think anyone is.

I've been asking for advice about guys since probably the sixth grade. And as crushes have come and gone, friends have changed, and I've gotten older, I've realized one thing is for certain: Everybody has a different piece of offer. And usually every person thinks they're right.

And I mean this in all areas of dating someone. From pursuing a guy, to dating him, to the L word, and more. I've had friends tell me that "he's a jerk and you're right to be upset" and other friends say "you're overreacting, it's not that big of a deal." I have friends who believe a guy should always pursue a girl and other friends who think if a girl wants a guy she needs to step her game up and go after him. I have friends who will save themselves for marriage and others who believe if you love someone you should be able to express that as soon as you feel it. I have friends who will go on date after date to find the right guy, while others remain carefree and enjoy the single life. To sum it up, every person is different.

I know I'm stating the obvious, but with that said every relationship is different as well. There is no single piece of advice that can be applied in every situation. I can't tell a friend what to do because I am different from him/her, and they're situation is different from mine. I'll try to find similarities, something that can be related to, but in a nutshell I'm usually just offering perspective. I'm trying to no longer offer advice. There is nothing I can say that is better or worse than anyone else's.

To my friends who read my blog, don't take this as me saying that I won't talk to you about your relationship dilemmas. I'm always willing to talk about relationships and if you want my perspective, I'll certainly give it to you. But I also hope you know that I'm not right. No one you listen to is right. Your situation is always going to be different than anyone else's. The solution to your problems is only something you can figure out on your own. But I'm always here to talk and listen. Lord knows I'll always be turning to you guys for your thoughts and opinions.

I hope for the best for my friend who is having this relationship issue. While I can't tell them what to do or what will work, I'm flattered that they feel comfortable coming to me to talk about what's going on and that their goal is to be in that kind of relationship I'm in. Joe and I aren't perfect, and our relationship certainly will never be, but hey, we must be doing something right.

Not Ready to Make Nice (1/90...third time's the charm!)

2010-11-22T11:26:00.000-08:00

I got in a fight with a friend yesterday.

Not just any friend. A good friend. Or at least someone I used to consider a good friend.

The fight itself was ridiculous. What we got in an argument over was stupid. But the aftermath of it feels detrimental to our friendship. And I really don't think that's any exaggeration.

What I'm most upset about is how it all happened. A little bit of confrontation on his part. And I'm fine with confrontation. In fact I like it when people are very blunt and honest with me. Trying to sugar coat things does no good. I need to hear exactly what you think and how you feel and why. If you can't give that to me, we'll have issues.

He was blunt. And I appreciated that. But he was blunt in a text message. And that's pretty much where it all started.

I received a really rude and disrespectful text from him. I don't deal with confrontations via text. I don't even like confrontations on the phone. If you have an issue with me, approach me and talk to me in person. Because sending a message from your cell phone shows 1) You're not comfortable with talking to me in person, which means 2) That makes me question our friendship and how close we really are, and 3) You're being immature and rude.

Don't get me wrong. I like arguing with people through technology. Usually over stupid things that really don't matter. But confronting someone? No. There's never an acceptable reason to confront someone through a text.

I went to the house where this person lives, the same house my boyfriend lives in. They're roommates. And if you're thinking that has to do with the whole reason he confronted me, then you're right. I wanted to talk to him in person but he wasn't there. And with fume begin to pour out of my ears, I decided to call.

That's where I went wrong. I should've cooled off and waited until he got home to talk in person. But I couldn't resist. I was too angry to stop myself from calling. I called and got his voicemail. I left a message.

I don't remember what I exactly said in that message. I tried to keep my words as polite as possible. But I could not help my tone. So when he called back about twenty minutes later, there was no surprise we ended up yelling at each other.

The conversation lasted for ten minutes. He vented about all the things I had done wrong and how there is no good way to confront me because I always get upset. Excuse me, when have you ever confronted me before? Apparently he has dropped "hints". Sigh...We're both 21 years old, haven't we learned by now that if you try to be subtle it usually doesn't work? And he thought I was smart enough to pick up on those hints. I told him I wasn't going to blame myself for not getting his subtle hidden messages. That it's not my fault he waited til the end of the semester to confront me and had to do so through a text because he was too immature to talk to me in person. There were a few other things, but you get the gist of it. Needless to say we ended the conversation with "I can't talk to you about this anymore!"

I haven't been this angry or upset with anyone in a long time. And it saddens me that this is with someone who I used to get along with so well! I don't even know how this happened. But I sense it's something greater than what we talked about last night. What that is? I don't really know. I don't even think I could guess. But it has something to do with my boyfriend and I because our friend has been passive to us both for more than 2 months now.

So what now? My friend is angry at me, I sense there's something else bothering him, but I'm still too pissed off to even try to talk it out. That'd be the solution right? Sit down, apologize for getting upset, talk about the issue, figure out what's going on, end knowing we've made our peace and hug to seal the deal.

But when? And how? He's studying abroad next semester. I'm done with classes after next semester. He'll be back in Muncie next fall, I'll be who knows where. There's a very good chance these last few weeks of this semester may be the last we'll see of each other. Are we going to continue on in awkward silence or go back to the way things were before? I don't know. All I know is I'm still upset. And until this anger can subside, our friendship will probably remain on the rocks.

Enough for Now

2010-11-16T19:19:00.001-08:00

Nostalgia is a weird thing.

The past, when you think about it, is a weird thing. Recalling events that took place in your life, but happened so long ago, is weird. It's weird thinking of something that actually happened but now feels more like a dream. Especially memories that you've forgotten about, or have pushed away. Bringing them back up, reminiscing on them, is weird.

Especially when they're memories you'd prefer not to remember.

The memories I'm pulling back up to write about aren't actually all that horrible. I didn't witness a murder. I wasn't abused. I didn't survive some horrific event. I didn't experience something that you'd hear about on 20/20 or that would have Harpo Productions calling you up for an interview. No, actually most of the memories I'm reliving are happy ones. Good ones. And that's what makes them so damn difficult.

These memories are happy memories gone bad. Like food gone stale. At one point you loved them. They were delicious and you enjoyed them. They made you happy. But now they've lost their flavor. They're no longer good. They're moldy and gross. They disgust you and you want nothing to do with them. So you do what you normally do with something that goes bad; you throw it away. Except when it comes to memories, it's very difficult, almost impossible, to empty the trash. They sit there and they rot. You don't bother with them anymore. You forget about them. But they're always there. And you can pull them back up at anytime.

Wow. Ignore that horrible analogy. What I'm trying to get at is that it's strange thinking about these memories and writing about them because I am reliving them. I'm having to go back in time and let specific scenes play over in my head. I kept a journal on my computer in high school and I pulled that journal up today and started reading it. That was even creepier. Because suddenly memories I had forgotten about were right there for me to remember. Very specific details. And more importantly, very specific feelings.

I think that's what makes it tougher, and stranger. Here are these memories that I'm replaying in my head and at the time I was happy. And I can still recall those feelings of happiness, even though today I don't associate happiness with these memories. Does that makes sense?

I'll be a little more blunt. I'm writing about my coach. And in high school I liked my coach. A LOT. I can remember moments and feelings and that rush of liking this man I was not allowed to have. But my coach is not who I thought he was. My coach turned out to be a liar. A selfish manipulator. And it's the creepiest thing to be able to go back and read my thoughts when I was head over heels for him, knowing what I know today.

Although my story is slightly more dramatic, I think everyone experiences these feelings. Isn't that what happens when you break up someone? You start remembering all the memories where you were happy, and you feel torn because you know there's not a happy ending?

So why am I doing this? Why am I in this limbo of the past and the present? Why I am pulling up feelings of happiness towards my coach when in today's reality I hate him? Why put myself back in the moment of all these memories that took me so long to repress?

I don't know. But I have a guess.

I think I owe to myself. I think I owe it to high school Laura. High school Laura spent two years liking this man only to realize he's a douchebag. High school Laura looked up to him and admired him. High school Laura cared about him and wanted the best for him. High school Laura may have been stupid and naive, but she was genuine and had good intentions.

High school Laura also loved running. High school Laura poured her heart and soul into this beloved sport. High school Laura had so many great times as a runner, and most of those times her coach was present. And once she found out the one person she felt understood her passion the most was not on her side, many of those memories were tainted. And her love of running slowly began to die.

Running has been a part of who I am for as long as I can remember. And high school was the time I was most passionate for it. My coach helped me learn that passion, and my coach was there for most of my best races, practices, times, etc. My coach fueled my love for running. Once my view of my coach changed, my view of running unfortunately changed as well.

But I still love running. I may not love it as much as I once used to, but it's still a major part of my life. And I want to feel as passionate about it as I once did. I want to get excited for races. I want to train hard and see improvements. I'm not ready to slide into recreational running. I still have a spark in me that wants to compete.

I need to tap into the emotions I felt in high school. I need to tap back into that passion. That means tapping back into memories dealing with my coach. So while I'm rediscovering my true love for running, I'm going to let my other passion take care of the rest.

Again, that's just a guess. I don't completely understand why I have this desire to write about it. But I guess I can't worry about that. For some reason I want to write. And unlike the times I've tried writing about it in the past, this time the words are actually coming. This time I don't feel like stopping. And when it does get too creepy, when it feels too weird, that's when I'll stop and say "that's enough for now."

Failure is not an option

2010-11-12T06:37:00.000-08:00

I didn't know what to tell him, standing there in the kitchen as he explained to me his doom. For the record, he's not doomed. He is my boyfriend and he is one of the smartest people I know. He's incredibly bright and a hard worker. He spends his days and nights working on math problems, talking to math professors, doing whatever he can to ace his classes and understand these difficult concepts I can't even begin to wrap my head around. I know I'm biased, but if you ask me he's one of the best math students in Ball State's program.

If you ask him, he's doomed.

I did what I've done in the past. Coach Laura suddenly appeared to give him a pep talk. To convince him that he is not doomed, but if he doesn't find some confidence then his attitude is going to affect his GRE performance. He has what it takes, he just has to believe it. If he walks in there with the same hopeless expression that I saw standing there in the kitchen, he's never going to succeed the way I know he can.

It reminded me of a saying my coach used to tell me when he knew I was having issues with my confidence with running in high school: "The body is willing but the mind is weak." I hated it at the time, but since high school has passed I've seen the truth in that statement. How we let pressure and our lack of confidence get in the way of our performance. How we have the ability to do well, but our inability to believe in ourselves is often times our great downfall. It doesn't matter if we can or can not, if we don't believe we can do it, then we probably won't.

I looked him dead in the eyes and tried to transfer my belief in him to his belief in himself. Looking exasperated he said to me, "It's not going to be good."

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Volleyball practice was the last thing I needed. Another sport that I ultimately suck at. I love volleyball, I always have. But I love volleyball in the way where you just grab some friends and head to a sand court and just start playing for the heck of it. You might keep score, you might not. But you play for the fun of it and that's all.

The volleyball team I signed up for is not in it for the fun. Well, I'm sure they're having fun, but they'd have even more fun if they won. They wear spandex shorts and knee pads, two things I certainly don't own. Short little running shorts? Absolutely. But tiny little spandex shorts? I don't think so. They practice spikes and servings. They have a game plan on the court. They know where the setter needs to be. They play with a smile on their faces while I try to hide on the corner of the court, hoping the ball doesn't come towards me. This fun little game I used to love so much has suddenly turned into a personal nightmare. It's the same with ultimate frisbee. I'd probably love it if the guys I play with weren't all about winning. But they're men. And as a friend used to say, "I don't play for fun. I play to win and winning is fun."

But I play for fun. I can be a very competitive person but I've learned that usually just provides unnecessary stress and pressure and if I don't win I usually get pretty upset. I don't like that. So I try to play for fun. But when everyone is playing to win, it's hard to keep the "just have fun" concept in the front of your mind. Sure enough that slowly drifted away and all I could think about was how I suck at serving, blocking, spiking...basically anything that has to do with playing volleyball.

I left volleyball practice before it was actually over, plopped myself in my car, turned on the radio and started crying. Seriously? Over volleyball?

Yes. And not just for volleyball. I started crying for all of my other failures as well. My failure to find a job and support myself on my own. I had to call my dad that same day and tell him I needed more money. Crying because I bought chicken thighs instead of chicken breasts and my chicken parmesan was not up to par; my failure at cooking. My room's a mess. I don't think my roomies like me much because I'm never here and therefore I barely clean the house. Crying because I don't know if I'll find a job after college. Crying because my abs aren't flat and I ate a huge gob of cookie dough. Crying because I'm scared. Crying for a thousand reasons that I think I just needed to cry about. I'm a girl. Sometimes we just need to cry.

The voice of reason started getting to me and telling me to stop feeling sorry for myself. But I chose to ignore it. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was failing and that I'll continue to fail. The pep talk I gave my boyfriend I needed to give to myself.

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Tomorrow is a big day. My boyfriend will be taking the GRE in hopes of getting into grad school and continue moving forward with his plan of becoming a math professor. I will be in Bloomington with the blessed opportunity of interviewing people in person. It's my chance to try to get the best stories possible for the article I'm working on for Running Times, the one thing I feel like I'm not failing at (well, not yet). While he works out some differential geometry problem I'll be pushing the record button and asking these older runners to describe to me their story with club running and why this all came to be.

I have this gut feeling tomorrow will be great. I have this feeling my boyfriend will do much better than he anticipates. I have a feeling I'll be on some journalism high all eager to start transcribing interviews and figuring out what to do next. I have a feeling that we both have the ability to succeed.

But if we don't? What if we let our lack of confidence get in the way of what we're capable of doing? What if my boyfriend sees a problem he can normally solve and draws a blank? What if I ask the wrong questions or talk to the wrong people and royally screw up my big chance at getting published? What if our biggest fear becomes our reality: what if we fail?

If we fail then we fail. We'll know what we did wrong and we'll learn from it. He'll retake the GRE and maybe grad school will have to be put on hold for a bit. I'll eventually stop crying about not being published and find a new story to start working on. It'll suck. We're so eager to move on with our lives, to continue moving forward with our goals. But we both know it won't be smooth-sailing. We both know we might have to face some setbacks. There's not much we can do about it. Failure is just a part of life.

Failure is not an option. But if it happens, it happens. It won't be the end of the world. We'll pick ourselves up and move on. And fortunately the one thing that I am most confident about, the one thing I'm not afraid will fail, is our relationship and support for each other. If we fail, then at least we're going down together.

It's a Love Story

2010-10-28T10:27:00.000-07:00

2005: Sophomore year - Homecoming Dance

I don't know why but I let it slip to my friend that I want to go to homecoming with this guy I sort of know. And being miss independent, my friend encourages me to ask him myself. I don't mind the idea actually; it wouldn't be the first time I would put myself out there for a guy. How hard could it be to ask a guy to the dance? It's not like guys have any guts to do that sort of thing anymore (since most guys I know who are girlfriend-less aren't really trying to find a date to the dance). So okay. Yeah. I'll ask him to homecoming.

End of the school day and I see him by his locker. My friend is with me. "Go!" she whispers to me. I freeze. "You know what, I don't know if I really want to..." she doesn't let me get away with it. She promptly pushes me in the direction of the boy and I realize I have no choice but to explain why I am suddenly in his personal bubble. I somehow spew out the words, "was wondering if you wanted to go to homecoming with me?" and he blushes a deep red. He says he's not sure (code for no) but will get back to me later. I remain hopeful.

The next week I find out I was not the only girl to ask him to homecoming (apparently a lot of girls have the confidence to ask guys out) but it doesn't matter. He likes another girl. And after telling the rest of us no, he will not even be going to homecoming, I find out he asks her to the dance shortly after.

I'm offended and pissed. I act angry. But really, I'm not that upset that he said no to me and asked another girl instead. I am upset because I don't understand what's wrong with me. I don't understand why he didn't want to go with me to homecoming. I don't understand why no guy has asked me to homecoming. Even when I try to give myself the change, no one is willing to give me one. I go home, lock myself in the bathroom, and cry.

2008: Spring/Summer - Evil Coach

I'm exhausted and confused. I have just talked to my high school about my coach hitting on me and I don't know what to feel. It needed to be done, but he's still my coach. I still have this mad crush on him. I am still somewhat hopeful that if he wanted to hook up with me, he must like me. Maybe this was his attempt at making things work.

It takes me awhile but as time goes on I realize my coach had no intentions of being with me the way I had hoped: a relationship. He wanted me like a booty call. It really sinks in when his fiancee calls me wondering what had happened. He had told me he had told her and she was infuriated. Instead he tried to continue the relationship with her and every time she questioned him about me, he said that she was crazy and nothing happened. The latter is true. Nothing happened. Yet all summer I wondered if I had let something happen if maybe my dreams would've worked out.

I'm happy nothing worked out with us. I'm happy I didn't go over. But I feel miserable. The one guy I trusted, the one guy I admired and respected, saw me as nothing more than a booty call. He only wanted to use me. Not even the guy I think is the best wants to be with me. I feel hopeless.

2008: First year at Ball State

He would be transferring. Right as I'm getting to know him, it would be the last time I'd probably see him. At least for a long while.

His name is Collin and he's a Christian, a musician, and one of the sweetest guys I know. I met him on a Cru retreat earlier this semester but didn't get to know him until December. Right when I learned that he was transferring to IU.

We meet for breakfast on the last day of finals and our conversation lasts for a few hours. We talk about everything. I tell him my dream to write for the Rolling Stone; he tells me his passion for music. We talk about Eric Clapton and God. But our conversation comes to an end because he has one more final to take. Unwillingly I leave.

My friend Joe texts me and begs me to have lunch with him. My mom will be here at one to pick me up for winter break; I won't see him for three weeks. I agree, even though I really just want to go home and feel sorry for myself.

We sit at lunch and I let it all out. I gush to him about how great Collin is, how unhappy I am that he's leaving, how much I wish it could in some miracle turn into a relationship, even though we still don't know one another that well. Joe sits and listens. He doesn't say much.

So I turn the topic to him. "Who do you like, Joe?" "A few people," he says. I'm nosy; I want specific names. We're both on run club so I figure it has to be some girls from there. I take a guess at our friend Liz; I knew he liked her before. He says he still does like her, but there's someone else. I start naming every girl I can think of. Erica? Chelsea? Rachel? Bobbi? The list goes on. He responds with "she's pretty" and "she's really nice" but they're all inevitably no. I dwindle the list down to everyone but one: me.

It suddenly dawns on me that the other girl must be me but I'm too afraid to ask. I keep pushing him, hoping he'll spill the name and especially hoping that it won't be mine. Eventually time runs out and I need to return to my dorm before my mom arrives. We say our goodbyes and I walk back.

On my way back I get a text: Hint #1: She has blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. Hmm. I am blonde. I have blue eyes. Oh boy.

Another text: Hint #2: It's you!

It's cute. But it's Joe. He's nice and we get along and all, but he's just a friend. He's not a musician; he's a math major. I just don't feel that way. A phone call a week later and I explain: we're just friends.

2009: May - Last day of school

I'm sitting in my J102 class listening to the final presentations being given and I swear it can not go any slower. I have a limited time table and I'm in a panic. This needs to end because I'm on a mission. And I must succeed.

This semester has been one hell of a roller coaster. Joe and I have become best friends; and while he remained crazy about me (his own words) I could not make up my mind about him. I wanted to kiss him on his birthday. But I didn't like him sitting next to me on a car trip cause I didn't feel comfortable around him. All semester I couldn't make up my mind. 2am texts were sent to his phone telling him "I think I like you", while the next week he'd get a 2am text saying "We can only be friends." I've put the boy through emotional hell and I hate myself. Especially now.

Six weeks before school ended I decided I would put an end to the misery. I told him I wanted to be single during the summer. I told him to move on. And after changing my mind a thousand times, he listened. He's pursuing another girl. And up until now I have been fully supportive. Until 3am last night when I realized: I want him to be with me.

Class finally ends and I walk as fast as I can without running to his dorm. This time I'm the one begging him to have lunch with me. We go to one of the campus dining rooms and buy food, but I can barely eat. I start rapidly talking. Talking so fast that I can't keep up with myself. Joe laughs at how fast I'm talking. I'm failing. I'm trying to explain that I change my mind, and it won't be changed again but why should he believe me? I'm begging, literally begging, for a second (or more like 15th) chance.

He can't give it to me. We made a deal we would not date each other. We made a deal we'd wait until fall. He can't trust my feelings. If we feel the same way in the fall, well, we'll take it from there.

He walks with me back to my room and as a pathetic attempt to get him to change his mind, I try to kiss him. He pulls away (how embarrassing). And I panic. Because I realize I really have fucked things up this time. There is no remedying the situation. I pushed him away and he's over me.

Until he changes his mind, and kisses me. And while we stand there in a hug, I can hear his heart pounding through his chest. And I think to myself: "I still have a chance."

Today

Summer of 2009 was by far the worst summer of my life. I lost 10 pounds, not because I'm a runner (I barely ran at all) but because I slept all day and ate nothing. I would stay up til 3am and cried almost every night. I felt sick to my stomach all the time. I literally hated myself. I realized I lost the one person I actually thought I should be with and it was my own fault. Not to mention, I was losing my best friend.

I don't regret that summer though because I learned what my true feelings were. No more changing my mind. No more chasing other guys. I tried dating over the summer, only to end every night on the phone with Joe.

By some miracle things worked out in the fall. There was one odd night where all but two of our friends were gone. And when those two friends left to go to parties it was just us. With nothing to do but to have the same conversation we'd had a thousand times before. This time around though, we would both be on the same page.

One year since then and I swear I'm the happiest girlfriend alive. He doesn't play the guitar. He's not a writer (in fact, he hates it). He has no desire to live in NYC. But he treats me like gold. He makes me laugh. He doesn't freak out when I cry (which happens more than I'd like). He's nothing like the man I once dreamed of dating; but he is more than I could've ever imagined.

I owe God a big fat THANK YOU because I'm finally living what I was once afraid I would never experience. It took some time, tested my patience and drained me of many tears, but here I am. Maybe I'm ridiculous. I am only 21. What do I know about love? Only what I've experienced. And I hope what I'm living only continues. And I hope others can have the same experience.

So there you have it. After a blog full of hatred, here is my blog about love. My little love story. Hopefully this is only the beginning of it.

Only Love Can Conquer Hate

2010-10-26T16:48:00.000-07:00

I hate someone. I know, what a cheery way to start off a new post. But it's true. I know you're not suppose to hate. I know most people like to sugar-coat it by saying, "I don't hate anyone, but I strongly dislike (so and so)." And I used to say that because I know it's a terrible thing to hate someone.

But I'm not going to lie: I hate him.

If my close friends were to take a guess at the person they think I hate, they'd be surprised to learn that it's not who they're thinking of. Yes, the person they're thinking of is not one of my favorite people. He falls on the "strongly dislike" list. But I do not hate him. And it's interesting because these two people are similar in a lot of aspects. But there is one very specific reason why one falls under hate while the other does not.

I guess I should begin as to why this even comes up. Pretty simple actually; I came across his facebook. And I looked at it. Reread his bio, thought about how there was truth to it while the rest was complete bullshit, and remembered why I am no longer friends with this person. Which inspired me to vent about it.

