Three-Day Internship: What's Your Superpower?

Ten hours. One lesson plan. Five students. These were the parameters that shaped the best three-day internship of my collegiate experience. To receive my bachelor’s in education, I must complete fifty hours in five different settings to gain as much varying interaction with students from all walks and backgrounds in preparation for my first day as a licensed teacher. Last week, I spent three week-day mornings in a life skills classroom of students from age 14-21 during the Extended School Year (ESY) that housed students with disabilities of varying degrees. Classrooms such as this one aid students in learning the skills of life, such as self-help, functional, and academic skills that will allow them to live fuller lives and reach their goals. From the moment I stepped into the school building, something inside me clicked, and I knew that I had stumbled upon a truly amazing group of administrators, educators, and most importantly, students.

That first day, I was shaking like a leaf. My nerves were through the roof; not even my coffee was curbing the rush of anxiety. However, I did not let my nerves get the best of me, and I will never forget the warm welcome I was met with at the sliding glass doors.

After getting settled in with a visitor’s badge, I followed the Director of Special Education out those sliding doors and stood impatiently waiting for the students to step off the bus and into the misty atmosphere. I was introduced to the teacher I would be spending my three days with, and she was such a delight to work alongside. However, the students made the experience truly worthwhile.

The moment the students stepped off the bus, they greeted me with a kindness you don’t see too often these days. They were all smiles and made sure to tell everyone we came across that day that “this is Miss Alex. Have you met Miss Alex? She’ll be here for three days.” One student in particular took the reigns on the welcome committee and introduced me to other educators, students, and even the custodial staff. By the end of my ten hours, I think I met just about everyone in the building.  

During my time in the life skills classroom, I observed the class as they completed their daily routine, and I also had the opportunity to teach a lesson of my own. This was the most difficult part of the internship because I had never taught a group of students such as this one. I’ve worked primarily in high school English settings, making minor changes to lessons here and there to fit the needs of the students based on any Individualized Education Plans (IEP) or 504 Plans. This classroom was drastically different than the general settings I am used to; however, I still managed to adapt to this new environment and modify a lesson I had already taught to fit the needs of this classroom.

After brainstorming the first day with the students, I noticed that the host teacher themed out her classroom for the year, and the theme was superheroes. Immediately, I knew I wanted to incorporate this theme into an English lesson, since English is my concentration and specialty area. And then it hit me … a comic book. It is the perfect addition to a classroom full of true superheroes. So, that is exactly what we did.

That first night, I lesson planned until way past my bedtime. I wanted to make sure I fleshed out all the details not only for my own use, but also to guide the lesson in a way that made the activity interactive and enjoyable for the students. The trickiest part was making a lesson that adhered to the level of learning each student in the class could achieve. I had to formulate an activity that anyone with a reading level from pre-k to fourth grade could handle, and I think I reached my goal. It took a lot of detailing and modifications, such as charts and visual components.

The next day, I presented my idea to the host teacher, and she loved it. Now the real work began, and I must give a shout out to my amazing mother for helping me make the best classroom comic book possible in one night. That’s right ladies and gents, I had one night to make a twenty-four-page double-sided book for one lesson. I also used my own money to purchase supplies for this book. This should give you some perspective on what it takes to be a teacher dedicated to making every lesson the best it can be.

I spent the majority of that night gluing, cutting, and drawing until I couldn’t anymore, and finally, the book template was finished. The day prior, I spent time with the students gathering ideas about what our comic book could be about, as well as some information about each student, such as their favorite superheroes and qualities about them that could be superpowers. Essentially, we completed a plot diagram using the five “w’s” and one “h” model, which is a question and answer method of creating a story plot without the complex terminology used in a high school classroom. We also stumbled upon a website where you could create your own superhero avatar, so each student got to create a superhero character for the book, as well. All the ground work was laid out, and all we had to do was write the story.

My last day in the classroom, I taught my lesson. I cannot express the thrill of standing in front of a group of eager learners ready to create something and be the authors of their own story. This was the ultimate goal – to teach these super students that they are capable of anything they set their minds to regardless of any limitations or obstacles they face. These students wrote a five-page story about a crime that was committed in their classroom that only they could solve. Every detail was of their own creation, and I am so proud of the work we completed.

I know you’re all wondering why I spent the time creating a twenty-four-page book if the story was only going to be five pages. Well, that’s because I added a little superhero yearbook section where each classmate (there are more students during the regular school year) could paste in their avatar and a little description about their superhero side. I even got to create my own alter ego for the yearbook. While this book did not leave with me, I did get to leave a piece of myself behind as an honorary member of the Super Squad. (Photos will be posted to my Instagram.)

Teaching, as you all know, is something that I am very passionate about, and this group of students truly showed me another side of education. I got to dip my toes in the water that is special education, and I already know that I’ll be back for more. As a future general education teacher, I think it is important for all educators to familiarize themselves with this side of education because it is very likely they’ll have to make modifications in their own classrooms.

I’ll never forget my time with the Super Squad because they definitely taught me more than I taught them. They showed me a world free of judgment and criticism – a world with only enough room for a teacher and her students, and coffee, of course.

A Day In My Life Part Two: Not Today, Hacker

I am not a morning person. I am not really a night person either. Now that I think about it, I’m not really an any kind of day person. Therefore, when I have the kind of day where everything implodes in my face, my persona is verified by the onslaught of things going terribly wrong. Just last week, I was put through every obstacle in the book; it was like the world was telling me, “no Alex, not today” at every twist and turn in the course of my life.

The morning in question I just so happened to oversleep. I had about 20 minutes to get ready and get out the door in enough time to make it in for my shift as unfashionably late as possible. You already know I was looking like a hot mess that day. When I have a rough start in the morning, there is no hope that my appearance will gradually get better as the day progresses. I brushed my teeth, splashed my face, threw my hair in a messy bun, tossed on a hat, grabbed the coffee I forced my mother to prepare along with my lunch (it was like grade school all over again), and I whipped open the screen door ready to present my unkempt self to the world. As I was whipping open the screen door, I managed to pull the whole thing off the tracks and onto the deck. Because I now only had about 10 minutes to make it into work for the start of my shift, I struggled to pick the door up and ungracefully leaned it against the siding. My mom was thrilled.

