Battle Tactics and Coffee Therapy: Girl Vs. Insect

The aroma of steaming coffee grounds invades my senses as I sink even deeper into a critical analysis of Alexander Pope’s “Eloisa to Abelard.” Two hours into the pitiful perception of a woman longing for her forbidden lover, and the only sensical part of the experience is the steaming mug in my right hand. Furiously typing in an attempt to finish the paper at a reasonable hour, I shift slightly, feeling something warm on my thigh. I look down only to see the sensical part of my writing experience slowly spilling onto my couch. It is one of those instances where everything appears to be occurring in slow motion. I’m not going to lie, it took me a hot minute to stop the river from staining the cushion any further. This was also one of those instances where I had to put on my big girl pants and clean up the mess. My take on trying to get a stain out of a couch consisted of persistent dabbing with a wet cloth and then letting it dry. The coffee mark was evident for a solid week until my mother visited and helped me clean it correctly.

Every time this happens – which I am embarrassed to admit is more often than not – I wish that I had my mother or her expertise there to help. I’m hopeless when it comes to getting stains out of anything. I’m also terrible at sewing – hence all the wacky patch jobs I’ve performed on articles of clothing. Thank God I decided against pursuing anything in the medical field. If I was tasked with stitching a poor soul, they’d look like Frankenstein. However, the worst part of adulthood for me is handling the creepy crawlies that like to torment my tiny, tiny heart.

Not to be a typical girl, but bugs of any kind constantly have me on edge. I should not be this jumpy in my own home. I guess I did it to myself though, considering I chose an apartment building nestled in a wooded area. I can handle the deer who peacefully graze in the grassy patch next to the parking lot. I can handle the eclectic group of stray cats who frolic the streets by day. I can even handle the persistent red woodpecker who pecks his little heart away every morning like clockwork. What I cannot handle are the evil little insects who invade my personal space. I’ve already established my appreciation for that one-foot circumference of free space called my hula hoop of happiness; therefore, I do not appreciate the stinkbugs and bees who find refuge in my cozy apartment. Let me set the scene for you …

One weekday not too long ago, I was once again sitting on my couch, swaddled in an afghan, the soundtrack of my life (Friends) playing softly in the background. I was diligently completing homework assignments, when all of a sudden, a dark circle approached my left eye at warped speed. I just barely missed the impact of one of the biggest stinkbugs I’ve ever seen. I threw my laptop to the side, haphazardly stumbled out of the afghan, and whipped my head in the direction of the buzzing. There he sat, perched on a floral-patterned pillow, almost taunting me. I raced into the kitchen, grabbed the Windex and a few paper towels, ready to face-off with the invader. Timidly, I walked towards him, careful not to disturb his short-lived victory. I came within a foot of his pinched face, aimed my weapon and fired the blue liquid, stunning him. Then I snatched him up in the paper towels, swiftly carried him into the bathroom, and gave him a royal send off. The battle ended that day with a win for the home team, and I had hoped it would send a clear message to his brethren that I was not in the mood for their antics.

That stinkbug and the many that followed all fell victim to my Windex weapon of choice; however, they were not the first to invade the mainland, and they will not be the last. When I first moved in last summer, I found myself battling a bunch of bees who tried cohabitating with me of all people. I spent many a night in paranoia, waiting for the next bee to emerge and raise my blood pressure. These were the moments when I wished I still lived at home with two brothers and a father who could take care of the bugs for me. I can only do so much with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels, and now that the weather is slowly starting to warm up, I know the bees will be back for round two.

Battle tactics aside, I don’t kill every bug that tries to settle and start a family in my home. There was a little lady bug who settled on a sunflower decoration in my living room. Because I do not like to cohabitate with insects, I placed him outside in the hallway near the window. Every morning when I’d walk into my living room, I’d see him nestled in the same sunflower. Eventually, I gave up and granted little Harold the ladybug permission to live with me. However, one morning when I walked over to the sunflower, I couldn’t find Harold. I looked all over the side table until I saw him; he had fallen into the melted wax of my Sensy. And that is exactly why I no longer let any insects live with me.

Adulthood is hard, especially for a woman terrified of inevitable intruders of the insect variety. Battles occur regularly in the confines of my living room, and so far, I remain the unrivaled victor. As long as I keep Windex, paper towels, and coffee on hand, I should have no trouble keeping the enemies at bay this spring. I’m definitely going to need the rejuvenating qualities of a dark roast to calm my nerves and keep me sane during this war of the insects.

Dazed and Confused: Girl vs. Gym

Failures have a lasting impression. It is easier to dwell on our shortcomings than to persevere with a positivity that outshines the negativity. This is one of my biggest struggles – trying to find that balance, the place where I feel good about what I’m doing, specifically what I’m doing to stay in shape.

Recently, I’ve been really into watching body builders on YouTube. Do you ever find yourself just slowly spiraling into the depths of mindless entertainment? I could get lost for hours if not for the occasional ping from my phone or the sudden urge to relieve my miniscule bladder from the copious amounts of coffee I consume. The reason I mention my recent YouTube habits is because I realized that I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to working out.

I walk into the gym and randomly pick a machine to start; generally, I go for the elliptical or the treadmill to get what little muscles I have warmed up. Then I usually meander over to the machines that I assume target my nonexistent ab muscles. After tiring myself out for a solid 15 minutes, I attempt to build upper body strength with the arm machines. I honestly couldn’t even identify any machine by name; I probably couldn’t even tell you what muscle group it targets. I am hopeless when it comes to gym terminology and workout methods.