I could give you details as to why I hate this person, and maybe I should because there does need to be some proof, some reason, some truth as to why I have come to hate this person. But honestly, what good will it do? You're not me, you haven't had the interactions with this person the way I have. And I have no idea how anyone aside from myself defines hate. I could tell you the whole story in great detail but it doesn't mean you'll agree with me. So I'll skip all that. Just trust that I have my reasons and hate is what has resulted.

But why him?

Truth is, the other person caused a lot more personal harm than the person I actually hate. The other person stressed me out, angered me, brought tears to my eyes, left me vulnerable and inspired revenge. For a long time, I did in fact hate person B.

Until earlier this year. Person B subtly popped up on my facebook (I hate technology) and although it wasn't enough to call for communication, I jumped on it anyway since I was dying with curiosity to understand why he was even looking at my facebook (because I'm a girl and we overanalyze EVERYTHING. If someone merely "pokes" you on facebook it's enough to get your mind going with all sorts of theories and thoughts that this person is trying to catch your attention). So I messaged him. He responded. He, for the first time ever, apologized. Cool. But when he tried to keep the communication going, I stopped him. This is weird, I remember thinking. It's like we're trying to get back to being friends again. And I don't want to be friends. I don't even want him in my life.

So to avoid the "I never want to speak to you again" message, I blocked him. That should send the message loud and clear, right? Of course, little did I know that I would later receive a nasty e-mail from him saying that if I didn't want to talk to him all I had to do was say so. I didn't have to block him.

And there, right there, is actually what draws the line between dislike and hate.

Person B is a straight-up douchebag. No doubt about it. And I have even more proof to back that up and I doubt anyone would disagree with me if they heard my story. But the difference between Person B and Person A, is that Person B doesn't understand that he's a douche bag. He doesn't understand that he hasn't changed at all. That one simple message he last sent said it all: He's the same guy from two years ago and I doubt he understands what could've been the consequences of his actions. All I'm saying is, if someone blocked me I would get the hint that they didn't want to talk to me. And if I was mature enough, I would respect their wishes. I would not go out of my way to bitch at them for doing such a thing. I'd let it go.

Maybe it was immature of me to block him. But then again, if you heard my story I think you'd understand. Plus, in my defense, I was 20 when I blocked him. He was 30. Don't you think someone ten years older would have a little more maturity?

Maybe once again I overanalyzed. But when I think of Person B, I no longer feel anger. I just feel sympathy. Sympathy because he hasn't changed. Sympathy because he doesn't understand just what's he done, mostly to himself. Sympathy because I don't think he grasps what he did wrong.

Person A on the other hand? He knows. I don't know how to explain that he knows, but he does. I just know it. He knows his actions, he knows how his actions are going to affect other people, and he goes ahead and does it anyway.

And that's why I hate him. I hate him because he intentionally hurts people for his greater good. Person B hurt people, and I'm probably the person who felt the least of it. And yes, he hurts people for his greater good as well. But Person B doesn't seem to grasp how he hurts other people. He doesn't seem to be able to wrap his mind around how his actions really affect others. In his mind, he is the victim.

Of course, I don't like either of them. I really don't like Person B any more than Person A. But I can forgive Person B because I understand his ignorance. I don't want to forgive Person A because he had it coming.

This was all just a rant. In fact, I don't even know why I had the desire to write about this. Maybe it's one more piece of guilt that I needed to flush out my system; the guilt of knowing I hate.

Marvin Gaye said, "Only love can conquer hate." And I agree with him. But how do you love someone who has hurt you? How can you possibly love someone you know you hate?

I know the answer to this. I don't like it, but I know it. It's called forgiveness. I've forgiven Person B, because I understand that he doesn't understand. I haven't forgiven Person A though. And trying to forgive him will be difficult.

And that's my prayer for tonight: That God can show me how to love, so I may conquer my hate.

Baby Steps

2010-10-25T07:54:00.001-07:00

Let's start small.

That's the best I can do right now and I think it's the most I can handle. After feeling insanely guilty for my lack of obedience to God, going to church yesterday, and then reading my friends' e-mails today, I realize I've somehow jumped the tracks when it comes to being a Christian and having this relationship with the Lord. I'd ignore it but that's just an easy cop-out. Not to mention, it's also because I've been ignoring it for so long. I can't ignore it anymore.

The truth is, I miss it. I miss turning to God for help. I miss how calm I feel when I do go to church, and pray, and read the bible, and talk to others about God. I miss that feeling of "everything's going to be okay." I miss having God a part of my life.

I know how this happened and as much as I hate to say it, I could've seen it coming. Instead of putting my faith and love and trust into God, I put it in other people. I specifically put it into my boyfriend. Now, I am by no means blaming him. It's just that I found comfort in his physical presence that I've lost the comfort of being in God's spiritual presence. And let's face it. It's obviously a lot easier to run to my boyfriend crying and have him wrap his arms around me than it is to run to God. I think that's the point though. You're suppose to turn to God even though you can't see Him, or hear Him, or feel Him, in the physical sense. That's the whole point of faith. To trust in what is unseen.

And I still do trust in what is unseen. I still believe in God, I still believe He can help me. But I've been carrying around this guilt of sin. This sin that I don't know what to do about. Because I still live in it and I don't think it will stop. Sin that has me torn up because I don't even feel guilty except when I think about the fact that it is all sin. I'm not sure what to make of it.

And that's what's been separating me from God. Sin. This guilt, this shame, this knowing that I have failed because I did not obey. Why should God listen to me when I don't listen to Him? It makes sense, does it not?

But I also have to remember that God was well aware of this and fixed it. You know, Jesus dying on the cross. So that our sins would not separate us from God. I know that Jesus' death was more so that we would go to heaven instead of hell even though we are sinners. But I think it applies to our lives here on earth. I think, and I am by no means any expert on God or Christianity or anything for that matter, but I think part of being a Christian is that you know God loves you in spite of your sin and you don't allow your sin to come between you and God.

If you can't tell by now, I am trying to work out this puzzle of religion and faith in my head. Bear with me.

To let my sin separate me from God is only what is making this worse. To allow guilt to keep me from going to Church, from praying, from doing the things that will bring me closer to God is going against what Jesus did for me in the first place. God knows I've f'ed up. God knows I will f up again. But I don't think God would want me to stop talking to Him because I keep f'ing up. At least I hope not.

So where do I start?

And that's what brings me to the whole point of this blog: to start small. I can't expect myself to dive right back into Christianity like it's my job because as history has taught me I'll only feel overwhelmed and confused, and when I fail I'll go back into my same cycle of ignoring God and letting time pass until I'm right back to where I am right now. No, I can't put pressure on myself to be the perfect Christian. It'll never work.

So I've decided I will start with a small goal. This week: pray every day. Whether that's for just a minute or for an hour, I need to get into the habit of talking to God. That's the first step in remedying a relationship, right? To start talking. Letting it all out. And more importantly, to be completely and utterly honest. Even about the things that I know God won't be happy about.

My first prayer is that God will listen.

Daydream Believer

2010-10-17T17:23:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, just yesterday, did the idea of attending grad school finally burrowed it's way into my head. Talk about an unexpected desire showing up just a little too late.

I have never had any desire to continue my education further than undergrad. Never. In fact, I could barely stand the idea of attending school for as long as I'm supposed to. But thanks to the post-secondary program I did my last year and a half of high school, I skipped out on high school classes and took college courses instead. I walked into Ball State with 32 credit hours under my belt. Now I'll be getting out of school a year ahead of time.

I realize, with this last year of college speeding by me just a little too quickly, how much of a hurry I've been in my whole life to get out of the education system and be able to stand on my own two feet. Ever since I could remember I've been eager to grow up. Of course, that's natural. Everyone at some point in their childhood dream up different careers and imagines what life is like as an adult. But I don't know if anyone has been trying to rush through it in such a way as I have. And now with my childhood behind me and my "grown-up" years only minutes away, I'm trying to preserve every ounce of youth that I have.

I'm technically an adult, but like most people my age I don't feel it. I feel childlike in so many ways. Still constantly learning things about the world I feel I should already know. Still in this self-conscious state of mind where I feel any wrong move I make will bring everything falling apart. My grades aren't good enough, my cooking isn't up to par, and I'm still living off my Dad's paycheck. If you threw me out into the "real world" right now, I would fall apart.

And that's part of the reason I think this mysterious desire to continue my education popped up. It was Saturday night, just my boyfriend and I sitting and talking when somehow I brought up the grad programs a journalism professor recommended. Northwestern was one of them and boyfriend, being the Chicago/Illinois enthusiast that he is, piped up and urged me to check out their website. So I looked it up and saw the program and the courses they offered. It intrigued me. I felt like I was a junior in high school again, enthusiastically and curiously looking up all the possible universities I could attend. Except this time I could expand my search even further. Think of all the universities out there, at all the different places, all offering to help improve my journalism/writing skills. Think of the opportunity! I won't lie...it's a little tempting.

It's also tempting to go back in time, return to my happy days of cross-country running, Steve & Barry's working, college classes at Miami Hamilton, and just be 17 forever. Have my girls nights, flirt with cute boys, be naive and live life the way I always knew it. If and only if.

Truth is, I do believe I am much happier here (believe it or not) in Muncie, IN. I am much happier not stressing about boys, especially one who I should've never stressed about in the first place, and be in the relationship with the boy I was lucky enough to snatch. I am happy to not be worried about what I am going to do with my life and now only have the pleasure of worrying about how I will succeed with what I want to do with my life. I am happier even though I'm broke. I am happier even though I'm farther away from my family and some of my very close friends. In a nutshell, my life is harder than what it once was...but I am happier with it.

I've decided not to pursue the grad school idea just yet. That's going on hold. I always have a thousand of "wonderful" ideas I get all gung-ho about, only to toss them out a week later. I am still very eager to just throw myself out there, even though I'm terrified. I still like the idea of not knowing where I'm going to be a year from now, even though it goes completely against my anal "have a plan for everything" for personality. As odd as it sounds there is some sort of odd comfort in knowing that I don't know. And I won't know until after next summer.

Until then, I'll flirt with the ideas that come and go, dream of the possibilities ahead, cry over my worries, and know that in the end I'll be okay.

Teenage Dream

2010-10-15T21:08:00.000-07:00

So awhile ago, I'm guessing maybe two years, I discovered this band called Boyce Avenue via youtube. They did a cover of Rihanna's Umbrella and it blew me away. Aside from Alejandro's undeniably beautiful voice, I was impressed with this band because they're one of the few who can actually perform a decent cover, as in they can take a song and make it their own without ruining the original version.

Well time has passed and Boyce Avenue sort of slipped off my radar. I didn't forget about them, I just didn't keep up with them. That was until this week, Thursday actually, where I was still feeling ill (especially after realizing I certainly did not do my best on a project for one of my favorite classes) and needed something to cheer me up. I saw they had done a cover of Taio Cruz's Dynamite and figured it would be worth checking out. It was pretty decent. But the next video I saw was a cover of one of my recently favorite pop songs: Katy Perry's Teenage Dream. Ah. Beautiful! Just his voice and the piano. And what I loved the most was that he completely desexualized the lyrics. Everything raunchy and everything that was hinted at sex was changed in his version. As a girl I of course found this completely sweet and sentimental. Romantic. Pure. I could go on. But let's just say I love it.

Anyways, the reason I bring this up is because Boyce Avenue suddenly reminded me of the reason I even decided that writing was what I wanted to pursue as my career. In fact I remember the exact moment I decided what I wanted to do with my life.

I was 15 years old and still working at McDonald's. It was a beautifully warm afternoon and I was stuck in the back working extension, aka, taking orders for the drive-thru. It was a slow afternoon, that time in-between lunch and dinner, and with no orders to take and nothing else to keep me preoccupied, I did what I do best: I daydreamed. Considering it was so gorgeous out and how much I hate being indoors when the weather is so, I leaned my body halfway out the window (as I normally do when the managers weren't around) trying to grab on to some sort of freedom that existed outside of that little hell-hole. And I realized; I had to get out of this. I couldn't end up like the managers, in their 30s and 40s and still working at this greasy little restaurant apologizing to the bitchiest customers for forgetting to take pickles off their 1000 calorie sandwiches. No, I could do better than that. I had to.

But what was I to do with my life? I wondered. What do I want to do? What can I do? So, trying to be as logical as I could, I thought about my two greatest passions at the time: writing and music. I love writing as I always have. And from what all of my teachers and peers had told me, I wasn't half-bad. In fact in third grade we did this project where on one side of the paper you wrote what you thought you would be doing when you grew up, and on the other side of the paper your peers wrote what they thought you would be doing. Half of my peers wrote "author" or "writer". Even my teacher wrote "I think whatever you'll be doing it will involve a lot of writing." It's kind of creepy that in the third grade they all somehow knew.

But then there was music. Something I had pursued several times yet could never fully find the passion for it that a true musician has. I was in the school choirs up until I was cut in the sixth grade (I discovered I was no longer a soprano...alto is where I stand). I also tried the flute. A beautiful instrument but I gave that up after a year. I then pursued the piano...something that I still love to this day. I took my piano lessons seriously. But when running became more important I realized I didn't have the time to do a sport, a part-time job, and high school along with putting an hour into the piano everyday. I determined I had learned enough and could figure out new songs on my own. I dabbled with the guitar for a bit and for a long time I considered a great passion. But I discovered that Dave Matthews likes to write some very difficult tabs and I didn't have the time nor patience to try to learn the songs I wanted to play.

So in a nutshell, I was never meant to be a musician. But that didn't mean that I still didn't love music (who doesn't?) and that I couldn't make it a part of my life. So the wheels began turning...writing or music? Writing or music? Writing or...

And then BAM! The big a-ha moment. It suddenly dawned on me that there are people out there who make a living by writing about music. They write reviews, the cover concerts, they interview bands, etc. Even though this was nothing new I felt as if I had just invented my own dream job.

And there it was, on that terribly boring afternoon hanging outside a McDonald's drive-thru window I realized that what I really want to do with my life is write about the music and musicians that I loved. My ultimate goal was to be a journalist for the Rolling Stone. That is what I wanted. That was what I was going to strive for.

And up until last year that was it. That was the big dream. Get to NYC, write for the Rolling Stone, meet all these amazing bands and live in a dream world. It was perfect.

Until I realized, it wasn't. My RS dream started to fade after having a conversation with someone who told me what the business is really like. The more I read the Rolling Stone the more I realized I wasn't sure I would fit in. I dreamed up interviews with musicians that I liked. I forgot about the thousands of other musicians out there that get covered as well. I forgot that everyone else is striving for the same dream job as my own. I also realized that I knew nothing about writing for a music magazine.

I also think there is an internal reason as to why this dream has slowly faded away from me. I think I have this great fear that this passion will be ruined. That if I try to build a life around it I will learn to hate it.

But Laura, aren't you afraid that's going to happen with writing? Well, yes, I am a little afraid that one day I'm going to wake up and no longer have any desire to write. But I don't see that happening for a long time, and when that day comes, well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Until then, I need music. It was the escape from my misery on Thursday. It is my comfort. It brings tears to my eyes, it is my coffee in the morning. It's what takes me away from my stresses and what gives me strength to push forward. I need music in that vital way that most people depend on it. Listening to Boyce Avenue reminds me of that.

So the Rolling Stone dream is on hold. For now at least. I have bigger concerns for right now, like finding an internship and determining where I'm going to be living after this school year. Music isn't going to leave me. Writing is only going to strengthen me. And if there comes a day when those two can be combined, well then, hopefully I'll be living my teenage dream.

Life is Short. Have an Affair. - The AshleyMadison Rant

2010-10-05T19:39:00.000-07:00

I am using my blog to try something new that I think will help my writing. You see I'm taking the opinion-writing class, a class that I very much enjoy but have found to be increasingly difficult. It's not hard to comprehend, and what I've learned from the class and from the book we're reading is all useful information that I'm trying to put into practice. And that's where the tough part comes in: writing is always easier said than done.

So I have a column due tomorrow for this class and what I've found works is to do my research, write up a draft the night before it's due, then look over it and make adjustments for it in the morning. So far my grades have been consistent. High Bs, just below the A mark. Which is great, but is also frustrating. This next column I turn in I would love to receive an A on.

However, this week's column is going to be difficult for me to write, because it is an issue that really bothers me, in this instinctive way that I can't describe. I hope no one takes offense to this, but I feel uber-conservative with this issue: close-minded and in denial of any facts that support the opposing argument. It really is something that no matter how well you present the opposing side, I just can't agree with it.

So before I start writing my draft, I figured I would give this a try and write a pre-draft. It'll give me a chance to vent, really let out of my feelings without having to worry if what I'm saying makes up a good column, or whether it's supported by any facts, etc. This is my blog, and while I love hearing feedback on what my friends/random readers read here, in the end I really don't care. This is for me. These are my thoughts. I say what's on my mind and that's all I need to justify it.

So here goes my ranting and raving. I'm hoping that through this blog I can sort out what I'm really thinking and feeling so I can write up the column that's going to get me an A.

What I'm writing about this week is AshleyMadison.com. What is it? It's a website for married couples to cheat on each other. That's right. A website completely devoted for married couples, or I guess couples in a relationship, to cheat. As if we need more problems in this world.

I'm not sure who to blame here. Most of me wants to blame the founder, Neil something, because while he claims he is a happily married father of two, here he is encouraging people to cheat. How hypocritical can you get? But at the same time, maybe he's just being smart. His website has exploded, with more than 7 million members. 7 million people using his website to cheat. As angry as I want to be at the creator, look at all the people who have jumped on his immoral bandwagon. If I want to blame on anyone, I'm battling more than I can handle.

Still it goes back to the creator. I think what bothers me most is that this guy is married and he is encouraging others to cheat. Actually, what really bothers me is his wife. Maybe it's because she's a woman, so naturally I relate to her more, but I don't understand how she can be married to a guy who believes that it's okay, in fact as he has often stated healthy to cheat in a marriage. When you get married, aren't you making a vow to stay with your partner for better or for worse? I'm sorry, but I don't remember ever attending a wedding where they exchanged terms of when it's okay to cheat. If you wanted to cheat, I feel like you shouldn't get married in the first place.

But back to the wife. Doesn't it bother her that the guy she is married to is encouraging 7 million people to go against what they promised to each other? Doesn't a giant red flag just pop up in her mind? Isn't she scared that one day she'll do something wrong, or something will go wrong, and as a "solution" to avoid divorce he'll go cheat? How can you trust someone who is encouraging everyone else to be untrustworthy?

I think that's the big issue I can't get over. It'd be one thing if he was a bachelor, or had a history of cheating. But according to Neil, he's blameless. In a committed relationship he doesn't plan on straying from. As I've heard him say in an interview, he provides the product but he doesn't use it.

Part of me wants to praise the wife for being so trustworthy. Another part of me wants to believe she's stupid and naive.

But this isn't about the wife. This isn't even about Neil. It's about this damn website that has shown how many people out there are willing to cheat. Is there any hope for a monogamous relationship when you hear those numbers?

Part of the argument is that cheating helps. For some couples, it saves the marriage. I'd like to believe that there are better, more honest ways of improving a marriage. I just think that infidelity happened to be there and they had no where to go but up. And that doesn't make cheating any better.

Sigh.

Sad truth is, it's not going to change. The dude's right. With or without his website, people are going to cheat. But at the same time, for every person who is willing to use this website I'd venture to say there is two or three who are against it. Why else would networks refuse to air his commercials? Because the majority of the people still believe it's not right.

There are a lot of people who will cheat. But there is also a lot of people who believe it's wrong. And it's the latter that gives me hope.

Hello Hypocrisy

2010-09-30T11:32:00.000-07:00

Well if I felt God tapping on my shoulder recently, He basically shoved me today.

It starts with yesterday. I was walking over to one of the campus buildings for a meeting when I ran into an old acquaintance. His name is Rusty, and he is perhaps one of the kindest, humblest guys you will ever meet. He's tall with brownish red hair, is very genuine and 100% country. He is also one of the strongest Christians I know.

We said nothing more than "hi, how are you?" but I felt an instant blush of embarrassment and guilt. I hadn't seen nor talked to him in a long time, and the last time we had talked I was still this innocent Christian girl who was in her first year of college. It was long before I had ever touched alcohol or sacrificed any of my morals. And while I have no clue as to whether he was passing any judgment on me, part of me couldn't help but think that somewhere inside he was shaking his head. I still keep the innocent facade, but that's all that it is.

And then today, only a few moments ago. I was sitting outside the library, trying to catch up on the chapters I need to read for my magazine management class. While I was lost in the "top 10 tips to being the best editor" I heard voice near me. "Excuse me, ma'am? Can we ask you a few questions about spirituality?"

I couldn't say no. Not to sound too narcissistic, but I'm always the one asking people questions when in reality I do love to talk about myself (who doesn't?). Also, it was about spirituality. My spirituality. What kind of person would I be if I couldn't talk about the one thing I am trying to put as my number one priority?

So I was introduced to the three there, the videographer, an assistant, and the guy interviewing me. The questions began.

I knew as soon as they decided to interview me that this was going to be something for Campus Crusades for Life, aka Cru. I've been here long enough to know which religious group is out doing what. Navigators are the laid-back, relaxed group (I love Navs). Cru is the "get out there and spread the word" group! Usually this is intimidating and scares people off. But you know what? They're doing what they feel is right, what they feel will bring people to God. I have nothing against them.

Anyways, I answered my questions, as honestly and as intelligently as I possibly could. My first answer to the first question was probably the best. He asked me what I felt was the most important thing in life. I didn't say God or my faith, or anything like that. I said what was probably the most honest answer I could give: love. And that's the truth. To love my family, my friends, my boyfriend, even strangers, to the best of my ability. I can't say I excel at this...but it is the most important thing to me.

The rest of the questions were more directed towards God, and I answered as honestly as I could. And while I believe the words that were coming from my mouth, I felt like a liar the entire time. How do you get to know God? I gave them my answer. What I didn't tell them was that I wasn't even taking my own advice. I barely go to church. I haven't picked up my Bible in months. And the only time I pray is when I'm struggling and I need help. Religion has become a device I use when I need it. And that wasn't the impression I gave to my interviewers.

There was a particular answer asked in which the guilt really set in. The one girl asked me how my relationship with God affects me in college. I gave a generic answer...going on about how it's tough because there are so many temptations in college. And that's when she did it. She rolled her eyes and nodded her head. It was that look of "yeah, there are too many temptations in college, it's so ridiculous." And I wanted to stop. Because that expression made me realize what I had just done. I had just convinced my interviewers that I was the innocent Christian girl I wanted to portray. If I had let on earlier that I wasn't, she wouldn't have felt comfortable giving that expression. Or maybe she would. But from my experience, when someone tells you about all the sins they've committed, you don't roll your eyes and nod your head in exasperation when you talk of people giving into temptation.

I know what's going to happen. They're going to take clips from that interview and put it up on that giant screen in Pruis and there's going to be my face talking about how great a relationship with God is and why all college students should pursue it. I should start taking my own advice.

I don't know what to make of this. How can I talk to people, allow them to use my opinions on God when I can't even be held accountable for them? There are going to be people in that audience who know me and are going to realize that I am the biggest hypocrite alive.