My morning only proceeded to get worse from there. The day prior, I had noticed some obscure charges in my bank statement regarding my Squarespace account. It was just a few, and when this happened to me before, they were gone the next morning, so I didn’t bat an eye. Now, imagine my surprise when I checked my bank statement the next morning only to discover that I now had one hundred and forty dollars pending for Squarespace domains that I did not purchase.

Not only did I have to rush into work, but I also had to do some investigating on my account to find out who was purchasing websites with my information. I immediately checked my email – because I get notified every time a purchase is made with my card information – and I had seven emails each congratulating me on my newest venture into the World Wide Web.

Excuse me automated account management system at Squarespace, but I did not make these purchases. Now, each of these “websites” had the kind of name you’d expect a celebrity to choose as the focal point of their child’s birth certificate. They were ridiculous, and I wish I would have saved the congratulatory emails with the domain names on display.

I immediately cancelled all the pending domains, and here is where my ultimate confusion settles in. When I went to cancel all seven fraudulent sites, a notification popped up with a message that basically stated that these domains could not flourish into the mediocre sites I’m sure the hacker had planned because each domain needed email verification first. I then checked the account information for each site, and I was floored when each domain had all of my information down to the last number and letter. The only minor mistake this fresh out of the gate hacker made was that the verification email address was slightly off and did not match any of my other important information. However, emails were still being sent to my correct email address. I guess this method of verification was meant to test my spelling and keyboard skills, ultimately trying to prove that I am an idiot when it comes to spellcheck. Not today, hacker.

Because I was now at work and clearly not capable of calling the bank to report fraudulent charges, I asked my mother to take care of it for me. According to the bank, nothing could be done because the charges were pending and not complete purchases. So, I had to wait almost a week for all the charges to completely vanish from my bank statement. As a responsible young adult with very real bills, I had to make sure that my regularly scheduled payments would be able to come out as they normally do.

The best part of this portion of my day is that this was not the first time my Squarespace account has had mysterious charges. This was in fact the third occurrence, and every single time, it is the same selection of domain names and the same incorrect email address. How unoriginal could this hacker get? I’m going to have to create an identity for this character if it keeps trying to hack into my life.

While this was in fact a roadblock in my day and a wrench in my side, the true test of my patience occurred at the end of my shift. Of course, this just so happened to be one of those days where my campers were bouncing off the walls and ignoring every direction given to them - which is understandable at their age – but I was struggling for some piece of mind, and they were not providing it.

I had to close out camp that wonderful, wonderful day, and the last hyperactive child did not leave until about five thirty. As you all know, I work two jobs in the summer, and this was a day that I had to go right from one job to the next. My shift at job number two began at six on the dot, and I was already behind schedule. I raced back into the classroom, grabbed my change of clothes, and ran to the bathroom. I managed to change in record time and was about to put on the new floral top I purchased a few days prior when I realized that this moment topped even the great hacking incident of the day.

The sleeves on this shirt were so tight to my arm; they probably wouldn’t have even fit a child-sized bicep. I was furious because it was the only clean shirt I had, and I couldn’t go out to my car shirtless. I immediately called my mother and asked her to have a shirt at the ready because I now had fifteen minutes to drive home, put on a clean shirt, slap on some eyebrows, and make it to work.

I managed to make it to work right on time, and my eyebrows were not as bad as they could have been. I mean, I could have shaved a few minutes off my time by leaving my eyebrows in my makeup bag, but I decided it was best to leave the scaring to the scarecrows. All in all, this day was one for the books – clearly – and I got a blog post out of it so I’m not too irritated. I survived an unoriginal hacker and a shirt that didn’t fit, and it was all because I started my day off right, with a cup of coffee in my hand and my eyebrow pencil locked and loaded, waiting patiently to make over the hot mess who started her day with a bang … of the screen door on the deck.

Adventures In Retail Part Two: The Inspiration Of A Lifetime

As an aspiring writer, you would think that my attention span is attuned to every minute detail of every face and circumstance I wander past. Contrary to the stereotypical image of a word connoisseur with a notepad and pen at the ready to scribble down every thought and experience, I appear to the outside world as an oblivious third-party individual just trying to make it through the day. In short, I notice nothing, and I am always caught red-handed.

I have learned to tune out unwarranted attention and mundane questions – and yes, by the way, there is a such thing as a stupid question. I despise those motivational classroom posters and cheerleader teachers who claim to their impressionable students that every question is important and has a purpose. “Stupid” questions often spew from the lips of those who were not paying attention due to boredom, sleepiness, daydreaming, etc. Therefore, when faced with the request for verification of instructions because you were caught up in your own little world, gossiping away with the girl next to you like you hadn’t seen her in ten years, I will most certainly use you as an example when explaining why stupid questions exist.

Because I have trained myself to tune out the world, I often miss out on story time moments, inside jokes, and the wandering eyes of the male species. It takes the nudge, punch, or kick from a friend to focus my attention on the tall drink of water walking in my direction; my oblivious gaze would have never noticed without the guidance of bystanders. I’m sure I’ve missed out on many an opportunity because I appeared to be more interested in the patterns in the tile. It is also very likely that the glazed look in my eyes paired with that chronic case of RBF I’m struggling to maintain scared them all away like a scarecrow protecting this season’s crops.

While I am a painfully oblivious human, my brain does manage to pick up on little snippets that most would gloss over because they are ignorant to the situation or the circumstances, which is most likely no fault of their own. Let me explain.

As you all know, I work in retail. What you may not know, is that I am approaching four years at my current job, and when I started college, I was fortunate enough to be able to transfer back and forth between two stores – one at home, one at school. This was truly a lifesaver because I had guaranteed employment for the next four years, and I was saved from custodial work on campus. (I have many stories to divulge about my time as a custodial worker on campus, which I will address in a separate blog).