Now, I know what you’re all thinking. Alex, why don’t you just watch tutorials on YouTube while you spiral down into hours of mindless entertainment? Then at least it may serve a purpose. Ladies and gents, I have tried. I’ve watched numerous men and women give extremely helpful tips and demonstrations in their tutorials; however, I am not the best at mimicking the exercises. You see, I am one of those learners who needs someone to physically show me how to complete a task and then guide me through my own attempts. I need hands-on instruction to grasp a specific workout routine or exercise. I’m certain I don’t even know how to properly use the machines I’m semi-familiar with.

I must look ridiculous at the gym; I can guarantee I look like that one individual in the back of a dance class who thinks she’s mastered the routine. She’s checking herself out in the abnormally large mirror, popping up here and there with her mediocre moves trying to get closer and closer to the front. She has that goofy smile plastered on her face, and you just happen to see her every now and again, flopping along to the beat of some garbage song that consists of migraine inducing electronic beats and what sounds like a drunk forty-year-old man talking under water. I’m the girl who acts like she knows what she’s doing at the gym, when in reality, I have no idea.

The only way I can describe myself at the gym is the lurker. I am that person who lurks around a machine to watch someone skilled in the art of working out use it properly. Then I confidently venture on over and begin setting the weight and height to match my petite physique. This is the moment when I realize I have a problem: I did not watch the previous person set the machine. Now I look like an imbecile because I have no idea how to adjust the machine. I kid you not, I refused to use the lat pulldown because I could not figure out how to adjust the seat; I’m short, and the person before me had height like the jolly green giant. It took me about a month to discover the secret to unlocking the seat and adjusting the height for my compact figure.

I have had many a failure when it comes to working out. I’ve been trying to keep a consistent routine for weeks now, and I haven’t cracked the code yet. I’m not giving up, though. Beach season is creeping up on me, and I’m not forgoing my dream of finally having a presentable physique this summer. It will happen whether I like it or not. I won’t let the negativity of my gym failures outshine the positivity I can find in the humorous accounts that grace the page. Eventually, I’ll find the balance – the happy medium that holds a workout routine specifically designed just for me. For now, I’ll settle for failed attempts than none at all … and coffee to ease the embarrassment, of course.

Fishing For Men: The Art of the Pick-Up Line

Pick-up lines. As a woman, I have to say, nine times out of ten, pick-up lines are cheesy and lack the sense of wit they should cherish. When men interact with a woman, those first couple minutes are prime time. This is the moment when men search the rolodex and select the perfect one-line sinker that either makes the girl laugh, melt, or call them out on the load of baloney they’re trying to serve as an appetizer.

Now all you wonderful readers know that I absolutely have stories to tell about my experience with pick-up lines. One in particular really shook what little faith I had left in the male race. It made me question my own fate: Would I ever find someone who could spar with me in a battle of wits?

It was a stormy winter day, and I was relaxing in the comfort of my cozy apartment, swaddled in a colorful afghan, sipping the sweet, sweet nectar that is coffee. I was in a Zen state, probably indulging in a little blog writing, when I heard the hopeful ping of my phone. It was a Tinder notification from what I had assumed would be a guy with a sense of humor and a little wit from his file of pick-up lines. But, as my life normally takes a turn for the worse, it was the complete opposite.

I opened the notification with an overzealous rush of excitement only to find one of the most uncreative lines I’ve ever encountered. This man flipped through his stock of one-liners and selected, “Is your name Ariel, because I think we mermaid for each other?” The only way that this line would work on me, is if my name were actually Ariel or was somewhere in the vicinity of sounding like Ariel upon pronunciation. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a witty pun, but using this line on me was definitely the wrong choice. And, if I were a guy, it would not be my number one draft pick.

While this pick-up line was not an all-star player, I do have one that tops all others in the creativity department. Recently, I was having the typical boy-talk with my sister – as sisters do –  and she told me a story all about how her life got quick turned upside down.

So, let me take a minute, just sit right there, (with your coffee, of course) and I’ll tell you all about how she met the love of her life. Like me, my sister was fed up with the tedious task of trying to find a date in our small hometown; therefore, she bit the bullet and downloaded Tinder with minimal expectations considering the pool of men she was fishing in.

Then one day, she caught a fellow who snatched her bait with the best pick-up line I’ve seen so far. It was sweet and witty and exactly what all men should be doing when women cast a line in the crowded waters. This is how you snag yourself a lady, my friends: “I am very saddened to inform you that you’re above the maximum standard on looks. You are clearly an 8.5, no wait a 9, and here at Tinder, we only accept 7’s as a maximum. Your account will be DEACTIVATED unless you reply to this with your name, number, movie preference, and your favorite restaurant. Have a nice day.”

I am here to inform you lovely readers that my sister has been dating the genius behind this pick-up line for about two months, and they are stronger than ever. They have restored that smidgen of faith I have in the male race. I now know that it is possible to find respectable gentlemen on an app such as Tinder.

 Ladies, never give up hope. Once you weed through all the minnows, you’ll find yourself a well-mannered trout, ready and willing to give you the best pick-up line of your life.

 

A Tanning Faux Pas

Spring break. It’s that time of the year when college-age students everywhere go wild for sun, sand, and copious amounts of alcohol. I on the other hand, traveled three hundred miles to my snowy home town to spend my week of freedom working and spending time with family. Some may find this a lame escape, but I thoroughly enjoy the quiet solitude. I have plenty of time this summer to take trips to the beach. I would much rather venture out into the open ocean when the sand isn’t crowded with drunks and semi-illegal activity.  