Why couldn't I just admit that I haven't given God any time recently? Why couldn't I admit that I don't pray like I use to, go to church like I use to? Why couldn't I have been honest and just say, "Look, I am a Christian. I believe in God the Father and Jesus, His one and only son. I love God and I put my faith and trust in Him. But I am a horrible Christian. I sin and fall into temptation all the time. I do things that a Christian shouldn't do. I wish I could give you an answer on why this is and how to get out of it. But I don't even know myself. I know I'm not your "model" Christian. But I am a Christian. Flaws and all. Take it or leave it. This is the reality of being a Christian and college."

I'll tell you why. Because that's not what they wanted to hear. That's not what's going to bring people in. Though I'm beginning to believe if we were all just a little more humble and a whole lot more honest, Christianity wouldn't be what it is today.

I still love that Gandhi quote. "I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ." I could be the poster child for that.

The Cat's In the Cradle and the Silver Spoon

2010-09-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

I am one of those people who don't believe in regrets. I believe that everything happens for a reason, and that every mistake we make has a lesson to be learned from, and therefore is not worth regretting. But this past weekend, all of that belief went right out the window. Because I know I made my biggest regret.

It starts with Friday. I left a little after 3pm to go home. My mission for this trip home, seeing as I had only been there two weekends before, was to talk to my parents about my financial situation. You see, I am literally the definition of a poor-college student. Even though I saved up money in high school and saved room and board last year by working as an RA, I still ended up blowing all of my money on my travels in England. Now people say that you don't regret spending money on traveling, because it is always worth the experience. I'm beginning to think that I beg to differ.

Anyways, once I let my Mom in on my financial struggles she informed my Dad who suggested one weekend I come home and talk about how much I have and and how much I need. I was misinformed. I thought my Dad meant to come home as soon as I could. What he meant was the next weekend I come home we'd talk about it; I didn't have to make a trip home just for this. But it was too late now. I had made my decision to go home earlier that week and so I arrived just a little after 5pm. But my trip would be short; I had planned to come back on Saturday and I promised my boyfriend I would. I told my parents this as well. It seemed like it was going to be a good weekend.

Well, Saturday evening rolls around and I'm once again gathering up my things to go back to Ball State, when my Dad comes and says, "You know, you don't have to go back tonight. You can stay." I knew what this meant. It was my Dad's way of saying that he didn't want me to leave just yet. I went on packing though, wondering whether it was just an offer or if he seriously wanted me to stay. At this point I couldn't tell.

As my time of departure inched closer my Mom chimed in on her wishes. She didn't feel comfortable with me driving alone at night, especially on the back country roads I take. I knew this was an excuse as well, seeing as how last year they had no problem with my driving home for winter break at night alone in the middle of a snow storm. So then I blatantly asked them, "Do you want me to stay?"

My Dad said that we could have a camp fire, I could stay the night and have coffee and Krispy Kreme donuts in the morning (I had earlier mentioned my craving for Krispy Kreme). By then it didn't need to be said. My parents wanted me to stay. Plain and simple.

But I felt stuck. I had promised my boyfriend I would be back, and he had text me earlier that day saying how he missed me and was looking forward to seeing me that night. I was in a corner, and the outcome would be guilt either way. If I stayed, I would be a bad girlfriend. If I left, I would be a bad daughter. There was no win.

My parents helped me decide. Since I had made a promise that I would be back, they told me I couldn't break my promise and started helping me pack my car. The whole while I was fighting back tears. I knew before I even left what I was doing. I was choosing my boyfriend over my family. I felt like I was breaking my own heart.

As soon as I pulled out of the driveway and waved goodbye, the tears broke free. I started crying, silently cursing myself for the decision I had just made. 20 minutes later I was still crying. 30 minutes later, still crying. An hour into my drive the tears were still flowing, while all the while the voice in my head kept saying, "Turn around, go back, it's not too late!" I don't know why I didn't turn around. It would've been so easy to go back, apologize and spend some time with my family, call up my boyfriend tell him the situation and apologize to him as well. I knew he would've understood. But I was in a daze. Too disappointed with myself to try to make it right. I felt numb, and so I kept driving.

I arrived in Muncie and called my parents to let them know I made it. They thanked me for the text messages I sent (John Mayer's "Say" came on while I was at a stop light and so I sent them texts saying I loved them) and were happy to hear I made it. I went inside to my boyfriend's and kept my cool. Until of course, as always, Joe was able to pick up that something that was wrong. When he asked me, the tears started flowing and I ran into the bathroom and poured out how mad I was at myself. After everything my parents have done for me, after all they've given, I was too selfish to stay for just one extra night. The one thing that I could give them was my time, and I couldn't even give them that.

Joe held me as I cried again for another hour. Once the tears stopped and I calmed down, something happened that I certainly didn't see coming.

Joe turned to me, and although I can't remember everything he said, it was something along the lines of how seeing me react this way, seeing how much I care about my family, gave him the chance to see the real me. And then, the words I had been longing to hear for six months were finally said..."I love you."

Really?

Ironically, in the moments in which I hated myself my boyfriend was able to see that he loves me. Which, in a way, reaffirmed my faith in love. Because love is steadfast; you should feel the same love for someone when they're at their worst as when they are at they're best. It was comforting to know that despite my horrendous mistake, my boyfriend was able to see my intentions.

My parents also still love me, even though I left them at the one moment I should have stayed. I told them I was sorry I had not stayed and that I wish I had. They were already over it. Which is also comforting. A parent's love is unconditional.

As I look back on that night I can't help but wonder if that was suppose to happen. Because if I had never chose my boyfriend over my parents, would my boyfriend have ever seen how much I care and realize that he loves me? And if not, how much longer would it have taken? I wished to those words so badly. I guess the saying's true; be careful what you wish for.

In the end, I still do regret leaving my family, despite how happy I am to know that my boyfriend and I are on the same page. I can't help but think that one day when they're gone and I'm not going to have the choice to spend my time with them, I'm going to look back on this day and really hate myself for it. I know it's a little morbid, but that's the reality of life. Putting it in that perspective, tears are still coming to my eyes.

There is a race next Sunday that my Dad is going to. My run club usually goes to this race, but that weekend we'll be in Chicago. But since our race is on a Saturday, and that race is on a Sunday, I can still make the drive to Minster, OH and cheer my Dad on. I'll get to see my parents, and even though no matter how much time I spend with them in the future will never make up for what I've missed in the past, I hope this will at least show them that I do love them and that I do care.

Until then, the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon. Little boy blue and the man on the moon. "When you coming home, daughter?" "Dad I don't know when, but we'll get together then. You know we'll have a good time then."

Love is Patient...

2010-09-15T18:45:00.001-07:00

Love is patient. And I am horrible at it.

This weekend was the test for patience on pretty much every level I could think of. I lost patience with my boyfriend. I lost patience with myself. I lost patience with my professor, an editor, friends, and... am I forgetting anyone? Oh, well, I did lose patience with my Mom today. Oh and Ball State. I lost patience with the university too.

I thought I learned patience when I was in England. Mainly because it was forced. In a country where waitresses don't take your order until 15 minutes after you're seated and where transportation was relied on trains and buses, I did my fair share of waiting. I also thought I learned a deeper level of patience. I wasn't able to see my family, friends, and boyfriend for six weeks. I had to wait until the afternoon before I could contact them due to time difference. I had to wait til certain scheduled days and times to skype with my boyfriend. I had to be patient in most aspects of communication.

And if all of that wasn't enough, those three days of Birmingham hell should've done the trick. When you are stuck in a city and literally just waiting three days for a flight to get you home, you learn patience. Well, sort of. I was forced to be patient but I bitched about it every minute I was there and hated those 72 hours. So maybe that's why I'm this way. I learned patience only to lose it.

But regardless of the patience I experienced in England, I am back in America and am having to pursue this virtue again. And it would be great if I learned it very quickly.

This past weekend when I went camping I did more than just argue with my friends about alcohol. I also was able to open up to them and let them know some things they didn't already know. One thing they learned: after 11 months, my boyfriend still hasn't said he loves me.

I'm not a relationship expert, but I know how I feel and I can't forget my friends expressions when I confessed this little secret to them. They were shocked. Literally. They seemed worried and concerned. After finding out I said it six months ago and that nothing has been said, I got the sympathetic, "How do you feel?" "Are you okay?"

Which of course tore me up for the rest of the weekend. After realizing again that how I feel towards my boyfriend isn't the same way he feels towards me, it just ate away at me. So after talking to several friends and thinking more on it I realized it was time to have a talk.

I talked to him today. I feel better, even though I'm still confused. I'm not afraid of my relationship falling apart, but I am wondering when he is going to be on the same page as me. I can't help but wonder, where is the line between being patient and being hopeful?

Am I just hoping one day he'll wake up and realize he loves me? Or am I being a good girlfriend who is patiently waiting?

I sound a little pathetic either way. But I think most people "in love" seem a little pathetic anyway.

At the end of the day, I'd like to think I'm both. I'd like that I have high hopes for the future of my relationship. I also like to think that I'm learning the patience it takes to love someone.

Love is patient. I'm hoping God will help teach me that.

The Ugly Truth

2010-09-12T21:02:00.000-07:00

If I felt any temptation of breaking my one year of no alcohol, that ended this weekend.

It was Saturday night and my friends "kidnapped" me to go back to their camp ground at Mounds State Park. I didn't protest to this. Joe was out of town for a wedding, half of my friends were at a football game, and the rest were at this camping trip. I chose to have fun and enjoy a night out with my friends and bond with them without having to worry about the boy. So I went.

Before leaving though, two of my friends decided to hit up the liquor store and asked me what I liked. I won't lie; there was this moment of "Joe's not in town, he's not going to know nor care, what's the big deal if I enjoy a drink with my friends." But as I pondered over whether I really want to break my one-year commitment after only one month of alcohol freedom, another friend told me he wasn't going to drink. I explained the pledge I had made to myself (a pledge I hadn't told anyone about because ironically in my case when I tell people about my goals I have a tendency not to go through with them. I need to prove things to myself on my own). But I told him about my pledge and he agreed that we would be non-drinking buddies and hold one another accountable for a sober night. Awesome.

So when we arrived at the camp ground I didn't expect (but wasn't surprised) to have an opened bottle of woodchuck placed in my hand. I wasn't sure whether to be upset with my friends or flattered. One on hand they wanted be to have a good time and were giving me this bottle of alcohol as a gift. On the other hand, they knew I had told them I didn't want to drink for the night, and offering me alcohol wasn't very supportive. To be fair, these friends didn't know about my pledge either and they are very well aware that I have had no problem downing a beer or two in the past. In their eyes, what they did was nice. I just unfortunately could not accept it.

In my defense I explained my one year alcohol ban to help Joe, which of course required explaining how Joe has considered actually drinking alcohol. What I expected out of my friends was sympathy towards Joe and concern for his well-being and health. Instead I found looks of excitement on their faces, particularly one of my friends, knowing that Joe might be jumping on the college bandwagon and would finally get to experience a so-called "good time".

This both pissed me the hell off and scared the living daylights out of me.

After seeing their reaction, or really the one friend's reaction that sent my blood pressure soaring, I immediately jumped into my explanation of reasons why Joe shouldn't drink. The history of family alcoholism (which they were aware of). The fact that because it is so prominent in his family, his chances of becoming an alcoholic are higher. The fact that I talked to my health professor who agreed I should be concerned, the fact that I listened to alcoholics discussing their struggle when I had to attend an AA meeting for my Drugs and Health class...it's an ugly road I don't want to see anyone go down, especially the person I love.

But my friends wouldn't believe it. "It's situational" they say. Sure, just because Joe's chances of becoming an alcoholic are higher doesn't mean that he'll become one. And I don't disagree with that. But I do think that it's not worth the risk. I do think that it's honestly stupid of my friends to want my boyfriend to drink because they want him to have a "better time" than he's been having when it's possibly putting him in harm's way. I think my friends downplay alcohol and forget that it is an actual DRUG that for some people can be very ADDICTIVE. It's not just some beverage that you drink to feel happy.

And what upsets me even more is not the fact that they're not supporting me, but they're not supporting Joe. This whole time I thought my friends thought higher of him, respected him because for three years of college he's been able to go without the one drug most students try. I thought they understood his reasoning for not drinking and they were supportive and understanding of that. I thought they were on his side.

Now because of my stupid mouth, I feel like I've just made things even more difficult for my boyfriend. Now I'm afraid at the next party we'll go to my friends will be pushing drinks into both our hands. I thought my friends were different than most college students. I know they drink and they like it, but at the end of the day I really thought they believed you didn't need a drink in your hand in order to have a good time. Realizing how wrong I am just makes me heart a sink a little. I honestly feel sorry for them.

Before I was thinking that this year was going to be my struggle. Over this past month I have considered breaking my promise and I began to realize that I first needed to convince myself that alcohol isn't that great if I wanted to convince Joe that. Well, fortunately it didn't take a year, it only took a month. Never before have I been more certain how pathetic it is for college students to rely on alcohol. And never before have I felt so damn determined to prove them wrong.

Memories...what to do with you

2010-09-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I want to write about this.

I've been contemplating about writing about this topic since, well, forever. I attempted it my freshman year in my English class. I wouldn't say it was a complete failure, but when I went to talk to my prof, she asked me some deep, personal questions concerning the situation. Questions no one but counselor has asked me. Looking back on the responses I gave her, I realize I wasn't separated enough from the situation to really understand it.

Now I finally feel far enough from the memories and negative feelings to be able to write about it. Thing is, I don't know if I really want to.

There's something about writing about this situation that feels like I'm still dwelling on it. Like there's more to understand, more to figure out. But I understand everything. I understand what happened, why it affected me the way it did, how it has both helped me and hurt me, and how I've moved on past it. What's the point in going down that dark path when my life is so much better with it off my mind?

Then there's this other part of me that feels that it's necessary. Something about it makes sense. Like, if I can write about it and be able to analyze everything and be realistic about it all, then it will only prove to myself that I've moved on. Not to mention, maybe it'll help me let go of any old feelings (if there are any) and put a final seal on the envelope of closure. Maybe it'll give credit to the poor girl I once was, or prove some self-triumph over it all. Or maybe someone else could take something away from it.

Or maybe I'm just being a drama queen and it wasn't really that big of a deal. I mean, will my friends roll their eyes when they hear that I'm bringing this back up again? Or maybe they're wrong. Maybe in this situation, I can't care about how they feel. Maybe it was a big deal. But hell, how do I know what's worth freaking out over and what's not? How do I know what's worth bringing up from the past and what's better left untouched?

I guess I don't. But I also know that I could be logical about it, make a pro and con list, talk to others, try to figure out what's "right". That won't work out either. I'm an emotional person and that pours into every aspect of my life. If I don't feel an emotional connection to something, whether it's good or bad, I usually stay away from it. Nothing bothers me more than committing to something I find mundane.

Well, I guess I just answered part of my problem: I have to be emotionally invested in this if I really want to write about it. Now the question is, do I have the strength to write about something that I associate as a bad experience? Will I be able to handle the negative emotions that are going to come along with it?

I've been thinking about it and I guess the only way to find out is to give it a try. I guess I'll just have to find out for myself. Maybe I'll start and then stop immediately. Maybe I'll find myself trying to pull away from it. Maybe I'll explain everything, find a moral in the story, get to the end and then immediately drag it to my trash can icon. I don't know. I don't know whether it's worth writing about or not. All I do know is that it did affect my life and I owe it to myself to find out what I can do with these memories. Whether it's to let them die or find a positive way to bring them back up.

Now, where do I begin...

The Best of What's Around

2010-09-01T18:13:00.000-07:00

I admit that I feel a little pathetic saying that I think that some of the best advice I've ever been given has come from a song. Particularly because there's this stereotype that these songs were written by people who were on drugs, or have shallow superegos who thrive off of fortune and fame. Or of course because most of the songs you hear on the radio aren't even written by the people singing them. Nevertheless, I like to think at the end of the day that musicians are still normal people dealing with all the problems that everyone else faces, and their songs are their simple way of working those problems out.

With that said, Dave Matthews recently gave me some excellent advice when he popped up on my ipod the other day. You see I have been struggling with something that everybody struggles with in life, particularly people my age who are at the end of their college career. Something we're all desperately trying to grab at and hold onto while at the same time are terrified of even going near. I'm talking about that looming little thing called the future.

I've probably said this before, but I guess I see no harm in repeating it again. I am the type of person that either dwells in the past and too often goes down memory lane, or is constantly daydreaming about the future and all the possibilities it holds. My attention for the here and now has always been lacking, but I think out of my fear for the future and my sensitive past that I've grown an appreciation for living in the moment. Still, some things never change, and with this year being the supposed last year of college, the future is all I can think about.

In the past I've dreamed and I've always dreamed big. It was always a mix of emotions, wondering where it was I really wanted to live, who I really wanted to be, what I really wanted to do with my life. Well, I'm only 21 so maybe I don't have that all completely figured out, but I do feel confident saying that I want to be a writer. (I think) I finally have my heart settled on a career. Where I'm going to live, who I'm going to be surrounded by, what kind of writer I will be...well, those are all still mysteries.

The future got even more complicated when someone else got thrown in the mix. Aka, the boy. I can't say that we're going to end up together forever, especially when we haven't even reached a year yet (less than 2 months away, but still). And I don't have my heart set on being with him together forever. We both understand that we're too young for any serious commitment (aka marriage). In fact, I don't even think I would be comfortable with an engagement, even if it were to happen after we graduate and are continuing on with the rest of our lives. I may be pretty impatient, but when it comes to love I take my time.

This doesn't help my problem though, because even though I'm not expecting a ring in any future I could ever imagine, I'm still a girl. I still have hopes for a happily-ever-after. I'm not in this relationship for it to end after college, I'm in this relationship because I think it can turn into something much more serious and permanent. If I didn't believe in marriage, why even date? But that's an issue I'll get into some other time. The point I'm trying to get at is that I'm not about to leave this relationship for no reason. Hence, I plan to include it in my future plans.

There is a problem with this though. You see, once upon a time I fell in love with something else I could see spending the rest of my life with, a relationship I've wanted to pursue long before I met my boyfriend. It's called New York, and I am obsessed. The idea of the big apple and its fast-paced insanity swept me off my feet before I knew it. Sadly the closest I've ever gotten to this dream city was in Newark. But ever since I saw that view, that perfect view of the skyline surrounded in a pink glow as the sun set from my little airplane window, everything I ever imagined was confirmed. It was love at first sight.

Unfortunately my love for NYC has become an annoyance to the bf. He believes that if I'm not in NYC living the big dream, then I'll never be happy. I've disagreed with him up until now. Now I'm questioning myself; if I'm not sure I'll be with him, am I just wasting my time and losing out on my big dreams?

It's crazy to think this but once upon a time I almost gave up my dreams for a guy. Details aren't worth going into because it makes me sick to think I was willing to give up so much for him. Since I nearly missed that mistake, I swore I would never let a guy come between me and my dreams again.

And so it started, the great inner battle I've been facing and avoiding on a daily basis. I feel like I've been pushed into a corner, given an ultimatum by no one other than myself. It's either choose my boyfriend or choose New York. I hate it.

And here is where Dave Matthews steps in, to remind me of all that I had learned this summer. Spending six weeks in England was a dream come true; England has been a dream long before New York. I can still remember the excitement I felt bubbling through me when I got off the phone with my mom, who had confirmed that I could go. But during those six weeks, as happy as I was to be there, I still wasn't completely satisified. I felt lonely, and I missed the boy like crazy. No matter what awesome sites I was getting see, I still missed him, and every skype date was something to look forward to. I was in my dream country...and couldn't wait to return to the states to see him.

After being here in Muncie, seeing him everyday, I've forgotten about all that. My memories of England are not about homesickness and missing people, but all the awesome stuff that happened. Fortunately though, Dave's gentle lyrics helped me remember.

In his song Best of What's Around off of the album Under the Table and Dreaming, he sings "turns out not where but who you're with is all that really matters" and "hurts not much when you're around." What a beautiful little truth. It doesn't matter if I'm in New York or in Muncie, IN. If I'm not with him, I'm going to be unhappy. Cities are just cities. Careers are just careers. You can pour all that you care about into them, but they will never love you back.

So even if I'm not in my dream city, I'll be happy just being with him. Even if I'm not in NYC, I'll still make the best of what's around.

Little Black Sunfire

2010-08-31T14:49:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I just need to take a step back and count my blessings.

Life has been going particularly well for me recently. With the exception of no success on the job front, life this school year is off to a good start. I am enjoying my classes and I have high expectations to do well in all of them. As of right now there is not one that I dread going to and none are pushing me towards the insanity of boredom just yet (not even econ247, though that's probably because I actually really enjoy learning about economics and financial stuff. I get it from my dad.) I am living off campus, thank goodness, and by that have avoided the overwhelming, crazy, stressful, yet often fun work that comes with being an RA. It's nice to not have to worry about others. It's nice to be able to eat breakfast at noon and not have to return to my hall at 7pm for duty. It's also nice being able to sleep over in other people's houses without having to ask for the night off.

With that said, I absolutely love (for right now at least) living in my house with my housemates. I like having the comfort of a kitchen that I don't need a key to, a living room, and living next to people that I actually like. But with living in a house I've forgotten one important little detail I wish I had put more thought into before now: transporation.

I don't know what I was thinking would happen this school year. I think I had this hope that my parents, particularly my dad, would see the need I have for my car and let me keep it. I guess I was also hoping that I could successfully persuade him into letting me keep it if I offered to pay for everything; gas, insurance, oil changes, any repairs, etc. Nope. Hasn't budged. I even looked up the car details on blue kelley and found the price the car would be worth, offering to pay for it (as if I had the money to actually do that). He told me he wouldn't make me pay for even what the car is worth (he seems to think it's a lot less) but he wasn't letting me take it. The car is in his name, it belongs to him. Game over.

And it was honestly pretty stupid of me to think that I could actually win, considering all the times in the past I have begged, literally begged for the car. I guess this time around my chances were higher since I am living off-campus and the need would be greater.

But sadly no. Come next week, I'll be in Muncie, and the only transportation I have will be the little old one gear road bike that was my mom's, until I can find a nicer bike for under $200. That and rollerblades. Thank goodness for being a runner, I at least know how to walk fast.

If I were writing this blog just a few days ago, I would go on and on, and on, about how wrong this is of my parents. I would throw myself a pity party and rant about how my friends whose parents have given them or bought them cars should consider themselves spoiled and lucky. I know this because I vented almost all of that in a stupid facebook status.

Which prompted my sister, who is also in college and car-less, to respond. She didn't say this bluntly, but she implied that I was being selfish little twat who needed to give her parents a little more respect for all they have given me instead of complaining about the one thing they refuse. Well really she just implied the selfish part; the rest was my conscious telling me to wake the hell up.

And they (my sister and jimminy cricket) were right. I was being selfish. I've always been selfish when it comes to that little black sunfire. Ever since my dad bought it in 1996 I have been yearning for it to be mine. When I was little I used to crawl in the back seat and just sit there. No particularl reason, I just loved being in that car. I dreamed of the day I would learn to drive it. I was lucky in high school, because it did eventually become mine. It was mine this past summer. It's been mine for trips to the grocery store to the 6.5 hour drive to New York. I just want it to be mine now and forever.