Working at two stores was a stressor in my life in the beginning, but now I’m awarded with twice the amount of idiotic people to expose and pull obscure character traits from for future use. I am also grateful enough to have been exposed to people from all walks of life, which has proven to be the biggest inspiration for what is to come in my writing career.  These people truly inspire me to educate myself and to learn to make society more accommodating in any way that I can. There is one experience that stands out most vividly and serves as the first ball of snow that started the avalanche of research and ideas for a potential children’s book series.

Last semester, I found myself working yet another long closing shift, running around like a madwoman trying to clean out fitting rooms and fold down basically half of the store. It was nearing the middle of spring, and anyone who works in retail knows that this is the height of trying on bathing suits season. Essentially, the store was trashed, I was an anxious and twitchy mess because I had to write two ten-page papers within a three-week span because I procrastinated my life away for a good month bingeing The Office, and customers were just being the worst kind of humans that day.

Bathing suits were dripping from the return rack like melted cheese because apparently no one knows how to hang anything the way they found it. Instead, they like to hang it inside out or leave fifty suits in the widest range of sizes heaped in the middle of the floor for me to sift through; I’m honestly not sure which is worst.

I was ticked off and trying to solve the most complex puzzle of twisted fabric ever when a woman approached me, clearly needing assistance. I turned, plastered that smile on my face, and asked her what I could help her with. Immediately, I knew she was going to be an exceptional human because instead of answering my inquiry vocally, she signed her response. Now, I do not know sign language, but watching this woman try to communicate with me in the only way she knew how while I stood confused as to how I was supposed to handle the situation, I knew I wanted to learn.

Embarrassed, I explained to her that I did not know how to sign, and she placed her hand on my arm and said, “It’s okay, honey. Just look at me when you speak; I can read lips.” Even though there was a language barrier between us, she managed to accommodate my language needs. I spent a good forty-five minutes helping this woman find exactly what she needed, making sure to look at her when I spoke. I also showed her the price of each item, as well as the item description on my handheld device to make sure she knew all the information about the products she was purchasing. Before she left, she hugged me and thanked me for helping her so intently, and she even took the store survey for me.

This experience changed my life in two ways. First, it made me realize how ignorant I was of the deaf community and of the existing language barrier. I felt so helpless when she signed to me, and I was not able to accommodate her speaking needs. She was so kind and understanding and truly brightened my anxious spirit. She opened my eyes to that world, and I even hope to take sign language classes in the near future. The second way in which this experience changed my life was that it forced me to be less oblivious to my surroundings because you never know what amazing sights you might be missing out on.

This experience was the jumpstart of the inspiration train that lead me to this point in time. As I reflect on this moment with this particular woman, my memory is serving up even more snapshots of inspiration for my decision to write a children’s series that proves disabilities and exceptionalities do not define a human being, their actions do. Instead, beautiful personalities shine bright and break through the crippling stereotypes society decided fit the mold of the basic character. I plan on educating myself thoroughly enough to paint a picture of exceptional children doing things just the same as you and me. Of course, coffee is my loyal sidekick, but the main character of my series needs something a little livelier and furrier to keep her on her toes.

A Day In My Life: Smile Checks, Introverted Tendencies, And A Cure For My Writer's Block

Lately, I have been having those days where everything just seems slightly off. I’m not entirely sure what force has been tipping the scales, but I have been snippy and stone faced and I don’t like the person I become when I’m having an off day. Yesterday was the perfect example of the hot mess my persona becomes when a shift at work moves at an infinitesimal pace – a “speed” so slow that my tired eyes and bored expression evokes the onslaught of peppy enthusiasm and smile checks from one of my lovely managers. If you know me well enough, you know I’m not all that smiley, so it was extra painful to force my chubby cheeks into a happy “u”.

I know working in retail requires a level of pep that I am not at all used to, but over the years, I have learned to fake the enthusiasm for the customers’ sake. I like to think of myself as a kind and generous person; I just seem to have a chronic case of RBF that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to tame. I’m truly embodying the sentiment “fake it until you make it” - here’s to hoping that one day I won’t immediately frighten those who enter my hula hoop of happiness with my hard as nails expression. In order to get a proper fright, they’ll have to entertain a conversation first.

In all seriousness, I was having an off day, and the constant nagging about my nonexistent smile really made me want to stow away in my naturally introverted habitat. So, when my shift ended and I didn’t have to plaster a smile on my face, I drove home with the intention of grabbing coffee and shutting out the real world for a little while.

When I breached the threshold of air-conditioned bliss I just wanted to curl up on the couch with a cup of coffee and fall into the deep depths of YouTube or a Victorian novel – there’s really no in-between with me. And that is exactly what I did after the slowest shift of my life. I sunk into the couch cushions and let the depths of the Tube take me places that freed my mind from the stresses and anxieties of the day … and then I was interrupted.

Now, as an introvert, when I take the time to shut out the world, it truly means that I need to disengage for a little while to recover from the social activities I have endured, even if it was just a shift at work. Think of it like recharging a battery. When I spend a majority of my day getting as close to a social butterfly as I possibly can, I feel drained. For me, it takes a lot of energy to be personable and social; therefore, I must recharge my batteries in preparation for the next day’s antics.

So, when my mother made a comment about how I come home from work and immediately sit on the couch, I became angry. It hurt my feelings because it made me feel lazy even though I have been working like a mad woman since my second job started a little over a month ago. I guess I shouldn’t have been angry because maybe she didn’t understand why I do that after a shift or in-between shifts if I have to work two jobs in one day, but it still hurt nonetheless, even though I know she didn’t mean it.

The real point that sent me over the edge yesterday was when my younger brother asked me to guess how much money he had made that week. Now, let me explain why this was my tipping point. My little brother works for a small produce store, and most of his shifts include 12 plus hour workdays about six days a week at various farmer’s markets in the surrounding areas. He works on average about sixty-five hours a week, earns more than minimum wage, and brings home untaxed money in cash every week. He is also a junior in high school with no adult responsibilities and bills.

Instead of entertaining his question, I snapped because my mind immediately went into comparison mode and started frantically calculating how I was going to budget money this month to cover all of my very real adult responsibilities and bills. My reaction to his question was wrong, and as I snapped at him, I saw the well-deserved excitement drain from his face. I should not be taking my frustrations out on those I care about, and as we can see, it is still something I am very much working on. Everything in my life will work itself out in due time, and I need to focus on that instead of losing myself in unrealistic comparisons.