However, it would be nice to take a quick trip to my happy place – toes in the water, chair in the sand, book in hand.  I could use a little sun considering I look like Casper’s second cousin in the winter months. It’s honestly quite scary how translucent my skin appears in the gloomy atmosphere of Ohio. I’m in that dormant phase of the year when I only leave my house for work, school, and the occasional date for fear of blinding innocent bystanders. In other words, I might be a vampire; I’m not going to lie.

Speaking of needing a little Vitamin D, I have a humorous tale about my short-lived experience with tanning beds. Now, I know what you’re thinking: Alex, tanning beds are horrible for your skin! Do you really want to risk cancer at the ripe age of 21? The answer is no, and that is precisely why I do not use them anymore. Actually, the main reason for my early retirement in the art of tanning the artificial way is because of the most embarrassing story I have in my rolodex of bad experiences. The story goes a little like this …

About a year ago, I joined the gym, and taking advantage of the expensive membership plan, I decided to bring a little color back to the corpse-like complexion of my body by using the tanning beds. It is important to note that I had never used a tanning bed before; I was a tanning virgin, and bed number 3 took my tanning virginity in the worst way possible.

That first time, I felt like a boss; I rolled out of the florescent tube smelling like burning flesh hoping that the tan would be worth it. I was finally on my way to a desirable olive complexion in preparation for a summer in the sun. I felt so grown-up, like I was taking advantage of my adulthood freedom. I tanned for two-months straight, about four days a week. I frequented the gym at night after work and encountered the same employee each time I went for a workout and a tanning session. About two weeks into my tanning escapades, I noticed the employee who checked me in every night giving me a strange look. At the time, I ignored it because I honestly didn’t care; I was doing something for me for the first time, and I felt great. I’m not going to lie, I should have paid attention to the look.

One night after two months of killing skin cells, I called my mother inquiring about the lack of results. I spent so much time in that time capsule of toxins, and I was not seeing the results I wanted. She asked me numerous questions about what I was doing, and then she hit me with the question that left me feeling like a complete idiot. She asked, “Well, are you closing the lid to the tanning bed?”

This was one of the lowest points in my life because I had been tanning for two solid months with the lid to the tanning bed wide open. I was tan on only half of my body; I looked like a chocolate vanilla twist, and there was no tangible way to correct the problem. My hands were two distinct colors; my right hand looked like it just spent a week in the Bahamas, and my left hand looked like it was still in the dormant phase of the year. Needless to say, this was the very last time I used a tanning bed for fear of messing up the results once again. And the funniest part of this story is that the first day tanning, I tried to pull down the lid, and it didn’t budge. I assumed that all tanning beds worked that way, and bed number 3 and I had the worst relationship of my life. We did not end on good terms, and we most certainly did not remain friends afterwards.

The moral: don’t use tanning beds. They are feisty flings that leave you wounded in the end looking like a half-seared steak. Tan the natural way with sunscreen supplements or dabble in using fake tan. These are my options for the time being, and I am perfectly okay with my Casper complexion until further notice. Who needs spring break to get a base tan, when I can fake tan without leaving the comfort of my home?

In a round about way, this has been the weekly motto thus far. While the majority spends this week in a drunken stupor, I’ll be drunk on caffeine because the truth about coffee is much better than a week I’ll never remember.

 

A Series of Unfortunate Events

When life hands you hardships, grab your favorite mug, sip a strong, calming brew, and write a blog. This has been my motto for the last week, which I can honestly say has been a nightmare. For the past year, I have been in a constant state of anxiety and stress because of the hailstorm life has thrown down to obliterate the path I’ve laid out for myself. To give you attentive readers a taste of the alarmingly sharp twist of fate I’ve encountered, I must first warn you that I could not make any of this up even if I tried.

My week started out the same as usual, the simple and most times painful balance of school and work. I was trotting along fine, just trying to make it to the long-awaited weekend. The days were flying by, and I had made it to Wednesday. I had gotten out of my last class early because my professor has taken habit in giving fifteen-minute lectures and just leaving. I’m paying thousands of dollars for a quarter of a class. Isn’t that fantastic? I still had about forty-five minutes until I absolutely had to leave for work, so I sat on campus in my car, catching up on the readings for class the next day. After biding my time, I reluctantly revved the engine, and began the trek.

With sunglasses perfectly placed on the bridge of my nose and the gentle hum of the bass, I rode to the exit at the top of campus. Patiently awaiting my turn at the always busy intersection, I noticed a lull in traffic patterns. With no traffic coming down the hill and a car turning onto campus coming up the hill, I went. The next moment hit me like a two-ton car … literally. Yes, readers, you guessed it; I was in another car accident. I would like to point out that this woman that hit me had her turn signal on for quite a while as she was coming up the hill. Ladies and gents, the only take away I have from this obstacle in my life is that apparently signals mean nothing when it comes to traffic laws.  

However, signals mean everything to me. This situation is the perfect metaphor for mixed signals in a relationship of any kind. Don’t lead someone on if you’re not serious about the commitment. This woman lead me on with her turn signal. I was convinced that she was going to make that commitment and turn onto campus. Instead, she shattered all my expectations and crumpled my brand-new car. If you’re wondering, this is one of the many reasons why I have trust issues because do people really mean what they say or do? How can I be sure anymore?

While you coffee addicts contemplate that heavy rhetorical question, let me segway into the next unfortunate event. Recently, my brother came back to the states on a short stint from his military life to receive a form of Lasik surgery. Literally blinded by the light and in excruciating pain, my brother spent about a week in the wonderful city of Monroe, OH, doped up and longingly waiting for his sight to return. My mother and younger brother, made the trip as well to take care of him after his surgery.