It's not fair for me to ask of it from my parents. Yes, there are only 2 drivers living at home now and they already have 2 cars. But, my sister is in the process of getting her license, the 2 other cars are both vans that aren't always reliable, and because my dad works in Cincinnati, he gets better gas mileage with the sunfire. Not to mention that with my sister and I being at college without cars, my dad gets an insurance discount. For me to have the car here, in which I'd probably only use it once a week, would be a waste.

So after cooling down and coming to my senses that I don't have to have my car, this is what I did think about:

The incredible amount of things my parents have sacrificed for me over the past 21 years. From clothes to tuition, from a camera for a major that I didn't pursue, to this nice little computer that my dad could've used for himself. From letting me borrow the car on countless road trips to depositing money in my bank account when it was needed the most (which happened very recently). To think that I expected one more thing of my parents after everything that they've offered is a little disheartening.

So even though I'll be relying on the MITS, my boyfriend, friends, and bike for future transportation, at least I know that when I really do need something, my parents will do whatever it takes to help. And that means a lot more to me than that little black sunfire.

Bel Far Niente

2010-08-20T21:08:00.000-07:00

Pursuit of pleasure. As Elizabeth Gilbert discusses in Eat, Pray, Love, Americans don't know how to pursue pleasure. We're too busy working. And when it is time to relax it's either in a zombie-like state of distress as we recover from our crazy work lives or we fill guilty and believe that we should be doing something. We go on vacation and we have to be distracted. We need something to entertain us. And if we can't find something, we retreat to that instinctive work ethic that is such a prominent part of our culture. As Gilbert discovers though, the Italians know how to relax. In fact they've got it down to an art; an art they actually call bel far niente, translated as "the beauty of doing nothing".

Now I don't have a drop of Italian in me, and maybe it's because I'm still a college student who's outlook on work and relaxation hasn't been tainted by the real world yet, but I'm pretty sure I'm a master when it comes to bel far niente. Now I will admit that I go get restless at some points. It was earlier this summer that I was whining about missing school and wishing that I was in England. But I don't think that was out of being unable to relax. In fact I'm pretty sure it was the result of relaxing too much. I needed something to liven up my life again.

Fortunately my wish was granted and I spent my six weeks in England, and now here I am, regretting that I ever wished that school was starting up, something I predicted in that sad little blog entry about boredom. And so now that classes are really around the corner, this weekend really is my last weekend of summer and enjoying it to the fullest.

So I came home. Well, actually I came home because I had a rescheduled eye appointment (the original one I missed because my England stay extended by an additional three days thanks to Continental), but I was happy to return home on Wednesday night. And I'm not going to lie. Even though my boyfriend wants me back at Ball State tomorrow and I've never hesitated to see him, this time I'm not ready to retreat back to a city nicknamed Funcie, in which the only "fun" part about it is really all my amazing Ball State friends. I'd rather stay here and enjoy Fairfield a little more. I was barely here this summer. Today I took a dip in the pool and realized I probably have only been in it for no more than 10 times this summer, if that even. I got to go everywhere this summer and yet I feel like I missed out on so much. I normally spend about a month in New York. This summer it was less than 2 weeks. I am normally in Fairfield a whole lot. But due to my England excursion, I'm feeling like I will have an early onset of homesickness this semester.

Don't take this as real complaining though. I loved this summer. One of the best summers of my life. But if anyone knows me, it's just as my Mom always states, I'm never completely happy. There's always something more I want or felt I should've experienced, but I can't have it all.

So I had to accept that time here in my hometown was short this time around. That's okay because yesterday and today I took full advantage of my mini-vacation here at home. Most of my friends from the field are at school, and so here I am on my own. With the exception of running my sister around, I haven't gone further than my backyard. Today I laid out in the sun with absolutely nothing running through my mind. I wasn't reading. I didn't even need my Ipod. Just me, the sounds of nature in my backyard, and the sun. It was relaxing. It was bliss. It was bel far niente.

After this year I'll soon be entering the real work force, the American work force that demands working long hours with short breaks and in some jobs or situations sacrificing weekends. You know what's really sad to me? People have accepted this. They've accepted being workaholics and have all us young college students believing that this is the way of the real world and that we "better get use to it". Well, I have one response to this: humph!! How dare you tell me to make work my life, to give up enjoying life without money or progression running through my mind. Besides, it's not the "real world", it's just America.

I love America but I think right now this is my biggest grievance with this country. We work because we're expected to and we believe this is okay. I seriously want to know who came up with this brilliant idea that working the way America works is enjoyable or desirable. Cause I'm not feeling it. I like that I can relax and not feel antsy. And I hope that once my career really does start, I'll still know how to live the life of bel far niente. And I hope that my generation will be the same way.

Eat, Pray, Love

2010-08-19T18:22:00.000-07:00

I am a girl. And there are stereotypical roles about being a girl that I most certainly fill. For example, I like the color pink. A lot. It is the color scheme of my bedroom at school. It is what I would like my new bike to be the color of. It's not the best color on me, seeing as with my blonde hair and blue eyes royal blue suites me the best, but I do enjoy wearing the color a lot, and in some cases I pull off an imperfect version of a Barbie doll. But yes, like a lot of girls, I like the color pink.

I also like chocolate. Oh how I love chocolate. I asked my Mom to buy me m&ms when I returned to the states (not because England didn't have them but because I didn't feel like spending the money on them). I just made my sister and I a nutritious dinner of chocolate chip pancakes smothered in maple syrup (and I wondered why the British consider them a dessert!). When I feel sad I crave Hershey's and nothing makes me happier than a delicious fudge brownie. Yes, I love my chocolate.

I'm a hopeless romantic. While I don't sit around in my room and dream of a prince charming to come save me, I most certainly did at one point in my life. I love all the Disney Princesses and I still get excited about watching Disney movies. I love hearing proposal stories, I stalk friends' engagements and wedding photos on facebook, and yes I know what I want my wedding dress to look like and what ring I hope to sport on my left ring finger. I'm a chick; I love my romance.

With that said it comes naturally that I'm also very emotional. I cry when I do something wrong and it upsets my boyfriend. I cry when I can't succeed at something, or I lose my patience. I cry when I hear a pretty song on the radio or watch a happy movie. Stock up on the tissues, because like a stereotypical girl, I do cry a lot.

The list can go on. I love shopping, especially for shoes. I like dressing up for no reason at all. I love my girls' nights and I always look forward to going out and dancing. I take pictures of flowers, I coo over any baby animal, and if you dare ask me I will gab on and on and on about relationships and boys. I hope I've proven my point by now. I'm very much your typical girl.

And if that's not enough to convince you, then maybe this is. I love, LOVE, Elizabeth Gilbert's most famous book Eat, Pray, Love.

I am only halfway through the first third of the book (section Italy, or "eat"), and I cannot get enough. You can assume I jumped on the reading bandwagon. Although I've contemplated buying this book when I first saw it on shelves at Barnes and Noble, it wasn't until I found out the movie was coming out that I finally decided to spend my £8 ($12) on it.

And I am so glad I did.

This woman is basically living my dream. With the exception of getting divorced and having what appears to be a mid-life/identity crisis, she is a successful magazine writer living in New York City. She can afford this one-year escapade of living in three different countries for four months each because her publisher gave her an advance on the book that I'm currently in love with. She's traveled all over the world, has worked interesting jobs (she wrote about being a bartender which later inspired for Coyote Ugly). Everything I hope to get out of my life, she seems to have already achieved.

But I feel like I relate to Gilbert on a more personal level. Yes, there is a bit of an age gap between us. Yes, she's seen more of life and has gone through things I've never been close to experiencing. But she is still a woman. Or as I am more comfortable saying, she is still a girl like me (it doesn't matter what age I am, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to consider myself a woman). Naturally, we have similarities. Common ones (like crying over men…go figure) and some a little more uncommon.

For example, she wants to learn Italian. Why? Because she thinks it's a beautiful language. There is really no purpose behind it other than desire. Which is funny, because I have been talking for years of my desire to be fluent in Polish. My grandfather was 100% Polish and knew of a few words and phrases in this not so common language. Since then, I've been fascinated with learning it. There is no real reason behind. I don't know anyone who speaks Polish. I can't think of any time in my life that I would actually use it, other than if I were to visit Poland (which I would like to do). I just want to learn it. Maybe in honor of my grandpa. Maybe because I think it'd be really cool to cuss someone out in a language that almost no one knows. Or maybe because it would make me different. How many people do you know speak fluent Polish, or any Polish for that matter? See, I've proved my point.

But let's go with something a little deeper than a language. Something that I think everyone has considered or dealt with in his or her life. I'm talking religion. Spirituality. Or even more to the point, God. The big man upstairs. The One that people argue over, pray to, curse at, sing for, you name it. It's inevitable. God is a part of our lives, whether we believe in Him or not.

In Gilbert's case, she didn't talk to God until she was bawling on the floor of her bathroom in the middle of the night when she realized that she didn't want a family and she didn't want to be married to her husband any more. She claims that culturally she is a Christian, but because she cannot agree that Christ is the only path to God, she cannot call herself a Christian. But she does believe in God, or to directly quote her, "I believe in a magnificent God."

But there's always more to religion than just believing. There's always more to discover, more to learn. More questions to answer, and even more to remain unanswered. Hence, Gilbert wants to go on this religious journey.

She is in Bali on a magazine assignment when she meets a medicine man who reads her palm. She tells him what she really wants, which is a true, lasting experience with God, but without having to give up everything, like a Priest or nun would do. In her own words, "I want to learn how to live in this world and enjoy its delights, but also devote myself to God."

She basically just summed up the internal battle I've been facing since I was 15, when I decided that I really am a Christian. Wanting to experience God's supreme love, but also be able to enjoy the world (worldly desires and being a true Christian always have seemed to clash).

I don't know what she discovers out of her adventure spiritually just yet. That'll be covered in the middle section when she visits India, covering the "pray" part in the book. Italy is the pursuit of pleasure, India is the pursuit of devotion, and Indonesia is the pursuit of balance. Right now I'm still in pleasure. Next I will learn about devotion (something I should really work on) and then the end of the book I'm hoping will help me discover how I can balance the two in my life as well.

This is what I love about this book. It's the first time in so long that I'm actually excited to read. I don't want to put it down. I am so curious as to what Gilbert will learn next and not only what she takes away from her experiences but what I can take away from her experiences. I'm hoping that her self-discovery will bring me some self-discovery.

Even if the book doesn't answer my own questions about balancing my life with God, it is bringing inspiration. It is reminding me of why it is I want to be a writer. This idea that one person's story can be so inspiring and encouraging to others. One day I'd like to do some crazy adventure and then write about it, and hope that someone can take something away from it. That is my ultimate goal with writing. That it has an effect (or is affect? I will never know).

But for now I'm still just a college student with much more to learn about writing and no where near perfecting this crazy little craft. So for the meantime I'm going to be a girl and grab some m&ms, and then sit back and continue reading my beloved new book. And you can bet that I will let you know all about it.

Summer Lovin

2010-08-18T23:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Summer,

Well summer, here we are again. Another goodbye to add to the previous 20 times I've met you. It seems you are always entering my life long after I've needed you, and leaving me before I'm ready to say goodbye. You come and you go in the blink of an eye. You're killing me.

I guess I shouldn't complain too much though, because this time you actually treated me well. Unlike the previous two summers that were filled with drama and heartache, this time around you decided to cut me some slack. You gave me time with my friends and family. You gave me one week with the boy in New York. You spoiled me again when you gave me both New York and Chicago within only days. I even got to visit Pittsburgh for two days this summer.

But let's not forget the biggest treat of all: England. Ah, the country I've dreamed of visiting for so incredibly long you finally provided for me to go see. For a blissful six weeks I went all over England, even took a few days to check out Ireland. I saw London, my dream European city. I had the best cup of tea I could've ever asked for in Bath. I cried on the bus ride home from Oxford because visiting the Iffley Road Track was just that special to me. I had friends to go out with on my 21st birthday. I actually learned to appreciate The Beatles. And you woke me up to the reality that The Police, as British as they were, are really an American band, and there was no need to visit their home country because there wasn't anything there to take from it anyway. They all have residences in the United States...so what was I thinking? Regardless, it was worth finding out.

So you see summer, you've been pretty wonderful towards me. No drama this time around, at least none that I can remember. Sure, I still shed a few tears, but that was out of missing a boy, not because I missed out on the boy. I did spend most of my money overseas...but everything I want here in America is already free. And after my interview today, I'm hoping I can make up for what I lost.

I do however have one little complaint. A silly complaint, so don't take it to heart, I don't want you to use it against me in the future. But the only thing I have to complain of is that because you were so great to me this time around, you're making it extremely difficult to say goodbye. In fact I don't want to say goodbye. I'm not ready to. I enjoyed you so much, there is no possible way that I'm suppose to start classes on Monday. You were great to me, summer, but you disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Unfortunately, you and I can't change the calendar. I knew since May that classes started back up on August 23rd. I know that just because you are leaving what seems so soon doesn't mean you literally are. I had my time with you and now it's time for both of us to move on. You will fade into fall, and my lazy ass will turn back into a busy, stressed-out college student. It's just the way it is.

So here we are, with only a few days left together. I will try to enjoy this time we have to the fullest. I'm back home in my beloved hometown, where sitting out under the hot sun, going for a swim in the pool, drinking sodas, grilling hotdogs, and doing completely nothing never seems to grow old. And here I am, up at 3am writing, not because I have an assignment I procrastinated on, but because I have the time and the freedom, and sleep is just not appealing to me right now. And when I do go to bed I won't wake up til noon. But I'll still brew the coffee and still make breakfast, and then go about my day of laziness. My typical summer schedule. Oh how we have it made.

But all in all, it's time for me to wrap this up, and the best way to do that is to do what I started writing this letter for anyway: to thank you. Thank you for giving me a wonderful summer. Thank you for all the traveling opportunities you provided, all the new friends I made on my adventures, and the old ones for staying in touch with when I felt a touch of homesickness. Thank you for the laughs and the tears. Thank you for the freedom and the fun. Thank you for everything you provided me, including the bad (like that time you made me spend three days in Birmingham because our flight got messed up...I did not enjoy that). Because without the bad, maybe I would've never appreciated the good (like waking up after my first night back in America with the biggest smile on my face and a feeling of complete contentment). You gave me the summer of a lifetime and I will never forget it.

Thanks for all you've done, summer. Let's enjoy these last few days. And when school starts up on Monday, well...I'll be looking forward to seeing you next year.

All my love,

Laura

This Year...

2010-08-17T15:33:00.000-07:00

I can't believe the shape I'm in. Okay actually I can because I haven't really trained, or even ran for that matter, in almost a year. It's sadly humiliating to run (or jog really, since that would be the more truthful term) around Muncie going at such a sluggish pace, my arms up tight around my chest instead of swinging loosely, my stride short and my willpower weak. I'm in desperate need of some serious training. I'm in need of patience if I ever want to get back to the shape I was once in. I'm in need of determination, willpower, and a realistic sense that I may never see a sub-20 5k ever again.

More importantly, I'm in need of some faith.

I just finished reading The Perfect Mile by Neal Bascomb. It's taken me a year to read that book. It's not because it's particularly long, or that I didn't have enough time to read it. Surely my free reading almost comes to a complete halt when school starts. Sometimes I'm lucky to have the time to read the latest Rolling Stone issue. But the reason I couldn't finish the book is because it was boring me. This great novel about two of the greatest sporting events in history (Bannister's sub 4 minute mile at Oxford and the "mile of the century" race between Bannister and Landy) bored me. Yes, Neal Bascomb did like to throw in a lot of detail I didn't need to know about (I really don't care that Stampfl's wife was brewing a pot of tea while Bannister and him chatted away), but I'm well-aware that the real reason behind my on-again-off-again love with this book is what I've been experiencing in my life: my on-again-off-again relationship with running.

For the past two years I've experienced hot and cold feelings with my beloved sport, mostly cold. After high school the desire to run just crashed. I'm not really sure what it was. Maybe all that running, with only a few weeks break between when one season ended and conditioning began, burned me out. Maybe it was something physical, maybe my body needed a break. I wanted to run the Flying Pig half-marathon this year, and the first long run I attempted for my training ended with an injured knee and an appointment with physical therapy. Maybe my body was rejecting running. Maybe I ran out of motivation. Maybe the adjustment from high school running, where everything is so structured, to my newfound freedom of college running was too much for me to handle. Maybe without the team and the coaching and all the scheduled meets and practice, I was bound to fall to pieces.

I remember after high school ended how excited I was to know that I had the rest of my life to work with running on my own. For once, I was in charge. I got to decide what races to sign up for, what distances they were and what my goal was. I got to decide how I was going to train; when and where, how hard to push myself or how easy to go. I was so excited to be in charge. To be my own coach.

I should've known how difficult it was going to be.

In The Perfect Mile there are three runners all vying to accomplish the same goal, and they were all vying to achieve it before anyone else: the sub-4 minute mile. Of course it happened, and if you know anything about the history of running, you're probably well aware that Roger Bannister was the first to do it. But why him? Why couldn't Wes Santee do it first, or John Landy? Why after so many years, when conditions on that day weren't even very favourable, he was finally able to achieve his goal? After all his attempts before, what was so different?

It's pretty simple actually. He had a coach.

Meet Franz Stampfl, an Austrian who was kicked out of England during World War II, had to swim for his life when the ship he was being deported on sank, and then struggled in confinement in Australia. The brief summary I'm giving you isn't doing enough justice to the man. Trust me on this when I say you can define the man in one-word: badass.

After his unfortunate time spent in Australia he returned to England to coach athletes. And luckily for Roger Bannister, a friend of his introduced him to this coach.

The secret behind Stampfl's success, especially when it came to Roger Bannister, isn't a difficult training technique or some genius idea. In my opinion, it's the simple difference between what separates good coaches from bad ones: Stampfl believed in him. Stampfl believed that Roger Bannister had it in him, that he could break through the four-minute mile, and that he could be the first to do it. He showed his confidence in Roger Bannister, and then it was up to Bannister to believe in himself.

It worked.

It's not just athletes who can give credit to coaches for their success. One of my favorite quotes comes from Sting's autobiography, Broken Music, at a time of his life when he was just in the beginning stages of becoming a musician. In reference to his friend Keith, he says, "Maybe all it takes is just one person to believe in what you are doing to give you the confidence to keep trying." His friend wasn't literally a coach, but he showed faith in Sting that encouraged him to continue forward with his music. The man owns like seven houses in several different countries and is still successful writing music and touring with orchestras. But who knows. Maybe if it hadn't been for his friend, Sting would've thrown in the towel and continued with his teaching career. I like to think that it's the little things, the little influences that make a difference.

I had a coach in high school. In fact I've had several coaches. I had my running coach, who helped me with my running. I had my dad, who was always on the sidelines supporting me. I have my professors who are teaching me the craft of journalism, my boss who taught me patience and persistence (and to keep in mind the grand scheme of things). I have friends who are there to support me on a religious level. My close girlfriends are always giving me relationship advice. And my boyfriend, who is always there to remind me that my world isn't falling apart, no matter how much I believe that this time it really is.

Coaches are great. We need them. We need that one person to give us the confidence to keep trying. We need people to believe us.

I think my problem is though I've relied too much on my coaches. I've gotten so comfortable with others having confidence in me that I've forgotten to have confidence in myself. That without a voice telling me that I can do it and everything will be okay, I buckle, and think that if no one else is telling me it's going to be okay then it really isn't going to be.

This is the year that changes. This is the school year that I stop depending on others for their faith in me, and learn to have some faith in myself. This is the year I tell myself to push harder on a training run, not a coach. This is the year I don't need to have several talks with my professors on how I'm doing in my classes. Whether it's running or writing or friendships and drama or whatever else that is bound to be a bump in the road this year, I'm determined to have the faith in myself to get through it. I will be my own coach. This year will be the year where my voice is the one to tell me that I can do it and everything will be okay.

And of course when my little voice fails, I know who to call on to help me through it.

Traveling England: My Top Ten Tips

2010-08-14T16:07:00.000-07:00

Back from England and finally given the chance to really think about all that took place within those six weeks. The good, like walking through Hyde Park, visiting the Iffley Road Track, and having High Tea at the Pump Rooms in Bath, and the bad, such as being charged £20 for forgetting my rail card, getting sick from Indian food, and being stuck in Birmingham for three days. So after all that has happened and everything I've experienced from my stay in England, here are my traveling tips for visiting the UK.

(In no order of importance.)