While my day was challenging and definitely took a toll on my spirit, something eye-opening and exciting did emerge from the heaps of frustration and anger. I came across something while spiraling into the deepest levels of YouTube, and it reminded me of an experience I keep having that I can very well change to make more accommodating for the persons involved. (Stay tuned for a future blog about these experiences). I felt a level of inspiration that fully recharged my sullen demeanor and unclogged my writer’s block. I’ve always felt a strong pull and connection towards writing, and I’ve known deep down that I wanted to be an author one day; I’ve just been waiting for the kind of all-consuming inspiration that would make me feel purposeful in what I’m writing. I think I finally found my writing purpose, and I’m excited to explore and research the possibilities for a future children’s book series. I’m in the pre-natal stages of development, but just know, that with the right dosage of coffee and research, this series will grow up to be a happy and healthy tale for all to hear.

A Ride On The Struggle Bus: Finding Beauty In Small Moments

Small is beautiful. This was the theme of a homily I heard a few weeks ago when attending mass with my dad and my grandfather. I had been having a rough week at work – truly struggling in my efforts to break down the walls a camper had prematurely built in resistance to authority – and this simple sentence gave me the clarity I craved and the will power to keep chipping away at the resilient materials used to fashion a barrier.

After a week-long battle, I think my fellow counselors and I have finally weakened this camper’s defense mechanisms just enough to garner conversation and more mellowed out behavior. Now, don’t get me wrong, this pre-teen still has his outbursts and tantrums, but he has shown us that he is a great kid underneath all the anger and frustration. I truly hope that this sudden transformation is not short-lived, because it is a wonderful sight to see the real child as opposed to the attention stealing façade he was putting on for all to see.

One instance in particular stands out in my mind as the moment that made me think our efforts were finally paying off.  The day started out rough as per usual. By “rough,” I mean that there were multiple spats between fellow campers and counselors and minutes were unfortunately taken away from some much-needed pool time. When we arrived back from the pool and free time was in full swing, I noticed the resilient camper teaching one of the younger campers how to play a complex card game. Now, these two campers do not particularly get along, so immediately my attention focused on the teachable moment happening right before my eyes. I sat by pretending to focus on my own task because I was shocked that these two campers were sitting down together and no arguments had flared up.

The older child was explaining the rules of the game in multiple ways to ensure that the younger child understood the concept. Every time the younger camper had questions, the older camper would answer them and ask for clarity to make sure the younger child understood. I even watched as the older camper helped the younger camper win a round even though he could have taken advantage and awarded himself an easy win. This was another one of those small moments that put a giant smile on my face and brightened an otherwise horrible day.

In my life, I tend to notice only the obscenely obvious signs and occurrences; I don’t pay much attention to the little defining moments until much later when I find the time to reflect. I wish I spent my days basking in the silence of a morning MadLibs activity, listening to the occasional suggestions from one camper to the next, or the unexpected compliment on a shirt that you never found particularly flattering on your body shape before.

Today I even found myself in a fit of laughter after catching my mother dancing to the cheesy tune of a commercial in my peripherals. Small is beautiful. These snapshots from my day mean more to me than the larger picture, which seems a little backwards considering the common saying is to “look at the bigger picture.” When it comes to the roller coaster that is my life, I would much rather focus on the minuscule moments because ultimately, these are the memories that stick out the most.

However, it is more difficult to filter through the muddy mess of the day, searching for the one moment that will bring a broad smile to your fallen face. It is even more difficult to refrain from focusing on one negative occurrence in comparison to an otherwise lovely day at work.

Just the other day, I had walked a camper to her waiting mother, and when I turned to re-enter the building, I realized I had locked myself out. After freaking out for a few moments and seriously contemplating a method of breaking in, I realized how ridiculous of a predicament I had found myself in. I decided to wait it out until another parent showed up, and she was gracious enough to call my coworker to come and rescue me from the temporary vestibule sized inferno I was stuck in.

The funniest part about this situation is that it is not the first time I had locked myself out of a building. A few months ago, I had invited some friends over for brunch. Once they arrived, I realized that I had waited entirely too long to take out the trash, so I grabbed the hefty bag, and meandered down the steps to the dumpster in the parking lot.

After I disposed of the trash bag, I turned to go back upstairs, and the door was locked. In that moment, I proceeded to act out every cheesy movie scene where someone forgets an item. I rummaged through all my pockets, and it turns out I left both my keys and my phone upstairs with my friends. I spent a solid 25 minutes running around the building from one door to the next hoping someone would be coming or going. Of course, as my luck would have it, no one did. I even took a wild guess at the location of my living room window and began chucking rocks at the glass. I learned real quick that I have terrible aim and the upper body strength of a small child. Eventually, my friends realized that I had been gone for far too long and came to my rescue. I had spent almost a half hour in forty-degree snowy weather trying to break into my own apartment building as my friends chit chatted and ate my food. I certainly got the shorter end of the stick that day.

As you can see, my life is littered with smaller moments that I have the power to either make the most of or dwell on their negative appearance. Small is beautiful. I choose to see the humor in the aftermath because if I didn’t, I would not have the determination and tenacity to see beneath the facades children put on; I choose to see the true child. As always, the killer combo of coffee and finding beauty in the small moments keeps me going with a smile on my face and true intentions laced on my heart.

The Dating Game Part 3: "The Week Test"

In a world where men walk around with a confidence that is not always earned or deserved, women like myself are stuck fending off the masses of overtly crude, obnoxious, and self-absorbed schmucks who think they run the world. Clearly these idiots haven’t tuned in to the radio in about seven years, because Beyoncé definitely said it best; girls run the world in their own unique ways, especially when it comes to dating.

As you avid readers already know, I have had the absolute worst luck in the dating department. I’ve been ghosted twice, I have sat through a tedious hour across the table from the worst kind of human – it could have been a topic on 60 minutes, and I have had to delete, block, and report so many men from every ounce of technology I own. Will I ever catch a break?