Thursday night, with only an hour and a half of sleep under my belt, my phone rings, jolting me out of what I’d like to imagine was a delightful dream. I answered the phone in a trance to the sound of my mother’s labored voice as she tells me that she’s in pain and must call an ambulance, and that I, being the closest to her, must drive the four hours to take care of one blind brother and another with a strange, unidentifiable facial rash. I thought I was dreaming, and looked up at the drop ceiling of my bedroom wondering, “Why, God why?” My poor mother was stuck with one blind child and another underage and itching terribly. However, she made it to the hospital and discovered she had a kidney stone, and all was well with the world again.

I did not have to make the drive that night, but I will never forget this incident because after it happened, I had the perfect comeback for my mother. You see, she scared me half to death with that phone call, and every time I complain to her about a medical issue or extreme fatigue, do you know what she tells me? She calmly says, “Take some NyQuil, you’ll be fine.”

The moral of the story here is that every hardship in our lives happens for a reason. I still haven’t figured out why yet, believe me, I’d like to know at this point. At least I find comedy in the aftermath of my series of unfortunate events, and a cup of coffee, of course.

Strange Encounters

My life is one continuous string of strange encounters. I must have a neon sign flashing above my head that says “please, make my life uncomfortable.” Every day it seems I have yet another weird story to tell. Last week I found myself left standing in bewilderment as many strangers walked confidently away from me thinking they did nothing out of the ordinary.        

One such encounter occurred just as I was leaving campus after spending a mindboggling hour listening to a professor talk in circles. I was walking, minding my own business like I usually do, when the girl to my left called out for me to stop. Confused, I turned toward the unrecognizable voice wondering why this girl was trying to get my attention. I addressed the girl, asking her what she wanted, and she walked slowly in my direction, never breaking eye contact. Mind you, this felt like an abnormal amount of time for someone to be making eye contact with me, but that was not even the weirdest part. She walked toward me until our toes were within moderate distance of getting to know each other on a personal level, stared deep into my soul, took a giant slurp out of her drink, and said, “I really like your hair.” Then she reached out her grubby little hand and grabbed the ends of my hair, turned, and went up the hill to class. Now, I was left standing there, pondering why someone would even think to enter my hula hoop of happiness. I have great awareness of personal space, hence the reference to my hula hoop of happiness. I feel as if a hula hoop is an adequate amount of distance that strangers should keep in relation to other humans. Clearly, the interesting homo sapiens I go to school with think differently.

However, the most frustrating part of this encounter was the fact that I hadn’t washed my hair in two days. This was one of my lazy days where I put on that old flannel I keep around to wear when I’m doing laundry. I feel like every woman has a laundry day outfit, and I was definitely rocking the homeless look. I simply threw half my hair in a bun so that I didn’t look too unkept, and this was the day I receive a compliment, no matter how strange it was. I could spend an hour curling and styling my unruly hair, and I get no recognition. But the one day a week I revel in the luxury of not caring about my appearance, I’ve got people stopping me to enter my personal space to give me a compliment. I will never understand society and the strangeness that pervades from the eclectic crowds.

While this day was certainly one for the books, I have one more story that may just top it. This past weekend, I went to a Columbus Blue Jackets game with my family. Before the game started, my sister and I reluctantly left our seats to explore the merchandise on the lower level. Making a beeline for the concession stands, a fellow in his mid to late twenties sidles up to us in a rather odd manner. He immediately asks us where we’re headed, like it wasn’t obvious we were looking for refreshments. After we respond to his initial blubbering, he asks where the nearest beer stand is located because he was from Chicago and could not bear to find his way in the alarmingly uncrowded arena. At this point, we had been walking for a solid minute and a half, passing at least five beer stands along the way. I’m assuming he was trying to hit on us, desperately hoping we’d take the bait and guide him like a toddler by the hand to the next available stand. So, in typical Alex fashion, I hit him with an uninterested let down instead. Continuing my strut in my flashy heeled ankle boots, I said, “I’m sure there’ll be another one if you keep going.” He disappeared after that.

What is it with men? Why do they consistently overdo it? There doesn’t have to be this elaborate back story or horrifyingly cheesy pick up line. Just be yourself. I would much rather deal with a natural weirdness as opposed to the unflattering approaches men create.

Whether it is a strange girl on campus or men at a hockey game, I seem to be the subject of the most uncomfortable encounters. Maybe these things happen to me for some greater purpose; at least I have something to write about this week. I’m hoping one day however, I have my moment – that moment when I can stand back and know that it happened for a reason.

Ghosted

They say your twenties is the best time of your life. It’s that newfound sense of adulthood that most people describe as a time of new experiences. It’s full of stupid decisions that will make it into your blooper reel of ridiculous stories you tell your grandkids at the holidays. They say that you’ll cherish your twenties and look back at that ten-year span as the good old days. I’m not quite sure who “they” are, but from my experience, they’re wrong.

My twenties, as short lived as they are at this point in time, have been the worst. Often, I sit back and reflect on my decisions and life experiences and realize that I have none. I feel like most women have this mental checklist they refer to every now again. It’s that list of dare I say, accomplishments or little milestones they should have reached by now. I scroll down my mental list and find that not one checkmark graces the page. I haven’t written that bestseller yet. I most certainly haven’t traveled at all really, especially outside of the country. And, I definitely haven’t found love yet. Now, I know I’m only twenty-one and still in college, but when everyone around you is checking milestones off their lists faster than you can run a mile on a good day, you really feel left behind.