1. Keep the change – You'll never know when you'll have to use the restrooms, and you never know when it's going to be a pay toilet. Train stations will usually charge you, as well as parks and malls. There's a good chance you can find somewhere else to go, but when in doubt, carry at least 40p on you.
2. Always look out for cars…always – In America, pedestrians have the right of way. In England, it's cars. And some drivers have no problem trying to beat you to it (yes, even if that means you might get run over). So be wary of cars whenever you're crossing any street. British drivers are not always the nicest!
3. Keep an eye on the clock – In America we're use to malls staying open until 9pm and we have the convenience of 24-hour stores. But unless you're in London, expect most stores to close around 5:30pm to 6pm and some grocery stores staying open until 9pm or 10pm. But when in doubt, try to get to the store early.
4. Using public transportation: Trains
1) Buy a rail card and always keep on you – A rail card is a little photo ID card you can purchase for £26 and it will give you 30% off on all train ticket purchases. So if you plan on using the trains a lot, I would definitely recommend buying one. You will also need a passport size photo of you. They have photo booths at the train stations where you can buy the photo (they print off 5) for £5. For more information check it out at railcard.co.uk. Also, if you order tickets using a rail card you MUST keep this card on you whenever you're on the train! I forgot mine before leaving for Liverpool but my friend assured me they never check for it. That was a lie. I was charged for the difference of my train ticket and also charged a £20 fee. So buy one and don't forget it!
2) Purchase tickets at the station, NOT online – Online is convenient but it will cost you. My friends and I discovered after a few weeks of using the trains that by purchasing tickets online we were being charged for two singles instead of a round trip. Meaning we were almost paying double for our trips! Also, online will charge you £3.50 to use a credit card for payment. My recommendation is to know the dates, times, and train stations you want to travel to (double check which stations you want because some cities have multiple stations) and then buy them in advance at the train station. You can check out train schedules and prices at thetrainline.com.
5. Drink tap – Purchasing soda at a restaurant isn't what you normally expect at home. For starters, the glasses are usually smaller, or they come in the option of regular or large. Which should give away my next reasoning – refills, at least free ones, are hard to come by in England. In fact, I don't think I found a single restaurant where refills were free. With that said, drink water. And make sure you order tap.
6. Peace sign isn't always peaceful… - In some parts of Greece and Italy it is offensive to give a thumbs up, how you present "peace" with your hands can go different ways. If you do the peace sign with your palm facing out, it means exactly what you're trying to convey (which I'm assuming is peace). But if you face your palm toward yourself, it is another form of giving someone the middle finger. So unless you want to tell someone to double eff off, make sure your palm is facing out. Or just don't make that sign at all.
7. Be polite – I think in America we have this mentality that we're not afraid to piss someone off (especially if they're pissing us off). And I love that. But overseas I tried to be on my best American behavior. Not all Brits are nice, but most will try their best to have manners towards you. I suggest doing the same (especially because customer service over there isn't as great as it is in the states…they're not going to kiss ass to make you happy).
8. Staying in Touch: The Options
1) If you're going to be in England for a longer stay, such as six weeks, I recommend purchasing the cheapest pay-as-you-go phone you can find, and I recommend buying that phone from T-Mobile. While I was over there they had this great international deal. All I had to do was text INT to 441 and I was now only paying 5p per minute to the USA and texts cost 15p. They had other costs for other countries but the USA was my only concern. So if you plan on making a lot of calls back home, I suggest this deal. But…
2) Skype-To-Go – Another great deal with making phone calls back home is to set up a skype to go number. You need to have skype credit or a monthly subscription (both are pretty cheap) set up in order to set up a number. Here's how it works. You sign in to skype, skype gives you a number, you store the number in your phone, and when you want to call someone back in the states, you simply call the number and choose the contact you wish to call (you can store numbers for skype to go on the skype website). How does this save money? When you call skype, you're calling a local number. Skype takes care of the international part, and calls the person you're contacting from a local number. So you're both being charged for making local phone calls instead of international. An important thing to note: BE CAREFUL IF YOU'RE USING AN INTERNATIONAL PHONE. My friend was charged $600 from Verizon because he was using skype-to-go to call his girlfriend. Why was he charged so much? He was using an international phone, so his number was a US number, but he set up skype-to-go with a UK number. So even though his girlfriend wasn't charged anything (because she was being connected to a local number), he was charged a whopping $600 because every time he called skype-to-go he was technically calling internationally. So if you're using skype-to-go, be careful. Check out more at skype.com.
3) Skype – Not the most reliable for phone calls (it cut me out a lot), but it's definitely the cheapest option. My boyfriend and I both have skype so we could do skype video chats (which are free). It was a great way to stay in touch.
4) International Calling Card – Another option to skype-to-go would be purchasing a cheap cell phone and then an international calling card. I don't have any recommendations on this, but if you're looking for an alternative to skype, I would say this would be your next best bet.
9. Watch your bag – It's pretty simple but you'd be surprised how many of my friends had things stolen just because they trusted the wrong person or were naïve enough to think that no one would touch their stuff. If you have something you don't want to get stolen, either leave it at home, keep it on you, or watch it with a close eye.
10. TAKE IT ALL IN – England is a beautiful country, and while I didn't get to visit Wales or Scotland, I've heard great things about both. There is so much to do and see, my six week stay was almost not enough. Take photos, keep a journal, record videos…whatever it takes to remember your time spent. Do the stereotypical things we all think of (drink tea instead of coffee, go inside a red telephone booth, ride on a double deck bus). Learn the history and the culture. Get to know the people. However long you're in England, enjoy every single minute of it. It's a wonderful country I would recommend anyone to visit.

Sometime in the near future I will provide a blog of recommendations on places to visit and things to do, and what I enjoyed most about England. But right now I'm in Pittsburgh and have another beautiful place to take in before I head home tomorrow. Hopefully, whoever may come across this blog, these tips will provide some use.

Cheers.

I'll have a coke please, no rum

2010-08-08T11:22:00.000-07:00

I'm going to need a lot of help from God this next year.

There are several reasons my religious beliefs are going to be tested and depended on for my final year of college, but as of right now there is only one thing on my mind that is going to test me, I'm going to struggle with it, and I'm going to have to pray to God for as much help as He is willing to provide to avoid myself from any slip-ups.

Starting today, I have decided to remain sober for one year.

Before you jump to conclusions, I would like to defend myself in saying that I don't have a drinking problem. I am not dependent on alcohol, I don't drink very often, and when I do drink it is very rare that I drink enough to the point of drunkenness. I won't lie and say I have been an innocent angel when it comes to drinking; I have been drunk, I do enjoy getting tipsy, and I realize that giving up alcohol will be a struggle because I have attempted this feat a few times before, all resulting in failure. Of course this time I am hoping I have the right motivation and willpower to break my unfortunate quitting streak.

So why have I decided to give up alcohol? If I am not dependent on it, I don't drink very often, and now I am at the golden age of 21 where I can finally stop worrying about getting busted by the cops for underage drinking, what has pushed me to decide that for one year I want nothing to do with the drug?

You could guess that it has to do with health reasons. While alcohol isn't exactly going to kill you, there's no denying that it does take a toll on the body. Perhaps I've decided I want to be nicer to my liver or to save myself from empty calories while my metabolism is still on my side. Or you could assume it has to do with financial reasons. Alcohol is expensive. I thought I knew that beforehand, but my six-week stay in England reassured me just how costly it is for a few drinks at a bar. While others didn't seem to mind wasting £20 (about $30) on a night's worth of drink, the thought of spending that much money on alcohol made me cringe. $30 could be a new pair of heels! And because my England trip left me in such a terrible financial state (I believe I haven't been this poor since I was 10), giving up alcohol because of its cost does seem like a pretty wise choice.

While these are good reasons to go on this one-year ban of alcohol, and I'm sure they will help keep me in check while I attempt this, they are not the major reason I am doing this. In fact, the reason I am doing this is actually pretty simple. It all boils down to one little word.

Love.

It's not my place to delve into details as to where this all started, so I will make this brief. My boyfriend has never touched a drop of alcohol because alcoholism runs in his family. And despite not drinking on his 21st birthday and being able to make it through three years of college without caving, he has recently told me that the devil on his shoulder has him thinking that maybe it's not all that bad. Maybe he's being too cautious, that just because he tries it doesn't mean he will end up on the road to alcoholism. And now that his girlfriend and his closest friends are all legally allowed to enjoy alcohol, the temptation to say "the hell with it," has been stronger than ever.

This of course breaks my heart. And scares the shit out of me.

Our talks of alcohol have come up more frequently and every time I talk to him it's the same as it was before: he tries to understand what the appeal is in drinking, why I do drink, what's so great about being drunk (which in my opinion is nothing), etc., while I'm on the other end of the line trying frantically to come up with the right words to express to him why he shouldn't drink, why I have a much better time with him sober than I ever do under any influence of alcohol, and how proud I am of him for standing his ground after all this time. But no matter how hard I try, the conversations keep coming back up, and it seems he is slowly creeping towards throwing in the towel.

If it's not obvious by now, writing is what I want to do with my life. It’s my major and it's my passion, it's what I obsess over and dream of all the time. I have this strong belief in the power of words, and I believe that when used carefully and intellectually, they can have a strong influence on a person and his or her life. But I also strongly believe in the saying "actions speak louder than words." And since we continue to have the same conversation over and over, I've realized words are failing me right now. Talking is doing no good. I can never convince him that alcohol isn't as great as everyone makes it out to be while I continue to crack open a beer. The only way he is going to believe me is if I show him. And the only way to show him how awesome alcohol isn't is to not drink it myself.

This isn't going to be easy. As I said before I've already attempted this and I've failed. But I have a strong hope and determination to succeed this time. This time I'm not doing it for myself. I'm not trying to prove a point (well, okay I am, but indirectly). This time there is a fear in my heart, a fear that I will watch my boyfriend will crumble under these false impressions of alcohol left in his mind and I know if it does happen I will be partially to blame. I know that he is his own being and I cannot stop him from doing what he wants. But I have hope, this strong hope that maybe if I'm not drinking, that will be enough to influence him to stay sober. I don't know that for sure, but I'm hoping that that small possibility will help me stick to my goal.

I hate saying this, even before I type it I dread writing it because it is such a cliché. But the truth of the matter is I'm doing this for love. I love this boy and I don't want one small slip-up to have a domino effect that will affect him for the rest of his life. And perhaps if that isn't enough, that I desire to have a drink despite all that I've just written about, then I am putting my trust in the Lord, that His love for the both of us will keep me from putting one ounce of alcohol to my lips.

So here's to a year of sobriety, here's to a year of love.

England Blog

2010-06-23T09:30:00.000-07:00

For the next six weeks I will be spending my summer in Worcester, England. Thus I felt it fitting to create another blog just for the trip. So for the next six weeks I will be posting to that blog, which is lavisitstheuk.blogspot.com. I encourage you to check it out. Also, I apologize for the lack of design of it...I promise I'll work on fixing it :)

Chicago: You're the Inspiration

2010-06-19T15:45:00.000-07:00

(Written earlier this week when I had no internet.)

48 hours from now I will probably be on a train heading from Chicago, Illinois to Michigan City, Indiana with my best friend/boyfriend. It will be my second trip to the city, the first one only occurring this past spring break. For some people, especially my friends at Ball State, it's hard to imagine that I'm going to say this, but…I'm really looking forward to it.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, Chicago and I weren't exactly on friendly terms. It's not that I ever hated Chicago, or even had a dislike for it, it was the mere fact that I had never been there, nor did I have the desire to ever go. I didn't see this as any big deal until my first year at Ball State. Within the first semester, I let it slip that I had never been to the Windy City, the New York of the Midwest, and oh boy, was that a mistake. Let me tell you something. When it comes to Hoosiers, for some of them, Chicago is a very big deal. Huge. And when you tell them that you have never been to their precious city AND that you had no plans to ever go, it's just simply unfathomable to them. Never had it ever been so clear to me that I was at such fault for never going to Chicago. I couldn't believe it. I mean I’m from Ohio. Cincinnati in fact. To Cincinnatians, Chicago isn't that big of a deal. I mean sure, I have a lot of friends back home who've been to Chicago. Many of them like it. And sure, a few of those friends have given me the "you've never been to Chicago?!" reaction, but in most cases it was just never been a big deal. But at Ball State? You would've thought it was a sin! I had no idea that when I crossed the border of Ohio and Indiana that I was walking into the criticism of the Chicago-lover/enthusiasts.

Of course, being the stubborn-ass that I am and choose to be, and the fact that I defend my hometown as if my life depended on it, I fought back. I took the criticism of being a Chicago virgin and tried to come up with every excuse you could ever imagine to defend myself. From explaining how disgusting deep-dish pizza sounded to the fact that it just wasn't and could never be THE New York City (although I've never there either…oops…) I started on a rant that dwindled all the way down to a pure hatred for Chicago. That's right. I hated it. Even though I had never been there, barely knew anything about it, I knew that I hated it. I wrote a paper for my English class titled "Dear Chicago" in which I wrote a series of letters to the city explaining why I hated it and why I hated even more that my friends loved it. One time I got into a shouting match, yes, a shouting match, at a Mexican restaurant in Detroit over Chicago. Of course, this was started by a friend who knew how to push my buttons and just wanted to get a reaction out of me for the heck of it (I got some pretty strange looks from other tables that night). And it certainly didn't help when I went to a Reds game last summer against the Cubs and there were probably more arrogant Cubs fans than Reds fans (however we did win the game and I will never forget watching a big fat old Reds fan going over to shake hands, in a mocking sense of course, to the big fat old Cubs fan who had been annoying the entire game. It was a pretty sweet taste of victory).

But I think what really got under my skin was the fact that I felt ashamed for having never visited the city. Like an outcast, I was embarrassed. And I was even more frustrated when my Chicago-loving friends seemed to insult my city. They had no desire to go to Cincinnati because it wasn't Chicago. It's not as big as Chicago. There isn't as much to do. We have Newport on the Levee, they have Navy Pier. We have the Great American Ballpark, they have the classic Wrigley Field. They have a Starbucks on every corner while I wander from street to street in search of my favorite coffee shop. Chicago's better. I get it. But why does that mean that the city I love is the one that takes all the hits?

In hindsight, they weren't being as cruel as I had originally taken it. And they didn't make me an outcast for my lack of Chicago experience. They were just simply expressing their love for their favorite city and wanted me to know what I was missing out on, so that I can go and experience it too. And the only reason they "insulted" Cincinnati, was because they were being realistic. Cincinnati isn't as great as Chicago. They were just stating the facts. In fact, a few of my friends had visited Cincinnati for the first time in their lives before I made my visit to Chicago, and even though they don't like it as much as Chicago, they really enjoyed it. One friend got back from the Flying Pig Marathon this year and said to me, "I forgot how pretty Cincinnati is. I really enjoyed it." I was so happy.

So what made me change my mind about Chicago? What turned me from hating it into possibly loving it? Why is it once upon a time I swore I would never go, and now here I am about to embark on a 7 hour car ride to go to Chicago for one day, and be excited about it?

Well for starters, I fell in love with my best friend. Big surprise, he loves Chicago. His dad once lived in the Marina Towers and he use to visit. He loves his Cubbies and his Blackhawks, and of course "da Bears". And as much as I try to be little miss independent, when you date someone, for some reason you take on their interests as well. Not always…I still don't play ultimate Frisbee even though it's one of his favorite pastimes, I can barely sit for ten minutes to play a video game, and with the exception of the Blackhawks, I will never cheer for a Chicago team (Pens were out, so I had to cheer for someone. And Lord knows that being a Penguins fan I could not stand to see the Flyers win the cup). The list goes on, but you get the idea.

But what else? When I did finally decide to visit, I had one of two hopes: I hoped that I would either really love it, or I would hate it. I either wanted to be completely wrong, or completely right. I was really hoping to love it though. I wanted to go back to Ball State and tell all of my friends I was wrong, Chicago is as great as they told me it would be, ask for their forgiveness and live happily ever after. So I went. And I liked it. But unfortunately, I did not love it. And as we boarded the train to leave, even though I knew I'd probably be back again, a part of me thought, "Well, I've seen it, and if I never make it back here again, then that would be okay with me."

But fortunately I am going back. And I'm pumped for it. Not just to see Joe…but I'm actually excited for Chicago. And I owe this all to (don't roll your eyes), Julia Roberts.

Just this past week I found the movie My Best Friend's Wedding, one of my favorite movies of all-time. And so I popped it in, and suddenly I remembered, it takes place in Chicago. And of course, since I have now been there, watching the movie took on a different meaning for me. I saw the buildings I remember seeing in real life. I watched Julia and Michael float down the Chicago River. I watched her race down Michigan Avenue to chase down Michael after kissing him in front of his bride-to-be. I saw Chicago bright and sunny and full of life, and I suddenly yearned to go visit again.

And so with Joe starting work later this week, and I will be flying off to the United Kingdom next Tuesday, we realized this would be our best chance to go in the summer. It will also be my last chance to hang out with Joe before I leave. At least 7 long weeks until I see him again. Of course, 6 weeks in England will probably fly by in the wink of an eye and I will think back to this moment and go, "Why on earth did I think it would be long?! Why would I ever want it to go by quickly?!" But when it comes to matters of the heart, time is often worse than distance.

And so this Wednesday I pray for sun and warmth and a wonderful time. I hope to be getting on board a train next to my best friend, who unlike in Julia's case did choose me, and head back to his house where the next day I'll head back to mine, to start my packing for my next big adventure. I will miss Joe terribly…but I know that not seeing him is only temporary. I just hope that Chicago will give me the inspiration to trust that everything will be okay.

Yes, Chicago…you're the inspiration.

Thursday doesn't even start, it's Friday and I'm bored

2010-06-11T12:22:00.001-07:00

I'm beginning to regret this post before I even write it. Only because I know one day, in the "not too far, but certainly near" future that I'll look back on this and want to throw up. But that day's not here yet and so I blog.

I miss school.

But not for the reasons you might be thinking of. Sure, absolutely I miss my friends. I miss hanging out with them at the house and the top-chef cookoffs and the dance parties and watching them get drunk off of tequila shots. I miss my boyfriend. A lot. I miss seeing him almost everyday, running into him on the street, studying next to him at the library, and waking up next to him on saturday mornings. I miss my staff. I miss us laughing at nonsense and coming up with silly ideas and venting to each other about work and the things we wish were different. I miss ball state. But what I really miss right now are...*gasp*...classes????

You read that right. I actually miss class. Well, not all of my classes. Actually, now that I think of it, I'm not sure if there are any classes that I really do miss. So allow me to change my phrasing...I miss work. I miss working for my classes. I miss the research and the studying and the writing. I miss that exhausted "when is this ever going to end?!?!" feeling that still brings some amount of satisfaction because I know that I accomplished something that day. Even if it was just completing my spanish homework or taking an hour to study econ, I miss working for my grades. For my school. For my career.

I guess this is the boredom talking. All semester I kept looking forward to this moment, the moment where I'd be at home or in new york, just completely relaxed with all the freedom in the world and time on my side. This moment where I can go lay outside and not worry about the time I'm wasting. Or to accomplish the things that I wanted to do all year but never had time for, like trying a new recipe, re-organizing my room (which I proudly state that I finally accomplished) or making my halloween costume next year (I'm planning on being a Steelers Cheerleader and I need to make my own costume...that or I'm going back to Macy's and buying the hot pink dress I found and going as barbie...obviously I have a lot of time on my hands).

Here I have the time to read all the books I want to read, catch up on all the movies I haven't seen, and more importantly do some more writing. Like real writing. As in researching and interviewing and drafting and talking to editors and actually getting published. THAT is what my summer is suppose to be about.

And yet here I am. Bored. Counting down the days til England. Missing Ball State. And actually wishing I had class.

My my, how my outlook on life changes when boredom presents itself. Today is Friday and it hasn't even phased me, because for me, everyday is Friday! Which is awesome. And yet...terribly boring.

When do I leave for england again?

Dream On

2010-06-09T12:43:00.000-07:00

Fairfield Lane Library. In some odd sense, it is a second home to me. Quiet and comfortable. The only sounds are soft footsteps across the carpet, light chatter among friends, tutors and their tutees (is that the right word?), and, one of my favorite sounds, the light clicking of fingers dancing across keyboards. I don't spend nearly enough time here.

How it is the complete opposite compared to Ball State's library. I'm there in the mornings, between classes, after classes, and late at night. And for some odd reason, even though most of my stressful hours of the school year are spent there, I still enjoy it very much. I remember walking down in McKinley one day during finals week and overhearing a girl complain to her friend how much she hated the library but had to go to study. It honestly baffled me. What's so wrong with the library? Some floors are quiet, some floors aren't. There are tvs in the basement if you need to go chill out. A coffee shop with options just as good as starbucks (although it needs to adopt the same hours as the Starbucks in the student center...I need my midnight caramel macchiato!) I mean if it were me, I'd probably live there if I could. I'm still waiting for the day that it becomes a "real" library like every other college library and remain open 24/7. I'm sure there would be some days in which I'd never leave.

I don't know if it's the peaceful atmosphere, the writer I wish to be, or something about being surrounded by what seems like all the knowledge in the world but I find myself greatly at ease in these places. I feel like I can sit and think and be productive without being completely overwhelmed (this is of course with the exception of J102...most freakin stressful class of my life...). Or maybe it's the fact that I have access to all these great resources, and here's the brilliant catch, it's all for free! Books, magazines, journals, music, dvds, etc. Sometimes when I'm bored or if I have the free time I'll just walk up and down the aisles of books. And for some reason I feel like a child...just completely captivated by all that surrounds me...all the things I can read and learn about. It fascinates me. It angers me that I don't take advantage of all the books and resources I have at hand more often. It angers me even more so when I hear a fellow college student say that they hate the library. Oh how unappreciative she must be. Humph.

The only place that gets better is what I consider my "universal favorite place in the world": bookstores. Preferably Barnes and Noble, although I don't discriminate against Books A Million, Waldenbooks, and does Borders still exist? Oh and I miss the little bookstores. The ones that were like the one Meg Ryan owned in the movie You've Got Mail. There was a little bookstore by my house when I was a kid. My dad use to take my sisters and I there while I think he shopped for comic books and books about the stock market. It went out of business several years ago. Come to think of it I haven't seen a small bookstore such as itself since. Stupid giant corporations.

Anyways...I digressed. Back to bookstores. Oh! Let's not forget Half Price Books. Although they suck when it comes to selling your books to (I tried selling some old school books there that were rejected by the bookstores at Ball State...I received a whooping $2 for the five or six books I handed over. I prefer to think of it as a donation), they are absolutely marvelous when it comes to shopping for a book.

But despite all these other big bookstores, small bookstores, what have you...Barnes and Noble remains my favorite. Oh and fun fact. Andy Summers wrote in his autobiography about meeting the guy who started Barnes and Noble before the bookstore became the giant corporation it is today. Actually if I recall, the guy didn't even have the bookstore yet, it was just an idea at the time. I found it pretty cool when I read it.

But back to Barnes and Noble...I have a confession to make. I might've blogged about it before, but if I have I'm gonna blog about it again. When life gets stressful, or when I need a dose of inspiration, or if I'm just plain bored, I like to drive out to the Barnes and Noble in West Chester, walk in, get a little lost among all of the aisles of books and pause for a moment. And for that moment I think to myself, "One day I'm going to walk into this bookstore and my name is going to be on one of these books." And that moment exhilarates me. I'm sure I'm not the only person who's done this or had that thought. I might not even be the only person who drives out of her way to experience such a few seconds. But when I do it's one of the most inspiring moments of my day, sometimes my week or even month. I'll spend hours wandering through that store, picking up random books, and pretending that one day something I will have written will be hiding somewhere among all of the books I gaze at. Of course, it wouldn't be too bad if my book ended up at the front of the store, you know as it's one little stand with a "bestseller" sign attached. But for now I keep it simple. I would just like to think that one day I will have written something that is worth putting on a shelf and for a young aspiring writer such as myself to pick up and think, "one day, I'm going to be her." That's the goal. That's the dream. That not only I do something that achieves what I want, but helps inspire someone else.

I remember last year when I was in J102, our final project was to deconstruct an article of our choice, to show that all the work we put into our paper is something that real writers do. For my project I chose an article featured in the Rolling Stone (of course) by Sabrina Rubin Erderly. When I was finished with my project and received my grade, I sent it to her because she requested to see it, and in it I wrote about how talking to her and learning from her was a great inspiration to me. She wrote back this response...

Bravo! You get an A in my book. :-) An excellent, well-written paper -- and I'm also glad to hear that your talk with me didn't scare you away from journalism forever. I had an actual emotional moment when I reached the line of your conclusion about being excited to one day be in a position like mine... Because I remember so vividly being a college student myself, and
wanting the same thing so very badly. Keep at it, Laura, and you'll get there.

Enjoy your summer --

Best,
Sabrina

From time to time, when I need that dose of inspiration, or when I'm having a breakdown at school and the thought "I'm never gonna be a writer!!!" keeps flashing through my mind, I pull that e-mail out and realize that everyone who is in the position I dream of one day being in, was once in the same position as me. And it gives me that extra push to realize that if I just keep at it, one day I'll be there too.

"Perfect"

2010-05-27T12:23:00.000-07:00

As I have previously blogged about, I have recently taken on the project of cleaning out my room. Completely. After getting home from school and realizing there was literally no room for the massive amount of junk I brought back with me, I figured it was the perfect time to remove all the crap and clutter that have been consuming the small amount of personal space that I have.