I guess I shouldn’t be shocked considering my options and the sad, sad fact that almost everything runs on the evil balance of social media and online dating sites. I’m losing my patience because of the lack-luster quality of the men who just so happen to click, swipe, and snap into my life.

I get so hopeful when I match with an above average looking human who appears to have a job and/or a degree. My hope meter rises a smidgen more when the quality and range of photos is as far from Myspace as can be; there are even bonus points if none of the photos contain a sports car, a truck that looks like it’s trying to compensate for something, or a woman who is clearly not a niece or a nephew, a sister, or a mother. Hope even exceeds all bounds when the conversation flows and the man contributes more than one-word responses and flirtatious musings. I’m not going to lie, I can tell from the moment a man messages me whether I’m going to feed into his one-liner or if I’m going to give him mirrored one-word responses until the “conversation” fizzles into the nothingness it derived from.

When scouting out the prospects and lining up potential dates, I initiate “the week test.” This test includes a thorough perusing of all known social media accounts. I am a firm believer in this part of “the week test” because a man’s social media reveals a generous amount about his character. For example, quite recently, I was initiating “the week test”, and I happened to discover that a potential candidate appeared to already have a girlfriend. That was a fun discovery, and I immediately made it clear to the two-timing individual that I was not interested in his company.

The second phase of “the week test” is conversation. If a man can hold a decent, intellectual conversation for about a week, then I will gladly agree to a date. Some may say that a week is too long and pointless considering that the first date is supposed to be the awkward “getting to know each other” stage. I will disagree until the day I die because I still end up with the worst type of humans even after initiating “the week test”.

In my opinion and experience, men like to put on one heck of a show during “the week test.” They act all sweet, caring, and interested, and then after the third date they abruptly exit your life without an explanation and you’re left wondering what you did wrong to deserve that kind of treatment. Or, they are persistent in inquiring about a date, and when the day finally rolls around … radio silence, and you never hear from them again.

When these types of situations occur multiple times, it really makes you wonder if you’re the problem. I’ve sat dumbfounded, wondering if it was something I had said or done to make the guy go running for the hills. But then I took a moment to sit back and reflect, and I realized that I shouldn’t have to change anything about myself to fit the wants of a man. I think this is where the problem lies. Men enter my life with certain expectations, and when I clearly express from day one of “the week test” that I am not interested in games or selling myself short to make them happy, they play the part until they feel they’ve performed long enough. After this, their true colors bleed through, and I don’t have time to deal with it anymore. Don’t hide your intentions; if we are looking for different things, so be it. All I ask is that you tell me from the beginning so I don’t start generating a hope that will inevitably be shattered by the end of the week.

All in all, I still hate dating. I think it’s tedious; however, I guess it’s necessary because life is not the fairy tale I wish it would be. Prince Charming isn’t going to saunter into my life and sweep me off my feet. Instead, I’m stuck sifting through online dating profiles, which is like sifting through items on a clearance rack from last Christmas. They’re seemingly unsellable, but I’m determined to make one work, even if just for a short stint. And if no one strikes my fancy, at least I can say I’ve tried. With coffee as my tried and true loyal sidekick, let’s see if any of this week’s candidates make the cut. Until next time …

When I Grow Up: Adolescent Insight And The Moment I Knew

Insight is a powerful form of intuition that I feel is lost on the adult population. As we grow older, there is a tendency to grow close-minded and to shy away from the times as they shift further and further from the traditional norm into the more modern extremes. Children, however, never cease to amaze me with the levels of insight that spew from their unbiased mouths. One of my favorite questions to ask my campers is “what would you like to be when you grow up?” The reason why is because I specifically remember answering this question as a child, and until recently, I hadn’t realized how sure I was of myself and my intentions at such a young age. This also made me realize how confident children are in their own intentions without even realizing it themselves.

Typically, when you ask a youngster what they want to be when they grow up, they gravitate to the “cool” careers like astronaut or veterinarian or firefighter. When you ask them why, they tell you that they want to help animals or travel in space, but deep down, something clicks, and their intellects start gravitating towards those things that interest them. It has always amazed me when the little lightbulb flickers and children have that realization that they can accomplish a task and reach any goals they set for themselves, and this especially shines bright at the end of the day when the pool highs fade and the sleepy snack aftermath sets in.

My favorite part of the day is that calming hour between snack and parent pickups when children scatter and spend many minutes setting up puzzles and card games and complex board games. This is the time when you get to see the magic behind childcare. The most rewarding component of my job is seeing a ten-year-old explain Monopoly to a six-year-old, and then hearing them accurately count back the change after auctioning off a two-hundred-dollar property for one hundred and ninety-five dollars. (We still haven’t grasped the concept of aiming low at the start of the bidding process, but we’re working on it.) It’s watching a group of kids of varying ages create constellations out of marshmallows and toothpicks. It’s competing in the best game of 5-on-5 basketball I’ve ever participated in. But most importantly, it’s seeing the joy on each child’s face as they cripple in a laughter that leaves them breathless because someone made a funny joke.

I thoroughly enjoy my summer job because to me it has never been work. It has always been a privilege because I get to strive every day to make a difference in a child’s life no matter how big or how small. In my experience and through the numerous hours of observation in various settings that I have completed thus far, I can tell you that it is easier to give up on what most would deem a “lost cause.” It is a thousand times harder to dedicate yourself to your craft and to make yourself a dominant presence in a child’s life. I’ve recently found myself struggling with this very issue because there comes a time when a child has already put up the walls with no signs of letting you in. You’ve tried and you’ve tried, and nothing seems to work. What do you do? My advice is to do everything you can to break through the brick and mortar. Use every tactic you have up your sleeve, and if you’ve exhausted every trick in the book, then you need to understand that you did everything you could do for that child. Hopefully someone someday will reach him or her, but you cannot beat yourself up over something that may very well be out of your control.