It’s the “left behind” part that really gets me. I know I’ll reach my milestones when the time permits, but something happened to me recently that really threw me for a loop. It has to do with my love life, or lack thereof. Because I am so busy, it’s hard to meet people. I’m constantly on the move: working, studying, going to class, seeing my friends briefly in-between everything else. Therefore, I don’t have time to date, necessarily. So, for kicks one night, I downloaded Tinder. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why? Why would she do this to herself? I couldn’t even explain why. I’m not even actively searching for anything; I was just curious. I look at it more as a social experiment because men speak a completely different language than women, and most times, they’re wrong. Some are crude and throw out ridiculous one-liners and pick-up lines like they actually think these comments will score them points. Others spill too much information too soon or choose Myspace quality photos to display their seemingly below-average looks. In other words, it’s disappointing, and I had very low expectations from the beginning.

But then one day, I matched with someone who seemed relatively normal. We had a few things in common and conversation was easy enough. However, he wasn’t assertive – which should have been a sign – so I made the first move and asked him to get coffee. Mind you, this was a week before the scheduled plans. Everything seemed normal; we talked a little more, and then radio silence. I hadn’t heard from him in days and on the day of the coffee date, I realized that he had ghosted me. I honestly had never heard the term before this experience and couldn’t believe that someone could be so disrespectful. I am not the type of woman to mess with. Remember, I have the power of words on my side. Now, I would never reveal names, but he knows who he is, and so do all my girlfriends.

The point here is that if you really aren’t interested in someone, tell them. Ghosting an individual and just vanishing without any explanation is one of the worst things that you could possibly do to a person. The worst part of this particular situation is that we attend the same school, and before this, I had never seen him on campus. But now, I happen to run into him often, which is just my luck. My method of coping with inconsiderate schmucks is to look like a ten on the daily to make him see what he’s missing.

Ladies, be careful. Men are dumb; they speak a language that makes no sense and we are the ones left pondering where we went wrong, when in reality, they were the culprits from the beginning. I may not have a love life, but at least I have interesting stories to splatter with just enough sarcastic flare to make a delightful blog post. And true to my nature, coffee is here to heal the nonexistent wounds left behind by the schmuck who shall not be named.

Overthinking

The mind is a powerful tool. It works both with and against us, constantly revolving trying to make sense of life. I have an overactive mind, meaning that it never stops racing; it never sleeps. For years, I have managed to subdue my thoughts because it stresses me out when I can’t stop thinking and worrying about every little thing in my life. Between school, work, financials, and relationships, I can’t focus. I’m constantly trying to understand why things happen the way they do, which has not been very productive lately.

Trust me, I would much rather throw caution to the wind and just forget about my troubles, but I was not wired that way. This past week especially has probably been the worst thus far. Have you ever had one of those weeks where everything seems to finally be falling into place, and then within an instant, your world falls apart? I hate to be dramatic, but for women especially, this is generally the case. It’s frustrating when you have that realization that maybe this is it; maybe this is as far as I go.

And what made this even worse was that Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. Bitter does not sit well with me, and I do not like the person I become when I let it sink in its little claws. But every year, the lonely girl inside me rears her ugly head, and I settle into that self-deprecating state of mind that I try to keep at bay. I am truly happy for everyone in my life that has someone special around this time of year; my insecurities should not taint an exciting and lovely day for the rest of the world.

However, as to the point of this post: overthinking. Being an anxious and self-conscious person, I have never been the type to be open with people. I have this voice in the back of my mind that constantly second guesses every decision I make. It’s not easy to bare your soul to a person, no matter the context. When I do this, it means something to me. I know it’s irrational to keep everything bottled up for fear of rejection. Whether it’s a book idea or a simple conversation with someone, saying what’s truly on your mind is the scariest part of life. And what’s even worse is when you finally say what you mean and feel, and then nothing. Nothing happens. Now all your fears flood to the surface because you just so happened to let your guard down for a moment. How is that supposed to make you feel? I would much rather if people were just honest.

I guess life is just a game of trial and error. I’ve had more errors than any successes, but I won’t let that get me down. It took me so long to accept who I was and what I was doing with my life, and I’m not going to let the fear of rejection control my life. This fear was like a dark mass weighing on my chest and even just writing these words now, I feel freer. I put myself out there, and that is the first step.

So, this Valentine’s Day is all about self-love for me. I’m going to spend my night tomorrow with the only two men I need in my life, Ben and Jerry. We’re going to have a grand old time watching 80s movies, drinking coffee, and reveling in the fact that we’re okay. Plus, you know I’m going to be all over that discount chocolate Thursday after class. Just remember to love yourself first, and everything else with follow eventually.

Individual

Quiet nights have become my solace. Warm chocolate chip cookies on a platter, coffee in hand – the introvert’s happy place. Candles dwindle into puddles of wax while I revel in the comfort of my cozy apartment. Who needs a night out on the town when sweatpants and fuzzy socks can keep you company enough? To many, this may seem pathetic for a woman in her twenties, but who cares. I was never the grimy bar or club scene type, anyway.

I find comfort in routine and spending my days in the environment I create for myself. Why then, is it pertinent for people to tell you to get out more because you only live once? I’m highly aware of this fact, thank you very much, and can do without the constant preaching and judgmental comments. When did it become acceptable for society to try and tell you how to live your life?

I guess it has been happening for centuries, but I only recently realized the subtle undertones of judgment from those around me in my own life. It can be as simple as a cocked eyebrow at the sight of what I’d like to say is my magnificently colorful hair or a scornful glance at my nose ring. I find that so many of the people I have encountered are fans of the backhanded compliment or condescending pretentious remarks. All I have to say is why? If I’m treating you with respect, why can’t you return the favor and do the same?