I expected this project to take a bit of time, at the most 3 or 4 days. And yet here I am, in my third week of summer and I am still not finished with my room. Ugh.

Unfortunately it looks just as bad, if not worse, than when I first returned to it. The look of the room does no justice to the amount of work I've put in. While random things such as old school papers to hair bands to random clothes are strewn across the floor, bits and pieces of my life have been removed and reorganized. I started with the most important items that need space reserved in my room: my clothes. I sifted through my closet and large dresser, getting rid of the blouses that no longer fit, holding onto the jeans I hope will fit again someday, and creating a full box of all the things I never have or never will wear again. I think it's safe to say that I have supplied goodwill for the next month.

After the clothes it was onto the desk. The dreaded desk. No matter how many papers I shred or notebooks I recycle, for some reason there has always been an alarming, almost evil presence of school books, folders, pencils, pens, and randomness you wouldn't even think of overtaking the workspace I most desperately need. My goal in this was to get rid of almost everything, so that the drawers can easily be opened and the top is neatly placed with the pens, pencils, notebooks and my computer, so that I can feel organized and at ease. I want my desk to promote productivity. (Seeing as I am writing this at my kitchen table, clearly I'm not done with it.)

While the top remains the mess it has always been, the drawers have been emptied and reorganized properly. So then it was onto my dresser. Another check. Then my night stand. Cross that off the list. Then back to the closet, this time the top shelf. When all was said and done, I discovered my old easy-bake oven, a crap load of crafts from my childhood, pictures, empty shoeboxes and handbags galore. More goodwill boxes were stocked and now my closet is neatly stored with stackable crates in which I've put my supplies for college, next to the duffle bags I carefully stacked, next to the boxes of memories I can't part with, next to my small suitcase. The only piece of randomness is my mini-Christmas tree which is sporting my Halloween witch's hat, and that is only because there was simply no other better place to put it. My closet, for the first time since I can remember, is perfect. Yes, perfect. Just the way I would ever like it to be. Only thing that would make it a little more perfect is if, I don't know, it changed into the walk-in closet Mr.Big made for Carrie in the Sex and the City movie. Now that's perfection. So I change what I said – my closet is as perfect as it could ever be.

Today's challenge was tackling the bookshelf. Which sounds easy, right? You would think, as a normal bookshelf, it would contain only books. Maybe some cds or dvds as well, but other than that it's just sifting through books. Ha! I wish. My bookshelf was more than just books. It was, by some miracle, a neatly compiled mountain of books, dvds, trophies, birthday cards, notebooks, journals, and folders. I should've known it was going to be a nightmare. I spent almost all afternoon going through all these pieces of my past that honestly meant nothing to me. I found a binder from the fifth grade that still had my graded homework papers in it! I found a folder splitting at the seams because it contained all the directions to every appliance I have ever owned! And, being the environmentalist I try to be, it didn't help that when it came down to the notebooks, I went through all of them and tore out the blank pages to save them from recycling. (You know, first reduce, reuse, then recycle.) I'm fairly certain I won't need to worry about stocking up on paper for this next school year.

As I look around my room, I realize that no one can see the progress I've made. No one can see the space I know have in my drawers. No one can see all the papers that are on their way to rumpke recycling. No one knows that I emptied my "crap" drawer or pitched perfumes from middle school. And it's unfortunate. It sucks. Because I should feel better, but I look around my room at all the crap I still have to sift through, and all the clearing and cleaning and reorganizing that somehow still needs to be done and I still feel as stressed as I did when nothing was unpacked yet. I put in all the work and I still feel as though I'm sitting in a mess, trying to sort through more and more crap.

If only this feeling applied to just my room.

***

My boyfriend once told me that I was perfect. Granted it was over winter break, our first real separation from each other since entering this relationship, and we were still in that puppy love stage, where you're completely infatuated with the person and everything they do seems to be sweet and cute and perfect. I knew when he said it that it was just in the heat of the moment. But when I shook my head and tried to convince him that I am indeed not perfect, he simply shook his head, looked at me dead in the eyes and in all seriousness repeated "perfect." Flattering, right? That's supposed to make me feel good, isn't it? To know that my significant other thinks I'm perfect? Think again. Ever since the word stumbled out of his mouth it had been a dreaded fear of mine to realize that one day he was going to wake up and realize just how imperfect I am.

Well that day has come and gone, and it's safe to say that these past few weeks have been the proof he should ever need to see just how far from perfection I am.

It started with a letter two weeks before school ended. A letter that started out sweet and turned into a bitter fest when I poured every issue and problem and worry I've ever had with him onto the paper at 3 in the morning when my brain was on meltdown and I had Bittersweet Symphony on repeat. Not to mention, after taking the hour to write it down on paper, for some reason I thought it'd be a good idea to type it up and e-mail it to him right then and there. Because for some reason at that hour he just had to get it so that he could read it the first moment he checks his inbox.

I normally always write letters late at night. I don't know why, but I do. And usually once I'm done I go to bed, wake up in the morning, re-read what I wrote, then seal it, stamp it, and send it on its way. Occasionally I will wake up, realize what I wrote does not need to be sent (or ever read by anyone other than my own two eyes) and the letter is typically burned, shredded, or safely put away. I think you expected to see this coming when I say that when I woke up that morning I realized the horrible mistake I had made in sending that e-mail. Unfortunately with e-mail, there's no getting it back or stopping it from being read. By the time I text my boyfriend to not the read the letter, it was already too late.

He never mentioned anything about the letter. I mentioned it two days later, and our talk ended with my returning to my room and having an emotional breakdown thinking that for sure he was going to break-up with me. It was the first break-up scare I've ever had. Later I learned that he didn't want to break-up, he didn't think any of the problems were worth breaking up over. But the initial thought that that was ever a possibility has been enough to set me on edge. Since that moment, I've realized I want to be the best girlfriend that he could ever want or need. I wanted to show him what I was worth. I wanted to be perfect.

Two words: epic failure.

That letter was only the crack to a can of worms that were bound to be released. I upset him when I told him how I sometimes feel uncomfortable when it comes to his friendships with other girls. Seeing that we were moving on from the issue I made a joke about it, to show that it was in the past, we can laugh about it now. As you can guess, I was wrong. He was frustrated with me when I teased him when he was in town the other week. Again I felt like crap, but lucky enough for me, my love of large sunglasses was able to hide the tears that were welling up.

Then there was tonight. In which I took a joke he said and turned it into an argument, a playful one that is, which eventually resulted in a real argument and a discussion of why playful arguments aren't even worth starting. I wasn't offended, but I couldn't understand. I love arguing. I think it's fun. Not of course when it gets taken too far and feelings are hurt, but when it's all fun and games I see it as harmless. Joe on the other hand, does not. He asked me why I do it, why I provoke arguments, even just for fun I know they can turn into real ones. I told him I didn't know, but that I would research it to see if there was some hidden reason for those who love to argue. He told me he didn't need to hear the results.

When we said our goodnights and hung up, I sat there, and for the first time in awhile, I felt nothing. No tears. No feelings of anger, at myself or at him. I didn't feel ambitious to change anything or to go see why it is I enjoying arguing. If anything, I felt exhausted. Exhausted of having another issue brought to my attention. Another aspect of myself to work on. Another mess to clean up. It seems that all I've done for the past couple of weeks is try to do better, to sort and figure all the crap in my head and heart out so that it can be better. Or at least look better. But with every improvement I've tried to make, I end up making a bigger mess. I end up discovering clippings from my past that I haven't parted with. I find the insignificant things are taking over, and though I fight them, the piles are still there. And all the small improvements I've made are in hiding, for no one to see but me. And I'm exhausted.

I realized as I looked around my room, how imperfect I am and how there was nothing I could do to really change into the perfection I so wish I could be. I realized after cleaning up one mess there will always be another. And if I try to make my life built around no messes, a life of everything being neat and in perfect order, then I would run myself into the ground because it will never happen. And I needed to know that in spite of all of these imperfections and messes surrounding me, that Joe still cares about me and wants to be with me.

So I picked up the phone and called. I spoke just as I rehearsed it in my head. "I'm not perfect. I never have been and I never will be. And it seems lately that you find one flaw and you come across 10 more. I'm trying to change…"

Joe stopped me right there. "No. Don't," he said. "I don’t want you to change. Laura, I like you for who you are. I'm not going anywhere."

They were the words I so desperately needed to hear. To know that in spite of the drama, the mistakes, the piles of crap and all the messes I'm trying to sort out, he accepted me, and still wants to be with me.

My room is still a mess. But everything that needed some organization to it has it. All I need to do now is finish putting the rest of the crap away, and adding the final touches to making my room look and feel the perfection I want it to be.

I, on the other hand, I am a mess as well. I have flaws I wasn't aware of and changes I want to make. For my own sake. I can't clean up all of the messes tonight. Hell, I won't ever have all of them cleaned up. But it's good to know that I have someone who cares about me enough to stand by me in spite of all the imperfections. I may not be able to stand a messy room, but I have an incredible boyfriend who likes me for me, messes included. It's good to know that I can stop striving to be what no one can be.

And to know that, for me at least, is perfect.

Breathe

2010-05-24T17:56:00.000-07:00

I heart New York.

My New York is not the New York that is typically thought about. My New York is not the big city everyone imagines. My New York does not consist of giant skyscrapers, yellow taxi cabs and people everywhere. In fact it is the exact opposite of that. It is in the middle of nowhere. The only thing that scrapes the sky are the old trees I once named when I was a child (I recall a Bear Tree, a Y Tree, a Pocahontas Tree, and a Witch Tree). The streets are made of pebbles and dirt, with no white or yellow lines, and it's safe to say that I can walk on them during the middle of the day and not run into a single car or person.

I am far away from the life I dream of, even though they both have the same name: New York.

To be honest, when I was younger it use to piss me off that when I said I was visiting New York everyone assumed NYC. When I would tell them that I have been to the state of New York every year since I was a baby but have never been to the actual "New York" they were baffled. Part of me has always wanted to yell: THERE IS MORE TO NEW YORK THAN THE CITY!! But in reality I smile and explain how I would love to go to New York City one day, but for now my New York is a small town far, far away from the concrete jungle.

Coming to my New York is always an arrival of heaven on earth. When I saw my neighbor's wife today, she said to me, "Aren't you just happy to be here? You come here to just breathe!" She has no idea just how right she was.

New York is my escape. Here I have no internet connection, basic television stations, and with minimal cell phone coverage I'm almost virtually disconnected from my life. No facebook. No twitter. No e-mails. And if I get annoyed with my cell phone, I simply turn it off and leave it in the cottage. I come here to get away from everyone and everything. I come here to breathe.

I come here to do nothing. That's right, absolutely nothing. I can walk around or sit and stare at the lake with nothing to do but to observe and think. I take in nature and its beauty. I spend hours upon hours simply staring and unleashing the thoughts I keep tucked away in the deepest corners of my mind. It's the one place where I feel that just being here is not a waste of time. I take in the moment, as simple as it might be. It appears that I am wasting my time, but it is the most useful time I ever spend. Time here is time I need.

I come here to be me. I come here to confront the psychotic nervous-wreck that I am. I think about the things that bother me and I let myself cry without having to worry if anyone is watching. I can scream at God on the beach and know that the waves will muffle the sounds of my anger. I can let myself fall apart. And when I piece myself back together, I can walk around with a goofy grin on my face, and know that no one is staring at me and wondering just how psychotic I really am.

I come here to dream. I come here to stop getting caught up in the things I need to do and let myself drift into the reality of what I'd like to do. I have no homework to worry about, no deadlines or anything due. No work to distract myself with. So I take the time to forget about the stress I have to deal with and remind myself of why I put up with the stress I deal with. I refocus on my goals. I get back in touch with my desires and remember why it is that being a writer, that striving for the Big Apple, and searching for "the one" are the things I want most in life. I feel inspired. I feel motivated. I am rejuvenated. I feel ready to face the world.

I cannot live in my New York. If I did, my perfect world here would be ruined. This is my escape. If I made my life around it, I would be dragging in all the issues and stress that require a "my New York" to get away from. I would go crazy being out here alone. I like the comforts of tall buildings and busy streets. I like being surrounded by people, even if I don't know them. Although it is incredibly refreshing to get away from, deep down I need to feel connected to the world.

In the next couple of years there is a good chance that my New York will be the New York that everyone actually thinks about. There is a good chance that when I refer to my New York, it will not be this nirvana-type place I'm currently in. There is a good chance "my New York" will switch from dreams and confidence to fear, stress, and an over-whelming desire to escape. There is a good chance I can build my life around that New York.

I have been dreaming of living in the Big Apple for a few years, and the closer I get to this dream becoming a reality, the more fearful I become. I'm afraid the city will drain me instead of inspiring me. I'm afraid it will exhaust me instead of rejuvenating me. I'm afraid that this perfect little career in the perfect city called New York will not live up to the high expectations I have set for it. I am afraid of my dream becoming a failure.

I don't know when exactly I will take my first steps in NYC. I don't know if it will be for a visit or for the start of my career. I don't know if I'll be overwhelmed with joy or overwhelmed with stress and fear. I don't know if I'll have a mental meltdown or if I'll strut the streets calm, cool, and collected. I don't know if my dream will turn into reality, or if it will be the letdown I constantly fear. But what I do know is this: Regardless of the outcome, may it be the worst or the best, I can always return to my New York. And breathe.

To England, Or Not to England...Decision's Already Been Made

2010-05-17T13:12:00.001-07:00

I have one friend who just left for England. Two other friends are currently in Costa Rica. And another friend will be leaving for Greece fairly soon.

I have another 36 days before I get myself out of this country.

A lot of people have been asking me how excited I am to go for England. I'm surprisingly not as excited as I should be. Sure, the minute after I found out about England I called up my mom and begged for my parents' permission. The day I turned in my deposit and paperwork was the day I walked down McKinley and though "wow, I'm really doing this. I'm going to England." And now summer break has arrived and I'm sure before I know it I'll have my bags repacked, passport in hand, and a long flight with an even longer adventure waiting ahead of me.

I have very mixed feelings about this.

On some days, like today, I can not wait until that moment comes. On days like today where I blast The Police's album Ghost in the Machine while cleaning the house I dream of what it will be like to visit all these places the band once struggled at many years ago. I dream of meeting other Police fans and what they can tell me about their music culture compared to what I've known here in the US. And (don't laugh) but I secretly dream about seeing Sting roaming the streets of London, maybe sitting in a small cafe drinking his tea and eating his one-side toasted piece of bread. With butter. Maybe jelly. But I definitely see butter. Also in this fantasy dream of mine, I stop and talk to him and write some killer article about it that gets published in the Rolling Stone. Now there's dreaming for ya.

But one dream that is coming true is that I will be in England. As Sting was the Englishman in New York, I will be the American in London.

I wonder if it's pathetic that my main reason for going to this place is because I have this odd obsession with this band and their music. Also, with the exception of some accent and slang differences, I always liked England because I know I can speak the language (something about language barriers scare me). I wonder if I'm putting too much emphasis on this trip because of The Police. I wonder if it'll disappoint. Maybe I won't find all these places The Police began at. Or maybe they won't be as cool as I expect them to be. Maybe it'll be just as significant as going down to Riverbend and saying "This is where Dave Matthew has played!" I hope dear reader you understand this cheesy analogy I'm trying to make.

Because on some days, I'm not very excited for England. Some days I'm just happy right where I am, enjoying summer in the states, even if I am in Ohio. Or when I think about all the money I am NOT making because no one will hire someone who will be gone half the summer and takes weekend trips to new york whenever she can. Some days I worry about missing my boyfriend and friends. I worry about being homesick. Some days I just don't even like thinking about England because I realize that going there means giving up things here. Even if it is for only 6 weeks. I have deep emotional attachments to people and places here at home.

So to cure this problem of not looking forward to England, I've decided to invest some time in some research. I plan on making trips to the library and doing some reading. I plan on surfing some sites to see what interesting things I can learn about that I'll look forward to. And most importantly, I'll start talking to people. To the people who've been to England, to the people who are going with me, to the people who have never left the country and never plan on leaving. Because I think you can learn so much from people. From their thoughts and opinions, positive or negative. I'm drawn to England not because it's a cool place, but because of three musicians. Three interesting people. I can't wait to see what they're home land, and its people, have in store for me.

Your Christians

2010-05-14T13:18:00.000-07:00

Being a Christian is so hard.

These past few days have been some of the best days I've had in a long while. I was lucky enough to wake up at 8 a.m. on Tuesday (a rare occurrence in the summer for me) and find a text from my boyfriend saying that due to the weather the bike trip was cancelled but he was still going to be in Lawrenceburg for breakfast. Lawrenceburgh, luckily, is only a 45 minute drive from my house.

So I went down to eat with him and a few other bikers and was invited to hang out at the camp they were staying at. I made a trip home to change in camping attire (jeans, a tank, and open-toed wedges aren't exactly the clothes made for roaming the great outdoors) and brought back necessary items for spending the night. Joe told me he missed me (aww), even though the last time I had seen him was only the previous Friday. And to think I cried on Thursday because I thought of how long it would be before I saw him again! With that said we decided to spend the next day in Fairfield, and on Thursday we'd drive back to Muncie where his car was and then on Friday part ways.

We didn't do much, although we did hang out with a fellow BSU friend at a driving range (where I remembered how much I suck at hitting golf balls...that is, when I do hit them...) and most of our time spent together was in a car driving from a to b to c back to b then to d and then from d to b, then later from b to e and then my lonely self back to b.

On my trip from e to b (Muncie to home) I had this sudden guilty feeling over come me for not having recently prayed. When I say not having recently prayed, what I mean is I honestly can not remember the last time I did pray. I'm thinking it was probably the last time I was in church, which was a Catholic service a friend had invited me to two Sundays before the end of the school year. Eek.

When I was in high school, any time something good happened I used to pray to God and thank Him for whatever good thing it was. Sometimes it was for a successful cross-country practice, or for my friends and how awesome they were (and of course still are). Sometimes it was for the anticipation of whatever I was looking forward to. Sometimes it was just for being in a good mood. I realized in high school that these good things that were happening to me were God's blessings and I couldn't help but pray in thanks for them. Most of the times I prayed was when I was driving alone.

Today I am in the best mood I've been in since I can remember. Today I also drove a good 2 hour drive alone.

I had this urge to pray.

And yet I couldn't.

I don't know why it took me an hour before I could turn off the radio and open mouth to start talking to God but it did. The longer I waited, the guiltier I felt. I don't know if it was because I felt guilty for not praying in so long or because it felt so awkward to pray I couldn't. But in the hour before I did finally open up to God, this is what ran through my mind.

I am so not the Christian I am suppose to be. My actions do not reflect upon what I believe in. I live for myself. I'm suppose to live for God. And somewhere along the line I lost that.

Is it silly for me to think that I have been following God's plan? God gave me the gift of writing. I have had a love affair with words since I was young. The summer before my senior year of high school I learned of a journalism school called Ball State University and for some reason, without knowing anything else about this college, I knew I was going to end up going there. Even though I had many doubts about attending Ball State and almost ended up choosing Miami (even seriously considered transferring there after my first semester at BSU) here I am, with one year to go, a senior at Ball State University.

Apparently I wasn't wrong about the writing part either. I checked my grades today and as I had been told, there next to the "Intro to Magazine Writing" was the letter A. Since the first day of walking into that class I had been determined to walk out of there with that grade. Determined that an A in that class would set me off in the direction of being the next Jenny Eliscu at the Rolling Stone magazine. Although I'm not sure if RS is my dream anymore or not, I achieved my goal. This whole time thinking I've been following God's plan.

Maybe I am. But I feel so disconnected from God, I don't know.

Gandhi once said "Your Christians are so unlike your Christ." Boy did he have it right. I could give you a very long laundry list of how unlike Christ I am. I feel almost hypocritical in calling myself a Christian. Of course, most people are hypocrites in some way or form. But just because I admit it doesn't make it any better. Just because I know I'm so unlike the God I believe in doesn't make it right. Just means I know how bad of a Christian I am.

A bad Christian. Now there's a broad term.

I've been taught that really it all boils down to you and your relationship with God. If you are pursuing God, no matter how much of a "bad Christian" you might be, then you are in Christ.

I haven't been pursuing God yet I call myself a Christian. But I love God and I believe in Him. There is nothing in the world that could convince me He doesn't exist. Nothing that can separate me from my faith, even though it is particularly weak right now.

Christianity is exhausting. This blog is just a long ramble. I just wish I understood what all of this means, and more importantly, what it means about being a Christian and following God.

Hey Jealousy

2010-05-10T17:33:00.000-07:00

Today's blog is about being in a relationship. So if you're not into reading my thoughts and feelings on boyfriends, relationships, and the like, then I suggest you skip out on reading this.

I don't want to be the jealous girlfriend. I never thought I would be. I never thought it would bother me for my boyfriend to hang out with other girls. Especially if they are just friends and they are well aware that he's in a relationship. After all, I have guy friends whom I hang out and it's no big deal. Joe and I trust each other.

But let's face it: I'm the jealous girlfriend.

But what bothers me is not that girls want to hang out with my boyfriend. What bothers me is that I don't feel respected for being his girlfriend when they do. And what I mean by that is that I never hear from these girls if it's okay to hang out with my boyfriend. And I never hear them ask Joe if I'd be okay with it. Joe asks me if I'm okay with it, but that's on his own part. I have never heard him double check because the girl wanted to know.

I realize I might sound slightly psychotic in saying that. I am a slightly psychotic person though. But before you jump to the conclusion that I have trust problems or that I'm just a crazy uptight type-A girlfriend, let me defend myself.

In almost every situation I would never deny a girl from hanging out with my boyfriend. Most of these girls that do hang out with him are close friends of mine as well. Or they were friends with Joe before we started dating. So it probably doesn't even occur to them that maybe it would bother me if they hung out with him, nonetheless check with me to see if it's okay. And in most situations it doesn't bother me. Or does it? If I've been thinking about it enough for me to blog about it then maybe I do have issues with girls hanging out with my boyfriend.

Ok. Fine. I do.

I just don't understand why they have to hang out with him. I remember last year when Joe and I were just best friends. I don’t ever remember some girls hanging out with him one on one. Mostly because I was the one hanging out with him. I remember girls hanging out with him when I was around him. Then again, maybe I don't remember because I wasn't his girlfriend and therefore I wasn't jealous.

Still. I feel like something changed since Joe and I started dating.

Maybe girls realized what I realized last May. How great of a guy he is. How much fun is he to be around. Maybe just maybe they regret not having the chance to date him with when they could.

Or maybe that's just me wishing that to comfort my own insecurities. Not with Joe. But with girls.
There is something else that this does touch on. It goes outside the relationship. It goes outside of liking someone as more than just friends and boils right back down to the core of all of this: friendship.

I think I'm jealous of Joe and his friendships.

Think about it. There are more girls wanting to hang out with him than me. He gets more texts from people asking for advice or someone to listen to them than I do. Grant it, I do have a core group of friends who rely on me and turn to me. I love that. But it seems at college I don't have that. I don't have people asking to hang out with me one on one like Joe seems to. A lot of times I'm waiting around from him to return from hanging out with someone. Instead of just admitting that it's about friendship, I turn it into something to do with my relationship.