This summer is the first time I’ve felt the despair and hopelessness that comes with childcare and instruction, and I am grateful for the experience because I now know the reality that I will face some day soon. I wouldn’t trade any of these experiences because they are a necessary evil. I feel better prepared for my debut in the classroom starting in the Fall of 2019, but before I end this insight into my life, I need to take you all the way back to 2002. This was a time where my teeth resembled the sparkling incisors of one Bugs Bunny, and I was sporting bangs similar to those of Dora.

Now, you’re probably wondering how my little spiel about camp relates to my chosen career path, so let me shed a little light on the topic. When I was in first grade, I was chosen – along with one other student – to tutor a peer who had severe autism. He was completely non-verbal, and his aid would pull all three of us out of class for a few hours a week. During these hours, we would participate in sensory activities, such as playing with blocks and puzzles and completing math problems on white boards or on the Abacus. I looked forward to this allotted time every week because it was such a treat to see the boy who everybody thought was weird excel in and enjoy the activities we provided each week.  This was the moment I knew that I wanted to be a teacher; I wanted to see that level of enjoyment every day, and I’m just under a year away from becoming what I want to be when I grow up.

So, as you can see, it is important to ask children what they want to be when they grow up because they know more than you think. I love that my job entails a level of encouragement that may stick just enough so that one day I’ll see the camper who loved basketball make it to the NBA or the girl who loved myth busters cure cancer. Some say it’s naïve to encourage a “pipe dream,” but I’m all about reaching for the stars – one cup of coffee and one smile at a time. Never forget the moment you knew who you were and what you wanted to be because your dreams will become a reality if you work hard enough and if you have the right people cheering you on along the way.

Summer Daze Part 2: Allergic Reactions, Urgent Care, And The Creepy Doctor

Utter bliss. This is the only way I can describe what it felt like to sit with my toes buried deep in the smooth sand of Coligny Beach. The soft swell of the waves was a calming crescendo in the soundtrack of my life, and the perfect backdrop to the novel I happened to be reading that day. I was in heaven, and now I even have a subtle glow to prove that my pale complexion can in fact reach a maximum of five on the bronze scale. However, I did not reach this level of tan – which is pretty good considering my translucent starting point – without a few obstacles along the way. Like I said before, it wouldn’t be a classic family road trip if things didn’t go wrong, and I happened to be the intelligent human who jinxed herself and became the victim of things taking a turn for the worst.

After one glorious day lathered in SPF 50 under the blazing southern sun, I began to experience an irritation that looked similar to poison ivy. Only I could spend six hours on the beach and leave with an unwanted and completely unexpected rash. I looked like I had rolled around in a patch of poisoned greenery. Naturally, I made a quick trip to the store to grab an anti-itch cream, hoping that the diseased areas would clear up by the next morning. I was not missing out on beach day two.

I awoke the next morning to find that the irritation had subsided substantially, but there was still evidence of its existence. However, I was determined to get in another tanning session, so I lathered on even more of that SPF 50 and began to bake. A few hours later, I happened to glance down at my thighs and noticed an even more intense reaction spreading across my legs. I then reached across my upper body to scratch my arm and felt that the raised irritation had made its way to my underdefined biceps. And then it began to itch. At this point I was at my wits end, and not long after discovering that I was now a walking disease, I left the beach. On the ride back to the hotel, the itching became unbearable and it was beginning to spread to my abdomen and back. I knew what I had to do, and I was not thrilled about the choice I had to make because I had a sinking feeling that my day was going to get weirder by the minute. I decided a trip to an Urgent Care was the only way to eradicate the skin irritation, so I pulled up the GPS and headed to the place that would inevitably take my money and tell me what I already knew.

Upon arrival, I had to fill out a stack of medical forms that ask questions I will most likely never know the answer to. Who honestly knows the medical history of every significant member of their family, because I know I sure as heck do not? Once I handed in the forms and payed the copay, I sat in the waiting area for about a half hour, and then I was called back into an examination room where I would sit for forty minutes with nothing to do besides stare at the odd artwork of trees and various patterns hung on the mint green walls. I happened to leave my phone with my family in the waiting room like an idiot, and the magazines were too far from the chair I was perched on. I’m not sure what it is with the nurses I’ve encountered, but they always manage to elevate the chair to the highest setting so it’s like jumping off a cliff when the time comes to exit the room. I was not taking the risk because I wouldn’t want my luck to run out completely and break an ankle while in the examination room. Now, that would be a story to tell.

When the "good" doctor finally entered the room, something in my gut told me that he was going to be a creep. All he had to do was take one look at me, and that’s when I knew I would be telling the tale for all you wonderful readers. The doctor was attempting to rock silver hair, glasses, and a wedding ring on his wrinkly left hand, and he looked to be in his fifties, which as we all know by now is the target age for unwarranted flirtatious and overtly personal advances. He began asking personal questions ranging from why I was in town and where I went to college. I’m not even sure how we arrived there, but I made it pretty apparent that I wanted him to assess the damage, write me a script, and send me on my merry way.

He then proceeded to touch the irritation on my arm without asking permission first while he was still attempting to probe into my life, which was another oddity. He began pacing and explaining the options while staring at me with his squinty brown eyes framed by wire rimmed glasses not far from the original design of Harry Potter’s famously circular specs. By the time the encounter was coming to a long-awaited close, I discovered that I am allergic to the sunscreen I had been using, and that being in the direct sunlight for two solid days had escalated the reaction to a point of mass destruction for my appearance. Mind you, I had to attend a Marine boot camp graduation the next morning looking like a swollen version of my normal self in ninety degree weather for about two hours in the direct sunlight. I was definitely a sight for sore eyes, and not in a good way.

Three days of a steroid and Benadryl concoction later, and I’m almost irritation free. I’m starting to look like my average self once again, and the copious amount of coffee I’ve consumed in the past few days has gotten me through this bout of bad luck. I always manage to make it over the obstacles, and I hope I don’t have to visit an Urgent Care ever again because I’m not sure I can handle another episode of the creepy doctor. From now on I will also be swatching sunscreens so that I can manage potential allergic reactions; there is no reason to put my body through that mess again. I don’t even know if coffee could get me through another round. I’d have to tap out and sit in the shade until the disease faded and I was clear to soak up the sun once again.