If I externalized every snap judgment I made within the confines of my mind, I probably wouldn’t still have my job. I know that it is in our nature to make assumptions and maybe even judge others prematurely, but society has taken it to a whole new level. When did it become wrong to be an individual?

One thing I have prided myself on is my independence and willingness to be myself. I’ve never wanted to be an insignificant part of the crowd; I wanted to be a one-woman show with her own unique beliefs and interests, and I did just that. It’s a struggle to detach yourself from the mainstream, but it is such a relief when you readjust your focus to just you. Trust me, someone someday will appreciate you for exactly who you are. Embrace your individuality, and don’t let the judgements of others deter you from the path you created for yourself.

It took me a long time to accept myself for who I am. Growing up at the height of the technological age, it was so easy to fall into a rut and compare myself to unattainable ideals. I learned to create my own rules and ideals, and it is still a struggle every day to find that solace. The solace that can always be found at the bottom of a coffee mug or in the cookie crumbs left on the plate.

 

Dawn of a New Semester

At the dawn of a new semester, there is this daunting image of billions of highlighters, ink stains on your favorite white sweater, and undereye circles resembling the coffee ring in that novel you love the most. However, at the dawn of this semester, I find myself free of those pesky undereye circles and with so much time on my hands, that I cook almost every night and even make it to the gym in the wee hours of the morning.

How is it possible to be this bored during my junior year of college? I have time to knit. Yes, you heard correctly, I said knit. I like to embrace the little old lady inside of me and fashion a scarf or two and bake cookies. It’s a strange situation when I have free time. Normally, I’m riddled with stress and compulsive eye twitching, but now, I’m seemingly stress free and comfortably caffeinated.

I even had the time to notice the attractive, strapping young man checking me out at the gym this morning. He was tall, blond, and just the right amount of muscular to not come off too intimidating for my average physique. But, did I do anything about the flirtatious eye-contact and “coincidental” run-ins at various machines? Of course not. In typical Alex fashion, I lowered my gaze and did absolutely nothing. Why? I couldn’t even begin to explain the insanity of my inaction. I could chalk it up to insecurities and low self-esteem, but many a friend in the past has pointed out that I am the most oblivious person on the planet.

As an aspiring writer, it seems quite odd that I would be so inattentive to my own surroundings in real life and so attentive to the details scribbled on the page of imagined reality. But when it comes to men, I just shut down. I ignore what could be my fairytale ending – or at least a flash fiction – and go on with my boring life. I wonder how often I’ve passed up an opportunity for excitement of any kind. Never mind, I’d rather not know the sad statistics.

Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to say something. Do I honestly need a sign to obnoxiously flash in my face before I take the 21st century by the hand and make the first move? I’m not going to lie, it’s possible, but maybe I’ll push the doubt aside and just do it. Hopefully one day soon before the semester picks up and I’m back to my twitchy self.

Man's Best Friend

Life begins with an end in mind. Every breath brings us closer to eternal bliss; however, nothing prepares us for the untimely end stop of our epic. We walk around enjoying every moment, feeling good for once, and then the Poet decides to throw in a caesura, forcing us to hit the pause button, take a breath, and deal with a crisis. This crisis being the loss of a character very near and dear to our hearts – man’s best friend.

A few days ago, my family went through one of the hardest parts of life, death. We had to put our dog down, ending his epic life too soon. When I heard the news, I knew exactly why this was happening, but I couldn’t wrap my head around what lead us to that moment and that decision.

See, the dog was youthful and playful, like a toddler stealing the hearts of anyone who came over for a visit. He loved to snuggle and steal your food when you weren’t looking. He fit right in with my loud and energetic family.

However, one day he just snapped. The dog became vicious, so my parents had to put family first and make a decision that no family should ever have to make. Our dog left the world with his loving family nearest his heart, the only way a living thing should leave the earth.

The reason I dedicate an entire post to this day of heartbreak is to shed a little light on humanity. Oftentimes, when a dog becomes vicious, the first instinct is to immediately remove the animal from the situation and take action to put him down. Instead, my family made an informed decision to try and rehabilitate the animal before ending his life, and it was the right decision.

When a family brings an animal into their home, it becomes an established member and even receives a glitter decorated stocking at Christmas. They share a hearty Thanksgiving meal with the whole gang and wear sweaters around the house. Pets are family, and taking the time and putting in the effort to nurture an animal is a selfless act because love knows no limits.

Life does begin with an end in mind, but that end remains a mystery. Each character plays a significant role no matter how they enter and exit our lives. Whether on good terms or bad, temporarily or permanently, each life has a purpose, and allowing our humanity to guide us is the only way to make sense of our own epics. Now the Poet brings the pen to the pad once again to continue this epic journey until further notice.

 

Change: A Little Goes a Long Way

Change is powerful. We’ve all said the word or a variation of the sentiment. Whether we’re afraid of what’s to come or bracing ourselves, arms wide open, ready for the next chapter, we all see change through the same lens with varying receptions and interpretations. I like to look at the world like this – as a cyclone of change, moving this way and that, taking society to new dimensions. All around me the world changes. From the autumnal palate of November to the snowy globe of January, the scene changes. As the scene changes, the characters evolve moving from blonde to brunette, from stalky to toned, from vulnerable to confident. The world is an unfinished novel, and the theme is change.