So I guess I just solved my own problem. It's not about girls hanging out with Joe. It's me. And my friendships, or lack thereof. I'm not jealous of these girls…I'm jealous of my boyfriend.

Still, it wouldn't hurt if one of these girls would just ask me just once.

Suitcase the Memories (7/90)

2010-05-09T18:58:00.001-07:00

I'm not doing so well with this whole 90 day blog thing. Consistency is killing me right now. Apparently getting into a habit is just as hard as breaking one.

I'm finally home. Got home last night after midnight. I literally spent almost all day yesterday packing and cleaning. I honestly had no idea that I had that much stuff. It's a good thing I didn't go home and get my little sunfire like I had originally planned and just had my parents bring the van up, because there is no way I would've been able to fit everything in my car. It would've literally been impossible. I would've had to go to walmart and buy a car-top carrier or something. That or make two trips. Just what I want to do. Spend a total of 6 hours commuting back and forth between home Ball State.

If packing all this crap was exhausting, imagine my thrill in unpacking it. It's why I'm blogging right now. I had to take a break from it. Funny thing is, this past semester I used cleaning as a form of procrastination from writing. Now I'm using writing to procrastinate from cleaning. Ironic, right?

Anyways, my goal is to get everything packed and put away today. And in doing that, it means I'm going to need to eliminate some stuff. I realize I have many clothing options of which I never choose. I also have a ton of just plain crap that needs to go as well. Today will be a day to check this off of my summer to-do list.

As I'm slowly starting to sift through all of my belongings I realize I have a lot of little things from my past that I need to dispose of. Like beanie babies. Remember those? They were popular and suppose to be worth a ton of money someday. Well if that's the case, it'll be for some lucky person who buys my old ones from goodwill. There are also a ton of little toys and knick knacks just chilling on my shelves. I never look at them or use them for anything other than taking up space. Those will go as well.

But as I started putting clothes away in my closet, I came across this little purple little suitcase from my childhood. It's one of those suitcases shaped like a briefcase, and considering it was for a little kid it's the actual size of one. On the front is a faded picture of a little girl and above it the words "going to grandma's" that rainbow over it.

Every time I come across that little suitcase I contemplate getting rid of it. And every time I hold it in my hands, look over it, and put it back. Every time I realize that I don't need it and I have no use for it. But every time I hold it I put it right back where it was.

I just can't part with it. I don't know why I haven't been able to admit that before, but that's the truth. It's just a little item from my past I can't get rid of. I have no use for it and it isn't really that significant. But for some reason, every time I hold it, I feel like I'm 5 again going to grandma's and I put it right back in the closet.

I guess to me it seems if I were to get rid of it I would be disrespecting my past. That sounds odd but that's really how I feel about it. To throw it away or donate it means it's no longer needed nor wanted and it has no use for my life anymore. Which is the truth. But for some reason that subliminally translates as "you're grandparents are gone and it's time to move on." My grandparents are gone. But I don't know if there is such a thing as moving on.

I still love my grandparents even though they're gone. I still hold onto that suitcase even though I don't need it. It's funny how items can often take on meanings in which they were never meant to be. That suitcase is just a suitcase. But for me, it is s symbol of my childhood and the love between my grandparents and I. That suitcase was not meant to be used for more than 5 years I'm guessing. It's been hanging around for more than 15. It was never meant to be anything more than a bag to transport my toys and stuffed animals from Fairfield to Pittsburgh. Instead it became a tool to trigger flashbacks and memories from my youth.

Today however, after putting my suitcase back in the closet, I decided I would put it to good use. It isn't the only thing around here that I have trouble parting with. There is a watercolor painting of Pittsburgh that I took from my grandparent's house after they died. It had been hanging in the room my sisters and I stayed in for who knows how many years. I couldn't leave it. There's the pretty little clock. It doesn't work but when you wind it up it makes the loveliest little ticking sound. There's a ballerina decoration. And the shot glass from my cousin's wedding with the candies still in it. Things I haven't touched but won't part with. All of them, among all of the other things I'm sure I'll come across, will go in that little suitcase.

It's time to suitcase the memories. And unfortunately go back to unpacking.

2 am Rant (6/90)

2010-05-07T20:50:00.001-07:00

Ball State does not feel like Ball State right now. Not that I ever thought it would, but my walk back from the house to my room was just eerily different. Aside from the fact that there is NO ONE here, there's no lights on in several of the buildings, no cars, no drunks, and the weather is this creepy rush of wind that reminds me of storms brewing over Lake Erie. For a second I felt if I closed my eyes and opened them I'd be standing on the cliff next to my cottage, watching the sun sink into Canada with the waves crashing on shore. Unfortunately I open my eyes and realize I'm still here.

Funny thing is, despite the fact that Joe and most of my friends are gone, I still don't feel like going home. I don't necessarily feel like staying here, but I wouldn't mind getting out of here for somewhere else. Just not Fairfield. I don't even know why. Last time I checked, I love my home. And there are definitely certain things that I miss and can't wait to embrace when I get back tomorrow. Like my little kitten or Skyline. It'll be relaxing and I'm sure I'll enjoy it...but I just don't want to go there right now.

Gee whiz...what is wrong with me?

It's like I just want to freeze time and stay where I am forever. Stay 20 forever. Stay at Ball State forever. Stay a happy college student in my oblivion and live life for what it's worth here in Muncie. I am happy summer is here but I am strangely not looking forward to it.

And there should be no reason for that. I'm going to England this summer. I'll be spending a lot of time in New York this summer. I'll get to see Joe more than just once this summer. I'll have my friends at home, I'll make friends overseas. I can write now knowing that I actually have a shot of getting published instead of just doing it for my own amusement. I will chill in the sun, relax in my pool, run along the beach. This summer is looking to be perfection.

And yet I don't want perfection right now. I don't know what I want. All I do know is that I feel all over the place, I don't understand why, but I am trying my best to figure it out.

Risks (5/90)

2010-05-07T08:18:00.000-07:00

I can't focus. I just can't. Media Law final in less than an hour. I should be doing some last minute cramming, but I look at the words on the screen and nothing's registering. I just want to pass this class and be done with it!

So...since I'm like 3 days behind in my 90 day blog, I figure it's time to make up for what I've missed. Another great excuse for procrastination :)

Let's see. The last time I blogged was on Tuesday. So I need to make up for Wednesday, Thursday, and write a blog for today. Fun.

Wednesday...cinco de mayo...oh what a night.

I did something a little outside my comfort zone. Ok actually it was really outside of my comfort zone. It was definitely illegal. Almost getting caught sent me on an adrenaline rush I had never experienced before. It was crazy and exciting and I loved it.

This a little tricky to blog about, since I don't want to get myself or any of my friends in trouble. Not to say that any cop is going to see this, and if they did I don't know if they could do anything about it. But just for precaution, I'll explain how it all felt instead of delving into details of what actually happened.

Where do I begin...

Let's see. I have tried this once before. In the winter. When it was freezing cold and icy. I attempted to do this, but freaked out at the thought of being caught and stopped before I got too far. The night ended in embarrassment, tears, and shame. I swore that I would never try it again. It was too uncomfortable for me.

But then in this past month I had a sudden change of heart. Some sort of carpe diem rush came over me and instead of thinking, "This could get me in trouble" my thoughts morphed into "Screw society! Screw the law! Stick it to the man! Life's too short, I'm going to do whatever the hell I want!"

Knowing that my opportunity to try this, um, event, was going to happen again, I made the promise that I would do it. And that I would follow through with it. Just one more time. If not for my "carpe diem" attitude, then it would be some sort of redemption from my previous failure.

When I attempted this again, it had gone well for the most part. Towards the end I was positive that it was going to be successful. Then I (and a few other friends) saw those blue and red flashing lights...

You're not suppose to run. But I did.

I have a squeaky clean record. Never gotten in trouble for anything. Not even a speeding ticket. In fact, I have never even been pulled over. So when you realize your squeaky clean record is on the line your body goes into that "fight or flight" mode and you react in whatever way you see suitable. I wasn't going to fight. Hence, it was flight.

The next half hour of running and hiding was the biggest adrenaline rush of my life. I was absolutely terrified but I was calm. It was like some sort of animal instincts had taken over. I realized every decision and every move I made would determine if I made it out of my current sticky situation.

I am happy to report that my patience, my speed, and just enough luck got me safely out of my situation. 7 years of running did not fail me.

I will probably never ever do this again. Unfortunately, one of my friends did get caught. I don't know what the consequences my friend will face for this, but I don't want to put myself in the same situation. It was a once in a lifetime event that I immensely enjoyed and will never forget. I hope to share it one day with my grandchildren so they can look at me and think "wow, my grandma was a badass!" It may have been a stupid decision in the long run, but I don't regret it. Sometimes the risk, as stupid as it may be, is worth taking.

More blogging later...off to media law exam!

Passion (4/90)

2010-05-04T21:04:00.000-07:00

I am driving myself crazy. Time to blog.

Today, as I had hoped, went much better than yesterday did. I was actually pretty productive today. I woke up at 9:30am instead of noon. I laid out and studied in the sun. And I've made some progress with this article I'm working on.

Yes. This damn article that makes me honestly want to throw my computer against the wall. That one.

I have only myself to blame for it. I threw the idea for it together at the last minute. I have had plenty of time to do more research, talk to more people, really get a feel for what's going on so I can whip up a semi-decent story. I've had plenty of time to submit drafts and get others thoughts. If I had tried, this story could be much better than what it's turning out to be.

Truth is I haven't tried. I haven't done shit.

Again, I really would like to blame a thousand other things for why this story is looking to be just words on a page in which I've attempted to throw together in a coherent sense. But I know the real underlying reason for it. I know why I've poured so much time into the other pieces I wrote. Why I've worked so much harder to make them as best as they could be (in which I will go back and try again to make them even better). Why I've racked my brain over Title IX and contacted person after person for my article on Ball State's non-existent track team. It comes down to one little word.

Passion.

Don't get me wrong, this piece I'm working on is something that was thought of out of passion. It's focusing on pets and the economy. How shelters are seeing on a daily basis people trying to come and drop off their pets because they lost their job, they're house was foreclosed, or they simply can't afford to take care of their beloved animal. Considering that I have volunteered countless times for animal shelters, was once a huge advocate for Peta (until I discovered how crazy they are...eek!) and even went vegan once, it's safe to say that I truly care about animals. I took in a cat last summer that kept hanging around our house and now she is a ball of fur that sleeps on my bed and lifts her name at the sound of "Lil Bit". I once took in a cat that was hanging outside of Target and scaring customers away because it was a black cat. A female cop wouldn't go near it (she had a cat phobia) and an hour later when another cop showed up he refused to do anything with it because it would give him "bad luck". So I scooped up the poor creature, plopped it in my sunfire, and drove it home until I could take it to a shelter the next day. Considering it was highly malnourished and very ill, my parents weren't too happy about my attempts to "save" another animal.

But hey, I have a heart. Better to try than not do anything at all right?

My hope in this article was exactly that. I can't go out and save the world. I can't keep pet owners from losing their jobs, or idiots from abandoning their pets on the streets. I can't force people to get their dog neutered, or to adopt instead of purchase from a breeder. There are a lot of things in this world that I can't do. But to shed some light on a subject? To use writing as a way to get into someone's head or toy with their emotions? To tell a story that represents some truth that will have some sort of impact on someone's life?

That I'm not sure I can do. But that I can try.

So you can imagine my frustration when I look at my word document and see a thread of words that don't represent how I'm feeling and what it is I want them to do. You can imagine my regret in realizing I poured perhaps too much of my passion into my other two stories that I am bone dry and just done with this one. You can picture me pulling my hair out as I stare blankly at my computer screen, both wanting to try to save this story and at the same time just drag it to the trash can icon and never think of it ever again. Unfortunately it's the latter that it is truly tempting me right now.

If it wasn't for grades and passing classes I honestly would print this story out, take it outside, pull out my lighter, catch it on fire and then let the ashes sink into the earth and realize I don't ever have to deal with it again. I do this with certain things. Last summer I had a field day burning photos from my past that evoked too many bad memories. I regret saying that this story is turning into one of them.

Regardless, I have a deadline. I have a class that I have to pass. I have to turn this in, despite the fact that it truly is a "stinking pile of dog shit." I just wish I had just an ounce more of passion to save it.

Time (3/90)

2010-05-03T21:52:00.000-07:00

24 hours. That's right, 24 hours. A whole day to get a ton of stuff checked off my to-do list so that I can be stress free the entire week. Wanna know how much I actually accomplished? Zero. Zilch. Nada.

Ugh.

I've always been a procrastinator but I swear it's never been to this extent. I may not get a lot accomplished somedays, but here was one of those awesomely rare days where I literally had NOTHING going on. Time, for once, was on my side. I could've woken up in the early morning and powered through the day. Could've hit the sack early and slept a wonderful 8 hours, only to repeat and do it all again. Could've been productive and finish the day on a high note of feeling good about myself for accomplishing so many things.

Key word here is "could've". The truth is, "didn't."

I honestly don't know what's wrong with me. I don't understand why I can't sit and study for at least an hour. Or write. Or work on something, anything. It could've been packing, or cleaning, or working out, etc. Instead all I did was study briefly before my HSC final (the briefly part was definitely a mistake...oh well) and the rest of the day was spent hanging out with people and talking about all the work I should be doing.

I could make excuses for myself. It's true I did not feel well today. After taking care of Joe these past few days, I'm fairly certain I caught what he had. Woke up with a slight sore throat. Then felt dizzy and nauseous. Then a wave of feeling fatigue and feverish spread over me. But really, I could've mustered through it. After I went to back to Joe's house to hang out I began feeling much better. Maybe I'm, what's that word? The word for people who believe their sick when they're not? (googling...) A ha! Hypochondriac. Maybe I'm that.

Or maybe I'm sick with something else. I'm getting a similar feeling of what I had last year during the last week of school. It's that wave of sadness in realizing you're not going to see some of your favorite people for awhile. That feeling of having to leave everyone and bid them temporary goodbyes. The feeling of going home and missing your life here at college.

Homesick.

But not for home. Not for the red-brick house in the suburbs of Cincinnati. Not for my best friends from high school. Not for my family and pets. Not for all of the things I hold very close to my heart because they're apart of me. I'm homesick for the life I have right now. I'm homesick for college.

I have never been a fan of goodbyes. Ever. I'm one of those people who have a very difficult time of leaving something, especially people, in my past. I've learned that there quite a few people out there who don't understand this. They don't understand why you can't just accept things and move on. Why you can't just leave the bad behind and move forward with the good. The truth is, I don't understand it either. But I can't help it. I can't explain all the countless times I've tried to save something from it's ultimate death. Whether it's a relationship or an experience, or even just caring about something. Moving on has always been a fear for me and yet I've never quite understood why.

And here I am again, having to move on. It's not even a permanent move on. I will surely keep in touch with all of my college friends. Joe and I are planning a trip to new york. And in three short months I know I will be right back here in this town called Muncie, ironically probably wishing I was still in Ohio, or New York, or England, enjoying the freedom of summer.

But that's three months down the road. Right here, right now, I'm already feeling homesick for it.

I've found the best medicine for homesickness is to surround yourself with people. The people that make you smile. The people that make you forget. The people who help wash away the sickness your feeling because you're too caught up in enjoying the moment with them. The people who are ultimately going to be the reasons why you're homesick in the first place. Because you so dearly miss them.

I may not have gotten much accomplished today. I may not have studied for finals like I should've, or edited my magazine pieces, or packed and cleaned some more, etc. But I did spend time with some of the people I love the most. I laughed and talked and returned to my dorm room with a smile on my face because I immensely enjoyed the previous hours. Even though nothing spectacular happened, just being with these people made my day. Much more than a checked-off to-do list ever could.

I have a created a set schedule for the rest of the week to accomplish everything I need to do. I will stick with it. I learned my lesson from today...I don't want to feel like a total bum. But at the same time, I don't regret the time I spent today. I don't regret being surrounded by some of my favorite people. I have always felt that people are much more important than anything else. More important than grades, or jobs, maybe even your biggest dreams. Because what is college if it just trying to get the best grades and a long, checked-off list of to-dos? 10 years from now I'm not going to remember this week. I'm not going to remember how I did on my finals. But I am going to remember the memories I've made with my friends. And at the end of the day, that's all that really matters to me.

Maybe I'm just out of my mind...thinking about time.

When I Grow Up... (2/90)

2010-05-02T19:25:00.000-07:00

I just remembered that I signed up for this 90 day blog deal and so I HAVE to write before I start packing. Which is also before I start studying for my exam tomorrow. Nice!

I am one of those weird people that love finals week. While everyone else is stressing and waiting to get it all over with, I enjoy all the free time that I have. As a student, this means no classes, no homework, nothing but finishing final projects and studying. As an RA, this means no desk work, no one on ones, no staff meetings, and no floor programs, etc. Everything is in chill mode. My mind is set on getting things done so that I can get the hell out of Indiana and back to my beloved homes in Ohio and New York.

At the same time, I hate finals week.

Aside from the obvious stress of studying and whatnot, it's depressing to learn that I only have a week left before summer starts. All year long I have waited for this week. Every time an assignment popped up or the days I walked through the hell known as Muncie winter, I'd slip off into dreamland and wish I was at Lake Erie or rollerblading down the streets of Fairfield. But now that finals week is here, now that summer is here, I am not ready for this year to be over with.

I only have a year of college left :(

I don't know why, but for as long as I can remember I have tried to rush myself through life. My goal has always been to be one step ahead of everyone else. I blame middle school cross-country. The summer before 7th grade my dad and I took the training plan the cross-country coach had given me, and for three days every week we would hit the track together, starting at just running 400m until we built up to 2 miles. When I started cross-country that fall, I had learned no one else really took that program to heart. I was faster than everyone else and placing well in races because of my early training.

I loved it. Since then I have thought up countless plans to get ahead of the game. The spring semester of my junior year of high school I started post-secondary at Miami University in Hamilton. Basically, with the exception of a pre-calc class at Fairfield, I was taking all college classes. The last semester of my senior year I didn't even show up at the high school unless absolutely necessary. Some say I was cheating myself of the high school experience. Trust me, I was not. I had plenty of high school experience under my belt from the first 2 and a half years attending Fairfield. Actually, by skipping classes in high school I got the best of both worlds. I was attending college classes while still getting to go to the prom, run cross-country and track, and attend all the other fun stuff high school has to offer. I just got to miss out on all the drama and waking up at 5:30am :)

By the time I came to Ball State I was a sophomore with 36 credit hours. Naturally, my goal was to get out of here in 3 years. Why waste one more year at college (and one more year of tuition!) when I can be out in the "real" world?

Well, it looks like I'll be accomplishing my goal. And now I kind of regret it.

I'm almost 21 and yet I feel like a child. The idea of leaving the comforts of college and embracing the "real world" terrify me. I have dreamed of being some sassy journalist who struts around the streets of Manhattan in her fancy manolos like Carrie Bradshaw. While I'm not at all expecting to leave Ball State and head straight for the Big Apple, I realize that fantasy may not be so far out of reach. And now I'm not sure if I'm ready to handle it.

I feel like we just move from bubble to bubble. We get ourselves into a new situation where we feel completely out of place and yearning for what we once had. Then we learn to adjust, and find comfort in our new worlds and new lives with new people. And then we blink and discover we have to pack our bags and move on again. For so long I've been more than willing to move on, to rush through my youth so that I can have the independence and successful career I've been craving since middle school. That's until now, where I realize what growing up really is like. It's exhausting, frustrating, and scary. It's life.

I may not be ready to take on the new world. But I am ready to take on this summer, and I am ready for one more year. As I've said before, I can't look too far down the road, because honestly at this point I don't know what's down there anyway. All I can do is enjoy the time I have left, and trust that when this chapter ends God will help me write a new one.

Say What You Need to Say (1/90)

2010-05-01T19:57:00.000-07:00

People are following my blog. Weird.

Having someone read my writing has never been particularly uncomfortable for me. I've posted plenty of blogs and notes over the past few years for friends to read and comment on. I've sent my fair share of letters, from the typical "hey how's it going?" update to the personal heart-to-heart letter that you dread sending despite how easy the words seemed to flow from pen to paper. Occasionally I've felt the paranoia of having my words read aloud. Especially with poetry. I love poetry, but I couldn't write a haiku to save my life. Or the time I read my story about my coach to my creative writing class. It felt good to let that out, but it was particularly awkward to have my classmates, who barely know me, hear me pour out all this emotional turmoil. Aside from those two things, I really can't recall a time where having others read my work was an issue for me.

Until now.

You may be assuming I'm talking about my blog. In a sense, I am. Because here is my second attempt to writing everyday for 90 days (definitely failed after the second day the first time around) and now I have more things to think of and more things to write. Which is great. But it also might mean I'm a little more vulnerable than I was before.

It also goes beyond the blog. As in the dream I'm trying to turn into a career. As in becoming a professional free lance writer.

The desire to be published in a magazine has existed for quite a few years now, and the idea that this desire could turn into reality in the "near" future gives me mixed feelings. For one, it's exciting (duh). Just the idea that I'm trying to pitch a story is an exciting feeling. For it to actual be published would be spectacular.

But it's also kind of scary. Because to be published means people will be reading it; as in people I don't know, people I have never met nor will probably ever meet, will be reading my writing and judging me based off of it. My writing will be a representation of me, and if it turns out my writing is flawed or gives off the wrong tone or doesn't sit well with someone, then they won't be happy with me. And being the people-pleaser I've been my whole life, this idea is just a little outside my comfort zone.

I know you can't make everyone happy. I'm well aware of that and I'm learning to accept it. But accepting that little known fact of life doesn't mean my fear is going to vanish overnight.

However, this fear isn't going to stop me from writing. It's not going to stop me from blogging. And it's not going to stop me from writing my bluntly honest thoughts regardless of whether anyone agrees with me or not.

For the next 89 days, this blog is going to be about me. Selfish you may say but that's what a blog is all about, right? I'm going to write as if no one else were reading it. It's probably going to be a sloppy mess full of random tangents and winding ramblings of my thoughts throughout the day. I will probably reread my posts and wince at the idea that someone somewhere out there is taking what I've said. But my goal for this blog is not for it be perfect. My goal is for me to become comfortable with my writing...as awful as it may be.

I should also add that if you do read my blog you will find I am a huge fan of clichés. I love them. I don't understand what's so wrong with using them. They're clichés because they work!

And last but not least, I am a fan of using lyrics. You will find in almost every blog I post that it revolves around one specific lyric or song. In fact, the entire goal of this blog stems from one of my favorite John Mayer songs. It's a simple message, one that I try to keep in mind every time I sit down to write.

To my fellow classmates/bloggers who are also embarking on this 90 day challenge, I wish you good luck, and that you say what you need to say.

Every Little Thing

2010-04-30T20:02:00.000-07:00

The smell of brewed coffee in the morning. My cat rubbing up against my leg. Driving around Fairfield. Listening to Kiss 107 on the radio. Reading for fun. Writing for fun. Rollerblading. Sleeping til noon, never going to bed before 3. Running up and down hills, soaking up the sun, staring out over a lake and daydreaming the days away.