Summer Daze: Road trips, Complementary Items, And The Pursuit Of Beaches

Now that the cold winter blues have dissipated and the sweet, sweet scent of salted air and banana infused sunscreen invade my senses and send me into a summer daze, I feel ready to take on the rest of the long-awaited break from lengthy papers and raging headaches. A short trip to the beach was just the remedy to cure the forty hour work weeks I was leaving behind in Pennsylvania. However, the beach was not the intended destination of this mini vacation; my mom, my younger brother, my sister, and I packed my average-sized car to the brim, hopped in, and drove the twelve plus hours to Paris Island, South Carolina to attend my sister’s boyfriend’s Marine boot camp graduation.

A road trip with my family is always an adventure before the real adventure begins. It’s like an action-packed prequel to an already mediocre movie rated a whopping 7% on Rotten Tomatoes. Everything that you think could potentially go wrong, normally goes wrong. When my brother graduated from Air Force boot camp in 2015, we traveled to Texas in what I like to refer to as “The Man Van.” This hunk of tin was a 12-year-old Chrysler Voyager – the typical soccer mom mobile – that broke down two hours into a two-day trip somewhere in Maryland. After eight hours in a random car dealership, the real fun finally began. The reason “The Man Van” broke down was because a wonky sensor was causing the hunk of tin to buck like a bull in a country bar trying to toss the sloshed white girl across the room. When we left the dealership, we were hopeful that “The Man Van” would perform like a spring chicken; instead, it performed like the geezer it was before the mechanic’s enhancements. We spent two days in a bucking hunk of tin, and it was an interesting experience to say the least.

While something this dramatic was not highly anticipated this time around, I did expect some minor setbacks. I am here to tell you that not one thing has gone terribly wrong thus far, besides the many turn-arounds because none of us can properly read a GPS. I don’t really remember the twelve hours in the car because I slept for most of them, which means I have to drive the entire way back. I’m not thrilled. Once we finally arrived, my mom sent my sister and I into the hotel to check-in because everything was in my name. In my opinion, we successfully checked-in and sauntered back to the car ready to shower-off the past twelve hours.

It turns out that my sister and I are not well-versed in inquiring about the basic amenities an establishment like a hotel provides, such as the ice machine, the complementary breakfast dining area, and the location of the room. We knew none of this as we spent a good fifteen minutes driving around the lot trying to figure out the location of the room, and once we stepped out of the car our glasses immediately fogged up. We definitely weren’t in the temperate deciduous climate of the north-east anymore.

The highlight of the trip so far has been waking up this morning for a hot, free breakfast. My family is notorious for taking advantage of anything complementary. We take anything from hotel shampoos, conditioners, and the awful scented bars of soap to maps of places we’ll never go and the crusts from someone’s sandwich in a take-out container. The justification for this oddity was that my dad would eat the “leftovers” for lunch. I can see it now … Bob comes into work with the meatloaf his wife made last night, and Bill brought a turkey sandwich he made this morning. My dad shuffles in with a crinkling Styrofoam container filled with the scraps of five different dishes from the night before. It had to be a sight.

But, this morning had to be the most awkward experience in quite a while. Four disheveled humans walked into the dining area only to be met with about twenty Latino workmen starring at us in silence. Mind you, we did look a little frazzled considering we had just rolled out of bed, but you could have heard a pin drop in the cramped dining space. It was one of those moments where everyone freezes and they’re not sure who should make the first move. We made the first move, and when we realized the selection of breakfast foods was basically nothing considering there was one egg and a sausage link left, we decided to go out for breakfast, which was not much better.

After an eventful morning, we finally made it to Caligny Beach, and it was beautiful. The water was warm and calm, and the sand was soft like a blanket. It was the best public beach I’ve seen, and I will definitely be making another a trip sooner rather than later. One downfall about the southern waters is that I always seem to develop an allergic reaction. I walked out of the ocean today and sat out to tan and read a novel, when all of a sudden, I looked down at my thighs and noticed an irritation forming. Just what I needed to raise me up a few notches on the attractiveness scale.

I may look like I have a strange disease on my legs, but that will not keep me from another day at the beach. I will need to stop for coffee along the way to prepare me for what will inevitably be another interesting story to spit for the Internet.

Adventures in Retail: An Inventory Of Characters

Growing up, my parents had three rules: 1) You must play an instrument; 2) You must get your drivers license; and 3) You must get a job as soon as you’re of age. At the height of pre-teen angst – rocking braces, glasses, and fuzzy Crocs – I took up the clarinet. I spent so much time working the keys that I taught myself how to play the Law & Order intro by ear. Once I entered the musty halls of high school, I decided I would pick up yet another instrument. I didn’t opt for something cool like the drums; instead, my four-eyes landed on the oboe, which I spent four years playing in the concert band. Fast-forward about six years, and I was forced into getting my drivers license; I still despise driving to this day, and I’m the intelligent human who chose a college that requires at least five hours in the car to reach the final destination. To fulfill parent rule number three, I got a job working at a Japanese Hibachi. That was a short-lived experience because I ended up applying for a retail position around the holidays, and I’ve worked there ever since. It was rewarding to finally make my own money, and I’m grateful that I did not have to scramble to find different employment while at school.

Working in retail for almost four years has been great for people watching and constructing characters for stories. The human race is an interesting species, especially when unleashed into the color-coded racks and tables of a department store. I think everyone should have to work in retail at least once in their lifetime because it would give an entirely new meaning to “treat people the way you want to be treated.” Every time customers trash a fitting room and walk out looking me dead in the eye, I almost want to stop and ask them if they leave their closets at home like the leaning tower of inside-out articles of clothing piled against the mirror.

However, when dusk settles onto the horizon, the real characters crawl out of the woodwork, specifically those with an itch to steal. A few years ago, right when I started working retail, I distinctly remember the static ridden voice of loss prevention crackling over the headset warning everyone on the floor about a sketchy individual in the men’s department. He was making his way through the clearance racks, and not even fifteen minutes later, the distinct static voice rang over the headset once again to inform associates that the sketchy individual was crouched in a corner, gnawing on a security tag like it was a crispy chicken leg. Because of incidents such as this, it is imperative that stores do inventory to account for every item in the store, and let me tell you, this is always an interesting eight-hour day.