The reason I paint this picture is to reflect on a homily from church this past Sunday. The priest approached the podium with the same easy stride he takes every Sunday morning, ready to drop some worldly knowledge on the congregation. I’m not going to lie, normally my mind wanders during the homily. It’s a part of the mass I know I should be actively paying attention to, but I have a tough time connecting. However, this time was different. I understood something about myself and the world on a deeper level, and it is the perfect way to start off a new year.

In my personal life I struggle with where I currently stand financially and regarding my career status. I relentlessly compare myself to my peers, feeling like I’ll never be where I want to be in life. I hate feeling like I can’t support myself because I chose a path that leads me from one obstacle to the next, whereas others may have chosen a simpler path.

 And this is where I had to stop myself because I realized that I had lost myself. I got so caught up trying compare myself to others that I forgot to take a step back and understand that I haven’t a clue about other’s lives. I just made assumptions based off social media posts, but social media is deceptive in that it masterfully flaunts the seemingly perfect aspects of a person’s life, masking the difficult parts and hardships.

Sunday’s homily directly touched my life in a way that made me see the world differently. It took that seemingly perfect image of what life is portrayed as and sobered it up a bit to show that negativity does exist so that we may know the good in this world. The priest spoke of a former parish member who noticed that the homeless population in my hometown was at severe heights. He ended up establishing an organization that aims at getting those plagued with misfortune back on their feet. Hearing this, I immediately went to that dark, competitive place in my mind, thinking about just how costly this must have been and how much influence he must have had, but Father brought me right back with what he said next. He basically said that giving does not have to be this grand gesture; it can be small because a little goes a long way. We should not and do not have to apologize for our misgivings or how little we give because even the tiniest amount makes a difference.

Change comes in all shapes and sizes, and so does power. Money or status should not dominate how we feel about the world. There is still the human connection that we can hone in on to foster a change, building from the bottom up. I know I said resolutions would not define my year, and they won’t, but a personal goal for me is to be a part of the change. I’ve never been one to voice my beliefs because I’m private, and I respect the difference of opinion from my peers. Therefore, my change will be through words and interactions with the people I personally encounter daily. I’m starting small in the book of life, spilling my truth about coffee onto the page, sharing laughs and encouragement as the year progresses. No more one-sided competitions and feeling sorry for myself. It’s time to bring some change to the table because as the still-dead Thomas Hardy once said, “a little spark gives birth to a great flame.”

New Year, New Me: A Walking Cliche

New year, new me. No matter the language or culture, this is a common statement uttered by billions of people around the world looking for a change as the clock strikes midnight. Whether this change be physical, mental, or emotional, everyone takes advantage of that brief excuse of a time frame to spout all their hopes and dreams for the next 365 days. I’m going to start a diet and stick to it. I’m going to start going to the gym. I’m going to manage my money better. I’m going to be happier. As cyclical clockwork would attest to, these hopeful humans will be back at it again in a few hours, throwing resolutions out into the open air of the new year.

But here’s the thing about resolutions – saying them in the heat of the moment as the big hand and little hand meet for the final time, is the easy part. Turning the words into actions is the hard part. Trust me, I am the queen of saying that I’m going to do all these amazing things, and then I never actually do them. My advice: write your resolutions down and post them on your refrigerator or stick them on a cork board, somewhere you’ll see them every day.

However, I think the important thing to remember about resolutions is that they are bound to change, meaning that life is not set in stone. As the world evolves, our hopes and dreams adapt to the ever-changing habitat that is the universe. This was the one thing that carried me out of 2017 in one piece, knowing that sometimes my plans are different than what God has in store for me. As cliché as it sounds, everything truly does happen for a reason, whether it be good or bad.

This past year has been the worst of my life. I’ve struggled more physically, mentally, and emotionally than I ever have. Every time I thought I was three steps ahead, circumstances out of my control pulled me right back into the negative heap I had just crawled out of. What pulled me out time and time again was the very potent cocktail of family, friends, and the fervent echoes of the resolutions I hade made for myself in 2017.

Hope was a strong warrior in my life, battling away all my demons to keep me going when times were tough. My resolutions for this year are not going to be as trivial as last. Instead of joining the bandwagon of future gym-goers and dieters, I will be simplifying my goals for 2018 into one simple acronym: Humanity, Open-mindedness, Purpose, and Existence.

This year is all about living in the moment and taking the days as they come – the good, the bad, and the ugly. I’m not setting specific parameters and goals because freedom is upon us, and I plan on taking advantage of the wonders of the world while I can. If I live with hope in my heart, everything else will follow suit. And on that note, I wish everyone a safe and joyful New Year. Party and drink responsibly, no matter how you’re ringing in 2018. I’ll be celebrating the best way I know how: a little bit of wine, a definite binge session of NCIS, and an inevitable cup of coffee to ring in the new year on my terms this time around.

The Holidays: A Single Story

It is that time of year again – the sporadic snowfall peppers the season with rosy cheeks and steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a decadent Columbian roast. College students everywhere cram for their final exams, leaving human-shaped dents in library chairs and lumpy twin mattresses. Once the last scrawl of an English essay touches the infamous blue book, the joyful car ride home begins; a mix of America’s Top 40 and Christmas carols fill the cabin, and the now winter foliage begs welcome into the next month of lounging and eating way too many holiday cookies. You know, the lonely girl holiday soiree for one. 

That’s the thing about the holidays: it seems as if everyone and their mother has someone special to share those cookies with. I on the other hand, find myself eating ten by myself, which only verifies the fact that regular gym sessions are definitely in the books for the next few weeks. And it’s not just cookies. As soon as I enter my hometown, eating habits go out the window and even the most common unappetizing groupings seem delicious. Fact: potato chips, yogurt, and a pink popsicle are not the three-course meal I was hoping to enjoy.