It's the little things that I'm looking forward to.

I have somewhat big plans for this summer. I plan on writing. A lot. I plan on traveling to New York. A lot. I plan on seeing friends as much as possible. Reds games. Niagara Falls. Maybe a trip to Chicago? And perhaps the biggest plan I've ever had for any summer, is the 6 weeks I'll be studying abroad in Worcester, England.

From what I've heard, there are people going on this trip who cannot wait for it to happen. The minute their last final ends will begin the countdown until they are on that 747 flying over the Atlantic ocean for an experience of a lifetime. There are those who have a list of things to do and see while they are abroad and are dreaming up all the possibilities that can happen.

I am not one of them.

That sounds awfully pessimistic. Let me explain.

I am extremely excited for my trip to England. I have been dreaming of studying abroad for quite a few years now, and the opportunity to take this trip couldn't have come at a better time. I will be participating in an independent study which I am looking forward to. My magazine prof will be working with the Soho theaters in London and I am hoping I might be able to go check that out. And last but not least is my awesomely geeky plan to hunt down all the places where The Police had their first steps as a band. To be honest, half the reason I want to go to England is because of my love for The Police. I am dying to take in this culture that influenced who they were and more importantly their music. Every step they took, I'll be blogging it :)

I leave on June 22 from the Indy airport. And I don't desire for June 22 to get here any earlier than it needs to. I need the month and a half from the time I bid my goodbye to Ball State and greet Great Britain with a big "ello love!" Although I always have a thousand "awesome" plans running through my head and all sorts of adventures I want to take on in life, there's nothing quite like being at home with absolutely nothing awesome going on.

It's called simplicity. And as my bio on the side of this blog says, I crave it.

I am looking forward to the days where I don't check facebook. The days where I open up my mailbox to find no more than 2 e-mails. The days where I'm in new york and my cell phone reception is minimal. Days where I lay out in the sun and listen to music all day long. Days where I run without a stopwatch because I am just in the mood to run and to enjoy it. Days where I can spend hours typing away with no goal in mind other than to get every thought and emotion out of my head and onto a computer screen. Days where I can walk around and take photos for fun and write letters to friends and fall asleep in a floaty in my pool. The days of swinging in a hammock, staring off into a sunset, and watching a fire dwindle away in the night. Days where the birds are my alarm clock and the stars are my night light.

It's about returning to nature. It's also about reconnecting with God.

For calling myself a Christian, I haven't written much, at least in a long while, about God. I miss that. I miss Him. I miss praying like I use to, reading the Bible like I use to, talking to my friends about Him like I use to. I miss turning to Him when something's wrong and thanking Him when things seem to be right. I miss trusting Him. My relationship with God seems to have been replaced with new, different relationships. A relationship with school. A relationship with my future. A relationship with worry, fear, paranoia, and making very bad decisions.

This summer my goal is to change that. To change my relationship with God in hopes that it will change me. Instead of focusing on future plans and trying to do something spectacular, as I have often dreamed of in the past, I plan on taking everything one day at a time. If I try to rush to the future or get lost in my dreams, I will only end up making the same mistakes as I've made in the past. I need every single day to work on every little thing. As 2nd Corinthians 5:17 says, "For if anyone is in Christ then he is a new creation; see everything old has passed away, the new has come." I want everything old to pass away because the new has come.

So this summer isn't about England. It isn't about traveling. It isn't about plans. It's not about writing, or my career, or anything of that sort. It is about enjoying every single second of every single day. To appreciate every little thing God has blessed me with. To take in the brewed coffee and watch the sun sink into the lake. I need every little detail. So that I can stop focusing on the big pictures that always seem to distract me, and get to what is really important in life. So that by the end of the summer I have changed, hopefully into a better person.

I can't wait to take in every little thing, because if you pay close enough attention, every little thing can be...

Magic.

Tis the Gift to be Simple

2010-04-28T15:27:00.000-07:00

Blog entries don't always have to be elaborate posts on deep or random thoughts, or what you were up to that day. Sometimes they can simple as sharing a photo or writing a quote. So today I'm keeping it simple, and sharing lyrics from a song that remind me what I really need to care about...

Come, thou Fount of every blessing,
tune my heart to sing thy grace;
streams of mercy, never ceasing,
call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I'm fixed upon it,
mount of thy redeeming love.
Here I raise mine Ebenezer;
hither by thy help I'm come;
and I hope, by thy good pleasure,
safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
wandering from the fold of God;
he, to rescue me from danger,
interposed his precious blood.
O to grace how great a debtor
daily I'm constrained to be!
Let thy goodness, like a fetter,
bind my wandering heart to thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
prone to leave the God I love;
here's my heart, O take and seal it,
seal it for thy courts above.

I promise...

2010-04-23T13:43:00.000-07:00

That I will never talk to him or speak about him or anything dealing with that situation ever again. I'm done with it. If I keep bringing up my past I'm going to ruin the one good thing I have: my relationship.

Happiness

2010-04-19T18:43:00.000-07:00

I don't think I give enough credit to my life.

Over the summer I had a friend tell me how he always read my facebook notes and noticed how they were always depressing. He begged to see a note that was happier instead of the "woe is me, life isn't as great as it should be" vibe he always felt. He told me he'd always read what I wrote and think "aw, poor Laura."

Upon hearing this I was surprised, but after thinking about it I realized he was right. My notes/now blog are typically bittersweet. They're usually based upon something, not necessarily bad, but a struggle or challenge in my life that I'm trying to overcome. I try to end these blogs on high notes; let you, the reader, know what I'm gaining from these so-called tough times. I thought my notes were inspiring to people...not depressing.

Over the summer my writing seemed depressing, because, well, that's how I honestly felt. Read the stuff that I don't post for all to read (aka my diary) and you'll understand why my notes seemed as upsetting as they were. I have my reasons for these feelings but I won't delve into them now because for one, it's in the past and there's no point, and two because as always I'm bound to feel nostalgic again and end up writing about it anyway. But not now. Because right now I have no reason to be depressed. I have no reason to be in a bad mood, or be upset. I have no reason for my writing to have the typical bittersweet vibe. Because on the contrary, I'm fairly happy.

So you can imagine my surprise when a friend showed up at my door tonight to see how I was doing. Apparently I had said something to someone that lead them to believe that not all was well in my life. Which in turn lead my dear friend to come knocking on my door to check-up on me. We have scheduled to hang out later this week, so I will learn then what it is that she heard that has caused for concern. I have a somewhat idea of what we we'll be discussing...I know what the topic is about. But what's concerning to me isn't the situation with myself...it's the fact that I'm giving off this vibe that I'm not happy with my life and I don't even realize I'm doing it.

I suppose it's the emo in me that comes out, especially when I'm writing. These negative thoughts that float around in the back of my head need to be released somewhere, and apparently the keyboard is their best friend. Can I help it? I suppose. I could consciously try to not write about negative things. But that would completely contradict what the purpose of this blog is. And that is for it to be honest and truthful. I will never sugar coat anything on my blog. I will give the blunt honest truth of anything whether anyone wants it or not. I often tell people that I wear my heart on my sleeve when it comes to writing. And that's the truth. When I write, there is no censorship between my head and my fingertips. I let my thoughts run wild and my fingers just try their best to keep up.

But tonight I am consciously thinking about what am I typing, because tonight I will not let just any thoughts find their way into this blog entry. No. Tonight I'm letting the ones that I should be writing about all the time, but never do because they don't require much thinking. They're called "happiness" and for some sad reason they never make it this far.

I think the underlying reason to not writing about my happiness is because what I had just stated; it doesn't require much thinking. When you're happy, you're happy. You feel good, life's great, what else is there to it? But when you're upset about something, you do think about it. You think about why it's bothering you. It eats at you and consumes you until the point you have to let someone else know about it. Now, grant it I understand that there are of course happy occasions that do the same thing. When you get engaged, or get your dream job, that happiness eats at you because you can't wait to tell people about it. But how often do those happy occasions where you need to shout for joy happen? Not as often as the trials we face.

And there is the bittersweet thing about happiness. Our daily happiness is usually the content, quietness we feel that we don't need to share. You've probably heard of happiness being compared to as a butterfly. If you try to chase it, you'll never catch it. But if you simply live your life, it will come and softly sit on your shoulder. Sometimes you don't even notice it's there.

The Fray did what I think is a magnificent job in describing what happiness is (if you've never heard the song Happiness, go listen to it). From being a firecracker you need to get away from to what it feels like when it's not existent in your life. Happiness, as simple as it is, is a lot more complicated than we'd like. At least, when we make it that way.

I'm rambling and if you dear reader are still with me I congratulate you for getting this far to see where I'm going with all of this. The point I'm trying to make is while happiness is usually something we're not as conscious of as when we're unhappy, it doesn't mean we shouldn't be celebrating it. You may not have a newborn or be getting married or have something absolutely incredible happen to you for the moment but it doesn't mean you shouldn't celebrate the happiness you already have. There should be no shame in saying you are happy with your life. It's not bragging, it's spreading the joy. We need to stop lying to ourselves about our happiness and simply enjoy it.

With that said, here's what I'm happy with in my life. I am happy for being at Ball State University. It may be the flattest place on earth and I may be surrounded by Colts and Cubs fans, but I absolutely love it. I am happy with the major I have chosen. Sometimes I want to pound my head against a wall because writing can be so damn frustrating, but I'm learning to tolerate that feeling because I still enjoy this craft I'm attempting to master. I'm happy with my social life. With the friends I have here who keep me laughing, to my friends at home who always have my back. I'm happy with my relationship with Joe. People think it's corny to say this but I'm not lying when I state that I honestly feel lucky to be with him. To think that at one point in time I was willing to let this go still blows my mind and I still look back and think and kick myself for being such an idiot. Fortunately I realized this, and even though it had seemed that my realization came just a little too late, I somehow was lucky enough to still get a chance. Best thing that's ever happened to me.

The list can go on. I'm happy with my family even though they're miles away, happy with the uncertain future I so often fear, happy with my home and home away from homes, etc. My life isn't perfect. But it's good enough for me.

I don't know how it happened, but somewhere along the line I stopped chasing happiness. Until one day I woke up, and it was home.

So Lonely

2010-04-03T19:02:00.001-07:00

Easter weekend. Ball State's campus. Put the two together and you have a recipe for isolation, loneliness, and complete boredom.

I don't want to spend Easter weekend here at Ball State. But due to my irresponsible behavior on planning things ahead of time, I switched duty weekends with someone and didn't realize until after the fact that I was sentencing myself to a weekend confined to my room when I could be spending time at home with my family. The whole reason I switched weekends was so that I could attend a party. I gave up God for a party. So maybe I had this coming.

I wanted to go home tomorrow morning. I tried to think up ways that I could go home. My parents could come pick me up in the early hours. But I felt it was unfair to ask them to drive 8 hours for a lesser amount of time of me being at home. I thought of asking to borrow someone's car, but that didn't seem right either. Regardless, I came to terms in realizing that unless I had my own personal way of transportation, I was not going home.

I've tried to accept that. But I regret that decision now more than ever.

The reason I want to go home so badly is the reason anyone wants to go home on the holidays: to be with the ones they love. To enjoy their company. To celebrate such a day with them. Seeing as I'm missing out on that, I was excited to hear that my boyfriend would still be staying on campus with me. If I couldn't be with my family, the only other person I'd want to be with is him. I'd actually prefer just to be with all of them together.

Life doesn't work that way.

Instead today I found what I feared most in not going home: loneliness. The desire to be with the people I love didn't happen. It could've, but it didn't. Instead I spent most of the day working on homework, or being in my room. Sometimes I was around other people but I felt mostly alone. And now, the one holiday I want to spend with the people I care most about, even more so than Christmas, I might indeed be spending alone.

It is, however, not about me. Easter is about God. Perhaps it's a good thing I'm alone. I can spend my day focused on Him.

Doesn't change how I feel though. And all I feel is so lonely.

Goodbye to You

2010-03-31T17:34:00.001-07:00

I miss everything and nothing at the same time.

Lyrics from Michelle Branch's song "Goodbye to you." I've always loved that song because it's a true testament to letting go of what might be the hardest thing to say goodbye to. But that specific line, "I miss everything and nothing at the same time," I could never comprehend. How can you miss something and not miss it all at once? I couldn't wrap my head around the concept. At least not a few years ago when I was still in high school and very naïve of what was to come in life. But today, I realized just what she means.

I went to Ball State's track this afternoon to observe the women's track practice and talk to a few people for my article. My article is about how a run club organization has been able to provide competition for men who have lost their track teams. Ball State is one of those schools who no longer has a men's track team. My goal today was to get a feel for what track is like without the men there and what the women think of having no men's track.

On one hand I felt my visit was successful. I left with good quotes, a good feel of what track was like here at Ball State, and inspired to go for a run myself. On the other, it made me terribly miss the sport that I absolutely love.

I don't think my friends at Ball State realize just how important running to me once was. Back in high school, it was my life. Literally. My friends were all from the team, my schedule revolved around workouts and meets, my diet was strictly focused on helping me run. Runner's world was my new bible and my workout log was my new diary. It was all I could think and care about. If I had a bad workout or meet, I was angry with myself until the next time when I did better. The perfect example is the one time I didn't PR at a cross-country meet. I was off by about 10 seconds, but you would've thought it was the end of the world. I cried the rest of the day. My family took me out to lunch and I was quiet and puffy-eyed from being so upset. They thought something was truly wrong. They made me call off work and told me to sleep...they thought I was sick. Well, in a way they were right. I was so upset with myself, it's kind of sick to think how dramatic I was. All upset over one race in which the next week I PRed again. It was ridiculous. It was stupid.

It was an obsession.

Yes, it's no understatement to say that I was obsessed with the sport in a very unhealthy way. No sport should mean that much to anybody. I don't even think professional athletes that really live their life around a sport should feel the way I felt. But as much as I wish I could criticize myself, I have to defend my feelings. I may have been obsessed, but I was also extremely happy.

I found that I got a natural high out of running when I was young. I use to go run and run and run, just for the heck of it. In gradeschool I would change my clothes, grab my tennis shoes, make a water bottle, and go run laps around my backyard. In middle school I joined the cross-country and track team where I discovered I had a natural talent when it came to running. My father trained with me the summer before at the little run-down track in New York. It started with just a 400. Then it increased to 800. And then I was up 2 miles. By the time I got back to school I could compete, and I was doing well.

High school came and rocked my world. I was on Varsity all 4 years and I loved every minute of it. Then junior year came and I met my new coach, mr Michael Meiser. An intense passionate runner, he was the best coach our team had seen in years. I blame him for the obsession that I grew with running. He had us out there pushing ourselves beyond what we could believe...and the results showed. We were setting goals and actually achieving them. It was marvelous.

So by the time high school finally ended, it was naturally expected that I run in college. That's what my coach wanted. He strongly encouraged almost all of us seniors varsity runners to continue our running careers in college. And at first I thought that's what I wanted too. I talked to a few coaches, hoping to see what opportunities were out there. But by track season my senior year, something happened. I wasn't running like I use to. I wasn't training like I use to. My coach was hardly around and I found it hard to motivate myself during workouts. Looking back, I now realize I was burned out. I spent so much time training and setting goals, that now that the end was in sight, I was exhausted. I was looking forward to going to college for my career, not for running. After turning down the Wright State's coach's offer to run on the team, I realized that my competitive running career was coming to an end.

So why, after all of this time, I suddenly miss it?

Being at the track today, I saw something I hadn't seen in a long time. I saw a team. Stretching together, running together, pushing their limits together. I saw a coach encouraging them along. I saw passion and strength. I saw a desire in them. They were out there, training, hoping to achieve their own goals. I couldn't help but wonder if that could've been me.

I could've ran in college. Some of you reading this blog might think "Yeah right, Laura. You weren't that good in high school. How can you know that you could've gone out there and ran with those girls?" I don't. Maybe I would've shown up and got my ass kicked. But something in me just knows that that would not have been the case. That if I had worked hard that last track season, and conditioned over the summer, and continued to pour my heart and soul into running, I would be on the team. I would be out there with those girls I saw today, giving it my all. I'd be traveling to different places and competing against other collegiate runners. My times would be faster, my body in better shape. I could've continued my obsession, and knowing me, I probably would've still loved every second of it.

Here's the bittersweet part though. I'm glad I didn't do it. I'm glad the Ball State track coach, who I just met for the first time today, never responded to the e-mail I sent over 2 years ago (in which I also learned today probably ended up in his junk mail). I'm glad I didn't follow my coach's goals for me and made my own decision. I'm glad I chose Ball State for their journalism program, not for their track. Because if I hadn't turned down track, I would've never gone to run club. I would've never learn to love running as it is recreational. I would've never met my current friends and boyfriend. I wouldn't have had the awesome times that I've had. My story could be completely different. And I'm so grateful that it's not.

Sometimes I miss everything about running…and at the same time I don't miss it all. So to the runner I once was, I say, goodbye to you.

Can't Stop Loving You

2010-03-30T17:15:00.004-07:00

I hate Phil Collins.

That's a lie. I don't actually hate Phil Collins. For the most part I enjoy his music. He has that soft-rock poppy sound my mother enjoys listening to. The kind you would find on Mix 94.1 or Fly 92.9. His music has that lovers soul of Marvin Gaye mixed with some 80s synthesizers. With the exception of the work he did for Disney's Tarzan (awful movie in which I think completely ruined his music), I enjoy Phil Collins.

But I hate him.

At least today, when I was getting dinner and his song "Can't Stop Loving You" just so happened to softly float out of the speakers in Woodworth's dining area. For some reason that song, and I don't think it has anything to do with the lyrics, triggers memories from my younger days. By that I really mean I have flashbacks of Pittsburgh.

I'm an all-around Ohio girl. Fairfield has always been home sweet home, and I'm proud to call the Nasty Nati my home city. But I can't deny that Pittsburgh has been the city to truly capture my heart. Ever since I can remember I have enjoyed it. Its rolling hills, its die-hard football fans, the entire essence of it. Every year my family and I would go up to Pittsburgh for Christmas and sometimes for Easter. And every year I looked forward to that trip.

2009 was the first year I did not go to Pittsburgh.

I knew at a young age just what Pittsburgh meant to me. I remember being in my grandparents backyard, taking it all in and thinking to myself "Here I am, in Pittsburgh." You know the saying, "live in the moment?" Well I can say, without a doubt, that those times in Pittsburgh were times where I truly lived in the moment. And I always knew that.

The last time I was in the Steel city was September of 2008 for my cousin's wedding. And since that time I have been craving to go back. Homesickness can occur with places that aren't really considered your home, at least not by others. But for Pittsburgh, it as a part of home. It's a comfort zone, a safety blanket. I can go there and feel comfortable. I can reminisce on parts of my childhood. I can proudly sport my black and gold. I feel happy, and content, and free. Those streets are a part of me. And after about a year and a half of separation, I miss them terribly.

The streets aren't the only ones I miss.

The reason my family and I would visit Pittsburgh was to visit my grandparents on my mom's side. Ed and Ruth Syska. They married at a young age, and my grandma had her first child before she was 21. My mother grew up in a yellow brick house on 4th Avenue in Laurel Gardens, right down the street from North Hills High School. And over 18 years, that little yellow brick house became a second-home to me.

There is much I could say about my grandparents, but to sum it up: I loved them. And to see them go was one of the toughest experiences.

My grandpap passed away when I was a junior in high school. He had cancer and was living in a nursing home. But to be honest, I don't think it was the cancer that killed him. It was the fact that he had lost his wife to alzheimer's. The fact that he couldn't care for her anymore. The fact that his wife, the love of his life, could barely function, let alone remember who he is. He didn't die from cancer. He died from a broken heart.

My grandma passed away a little over a year later, but her death was more of a relief than a tragedy. After seeing her suffer, seeing her forget who I was, forget her own life I was relieved to know she was no longer trapped in her own personal hell. The last time I saw her I promised myself I would never go back...the nursing home was too cruel. Constantly surrounded by death, I don't understand how anyone could work though. It literally feels as though life itself has been sucked out of you. I also swore I would never lay eyes on that building again. Unfortunately I can't erase those images from my mind.

But the truth is they're gone. I can miss them all I want, it's not going to change anything. All I have left are the memories that still linger in the back of my mind and tattooed on my heart. And sometimes all it takes is just a melody to remember what I can't stop loving.

Damn you Phil Collins.

"Winning"

2010-03-27T23:11:00.000-07:00

Winning. By definition it means to "be successful or victorious in." My personal definition is "to save myself from humiliation and gain a small amount of respect." Winning.

Tonight I challenged my boyfriend to a few games of ping-pong. I didn't decide to play this game on a whim. No, I knew before challenging him to any game that I had to walk in with some amount of confidence. If not I knew I would be setting myself up for humiliation. Which in my world would be the definition of losing. And losing is not acceptable.

Or is it? Did I honestly care that he won 3 out of the 5 games, making him the overall winner? Ironically, no. I cared more about the possible fact that perhaps I didn't deserve to win any of the games and the two that I did "win" were won only because he let me. What's the point in "winning" if it isn't won fair and square? That's still suffering some small sense of humiliation, isn't it? Which, again, would be losing. It would just be losing obliviously. I didn't want to win out of pity. I wanted to win because I was better.

Better. There's a word that needs to be thrown around carefully.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not out to prove that I am better than my boyfriend. In fact in most aspects I would say he's better than me and I prefer that. I mean, wouldn't you want to be with someone who is better than you? Someone you feel you don't deserve? Someone who makes you a better person? For me, yes, and that's exactly how I feel.

But it doesn't mean that I never want to be better than him in something. And by something I mean a game, or a sport. In most sports, there's no competition. Running, biking, playing ultimate, (and I'm sure the list can go on) there's no point in even trying because we both know he's gonna win. In some aspect it has to do with the whole "he's a guy, I'm a girl," situation and that's fine, I can accept that. But you know when that theory applies and when you're just plain awful at something. You know the difference between losing from gender differences and losing because you suck. And to be honest, in most sports/games I could play against him, I would lose not because I'm a girl, but because I really do suck.

Except ping-pong.

Not to sound arrogant or boastful but I have a fair amount of confidence when it comes to this mini-version of tennis (which, by the way, I'm sure is another sport I would successfully fail at). My parents bought my sisters and I a ping-pong table when I was in my pre-teens and I grew up challenging my sisters and my dad. I learned mostly from my father, of course. In most cases, I would lose. But every now and then, I would strike just a bit of luck and prevail. It was glorious.

Coming here to college, of course, there are plentiful opportunities available to play ping-pong. And last year, my first year at Ball State, I played against a few guy friends. I won. Finally, something I could have a little bit of confidence in. Something that I could challenge to someone in without feeling like a fool. Something to "save me from humiliation and gain a small amount of respect." Something to win in.

So tonight, I had a small amount of hope that I could prevail again. Not to show up my boyfriend, but to prove a small point. To prove that I am good at something, even if it is just ping-pong. And maybe I didn't win the majority of the games, but I did win two. Maybe I proved to him that there is a game out there that perhaps I can challenge him in.

But until that point is proven, I say, rematch.