All the Hallmark movies have poisoned me. Is it possible to get film poisoning from watching too many trope-filled romantic comedies with your heart open? I guess I can’t help it because I’m an English major who first fell in love with the Victorian period and poetry inspired by Romanticism. If Thomas Hardy were alive today and had somehow lost his itch for infidelity, he’d be the perfect man. However, he’s dead, and it seems, so is my own love life or lack thereof.

Is it just me, or does any other girl in her twenties only attract attention from forty-year old men, teen boys, and men her own age just looking to scratch an itch of their own? It seems that no one anymore is interested in intelligent conversation and meeting in person. The world has been overrun by the Internet and apps that require as little verbal face-to-face interaction as possible. There is also the small fraction of men in their twenties who take chivalry too far. For example, holding the door open for a girl when she is about a city block away from the entrance to a building. Now I’m forced to hop, skip, and jump to the entrance on the icy sidewalk so that the man is not standing there too long in the cold. It is an uncomfortable interaction that I would very much like to avoid.

So, as to the point of this post, the holidays were designed for couples. Having someone by my side would have prevented the awkward door-holding and the extra couple pounds from Christmas cookies and strange eating habits. Plus, it would be nice for a change to be the sibling that gets to take someone on a family trip or go on dates. Even after all the movies, my hope is still intact, because this season is still about surprises. Normally, my pessimism rules my existence, but I am determined to let what little optimism I can find at the bottom of my morning coffee spill out a bit this year. Maybe I’ll be alone again for New Years, but at least I can legally drink the loneliness away … briefly, of course.

Thank You

Recently, I traveled home for Thanksgiving to be with family during this season of thanks. I packed my car, and nervously handled the wheel for five hours. But, I made it in one piece, no discrepancies, no accidents. 

However, this Thanksgiving, I was the worst version of myself. I was cranky and moody and stressed to the max trying to juggle work and projects and papers. I was dismissive to the people that have done nothing but help these past few months. I was not thankful; I was greedy. I yelled and I cried, and I did none of it with good faith or with thanks in my heart. I completely overlooked the beautiful things and people in my life ... but it's never to late to say thank you.

Thank you Mom for being a superhero, even while wearing a neck brace. You took every one of my blows with the grace only a mother knows. 

Thank you Dad for always being there, ready to help, even when you have no idea what's going on. You stand firm in you beliefs and keep us grounded in ours.

Thank you Samantha for matching my ferocity with equal measure. Even though we battle over seemingly everything, I'm thankful that you come to me with issues only a sister knows how to fix.

Thank you Mark for caring so much, even when you don't show it. Trust me, we know. You work hard for what you want, and unknowingly push me to work even harder.

Thank you Angelo for helping behind the scenes in any way you can; it does not go unnoticed, and I will forever be grateful. 

Thank you to everyone who has made my life brighter: friends, professors, peers, coworkers. Each one of you has made me see the bigger picture. Thanks are not given just one day a year. Everyday is Thanksgiving in my book, and I'm working harder at recognizing the beauty of a simple thank you.

It's Okay

A few weeks ago, I was driving home for fall break. One last midterm, and I could set the books aside for a brief reprieve and let my brain settle into hours of Netflix and a river of steaming caffeine. It was time to finally see my cats again and revel in the serene fall foliage of my hometown. A five hour car ride was the only distance between me and the sweet scent of home.

For me, car rides are the worst. Unless there is a constant flow of tunes to chip away at the traffic and back pain from sitting in the same position for numerous hours, the journey is not ideal. Jamming, as I normally did with the bass thumping, and taking in the beautiful landscape, I drove on. With only forty minutes to go, I was cruising in the passing lane ... until I wasn't anymore. Instead, I found myself upside down in a crumpled car on the side of a major highway. 

Since the accident, I've told this story about a hundred times. Every time I see someone knew, I find myself reiterating the same speech, answering the same questions. No, I was not speeding. Yes, I was wearing my seat belt. I'm fine, yes, totally fine. I'm okay. Except that I wasn't. I was a wreck. The accident was so bad that my father cried when he saw the car I managed to crawl out of. I walked around for about two weeks with a smile on my face while my insides melted in a vat of tears. I was told a million times that it was a miracle I walked away unscathed and that no other vehicles were involved. But none of these sentiments made me feel better; they actually made me feel worse. I felt guilty, like I was screwing up not only my own life, but my family's as well. I had numerous meltdowns about school and trying to work from home. I was on the brink, the point of no return. I wanted to give up, because as we all know, I'm a quitter.

Except I didn't. I came back to school and work after being home for three weeks recuperating. I finally felt like I could face people - my friends and professors. I felt semi-whole again, and that is the message here. Life happens in the blink of an eye. My life changed in an instant. Accidents happen in a millisecond; that's all it takes for something tragic to happen. I now know that my guardian angel was on my shoulder that day and this past month because the odds were definitely against me.

I'm here to tell you that it's okay to not be okay, because I'm still not fully okay. It's okay to feel guilty and depressed sometimes because these moments shape and strengthen us for the future. When I say that I wanted to give up, I mean that I felt like I couldn't continue down the path I was going. I was too stressed all the time and worried about getting to the finish line faster, and for what? All it caused me was high blood pressure and hives to boot. So, my personal take away is that I need to slow down in life and actually live. I just turned 21 years old, and I haven't even enjoyed the life I've had thus far.

So, live. Do not take life for granted because I most certainly have. If you're not okay, that's okay. Take each day as it comes and do not be afraid to take chances; one day there won't be any chances left.