About a week ago, I stumbled through the automatic doors at 5:45 am, eyes half closed because my coffee hadn’t fully kicked in yet. The hot florescent lights burned my retinas, and as my sensitive eyes adjusted, I noted the black uniforms of the counting company that would be taking inventory of the entire store. I would be assigned to the pants tables, so I grabbed my fold cart and headed on over to the infamous men’s denim. I was assigned to work with a stocky gentleman adorning shoulder length stringy brown hair with gray roots who looked to be in about his late forties. Actually, I was not specifically assigned to spend eight hours with this man; in fact, he grabbed my fold cart from me and said, “I guess I’m working with you.” The entirety of the day consisted of him attempting to flirt with my non-interested expression while simultaneously coughing and yawning in my face. I spent the day breathing through my mouth while turning my head to the side so as to not smell the rank scent floating in my direction every few moments. I must have a flashing neon sign above my head that says, “Yes, you, please hit on me.” And it’s always someone at least twice my age who would find more luck at Bingo night. Needless to say, I was glad to part ways with this particular individual.

Working in retail is like trick-or-treating in smaller towns. You’re expecting the good chocolate like Hershey’s and Reese’s, but instead you get a few rusted pennies and a bruised apple that looks like it fell a little too far from the tree. These rusted pennies and bruised fruits serve as the best stories to share with the rest of the world. I’m glad my parents coaxed me into the workforce at such a young age because I have catalogs of stories left to tell and an abundance of character traits to explore and define in the near future. Filing those rusted pennies and bruised apples away for another time, I’ll opt for a coffee a day to keep the weirdos rolling my way.

The Art of Friendships: From "Therapist Friend" To "True Friend"

When I was kid, Hannah Montana was my show. After school, I would come home and watch reruns and sing along to the catchy tunes of the girl who lived a double life. My favorite song was “True Friends,” because back then all your friends were your best friends. Now, not so much. As I got older, I learned to tolerate friendships for their sake. Let me explain.

Some friendships are an annoyance, whether it’s the fact that they want to be in your presence constantly or that they complain about everything under the sun, I can only handle people in small doses. I find that certain individuals like to center themselves in the middle of every conversation. They pretend to be interested in whatever you have to say, and then they immediately flip the scope back in their direction without even a comment. After a while you quit trying to talk about the great things happening in your own life and spend hours listening to your “friend” talk about her boyfriend or work or school, basically everything in her life that hasn’t gone her way.

One of my biggest pet-peeves is when I encounter an individual who cannot take responsibility for anything in his or her life. It’s always somebody else’s fault, and I sit listening to the story thinking, this is clearly your fault, but what do I know? If you cannot take responsibility for things in life, how can you move forward? Your mindset will never change; therefore, you’ll never change. I feel as if especially this generation walks around with an entitled cape on their shoulders expecting people and establishments to just offer them friendships, relationships, and job opportunities. What happened to strong work ethic and working through hardships to see the light at the end of the tunnel? I cannot be the only one still overcoming adversity to reach my goals.

Another instance in friendships that rubs me the wrong way is the backhanded compliment. If you cannot be genuinely happy for me, why even bother? I find that this happens most with either school accomplishments or someone I might be going on a date with. I’ll tell a friend that I got an A on a really complex paper, and her response goes something like, “Wow, good for you! It only took you like an entire month, right? Now at least you won’t be as irritable.” Thanks “friend” for the kind words about my sparkling personality during this stressful part of the semester. I greatly appreciate it. (As you can tell, my sarcasm gets the best of me when it comes to the notorious backhanded compliment.)

When it comes to the men or lack thereof in my life, “true friends” are the least encouraging. I could show a girlfriend a picture of the chiseled guy with high-quality scruff with whom I have a date later in the week, and the only thing she does is criticize things that I found attractive previously. For example, “Alex, he isn’t that tall, and his scruff looks a little unkempt. Are you really going out with him?” Friends are supposed to be happy for you; they aren’t supposed to throw dirt on something you’re excited about. If I voiced every thought and valid judgment I’ve had about friends’ significant others, I would have no friends at all because I know when to rein it in.

For years, I have been the “therapist” friend – you know, the person everyone turns to for relationship advice. You avid readers already know that my experience is limited; however, I read enough and observe society enough to know what is and what isn’t acceptable in a relationship. I could give advice until I’m blue in the face to the same few people, and not once do they take the sage wisdom I lay on them. Why ask me if you weren’t really interested in what I have to say? I realized real quick that some people just want an ear to talk to; they don’t really care what your thoughts are, they just needed someone to sit and act the part of therapist.

I do have some great friends in my life who I can turn to for everything. Some, I just stop venting to because I know I won’t get anything constructive or encouraging. Ladies and gents know who your true friends are; know your worth in a friendship because they’re the ones who are going to pick you up when you’re down and get you through the rest of your life – one day and one cup of coffee at a time.

The Dating Game Part Two: The "Shock" Factor

Dating is complicated, especially for someone who struggles with anxiety. Pile on the fact that I’m shy and an introvert, and I hit the trifecta for an awkward date for all involved. At first it probably comes across as cute and endearing, but as time goes on, the truth comes out and all bets are off.

Because this blog site is engineered around my spilling of the truth, I guess it is only fitting that I express myself with a level of realness I would not otherwise share with strangers. While it may be slightly embarrassing to admit some of the private details of my life, I want to preface by stating that I am not ashamed of this truth, and if someone makes me feel that way, maybe it’s not meant to be.

For women especially, there is a societal pressure to push boundaries and flaunt our sexuality. I was not hardwired that way, and I am proud that I never fell victim to the throngs of thirsty teen boys and vulgar men with agendas. I am a strong and independent woman, and I know what I want in a man and in a relationship. Therefore, dating for me is strange because of the “shock” factor, which will be explained a little later on in the blog.

Oftentimes on a first date, the topic of past relationships and/or dating experience surfaces. This is the moment in the encounter when my anxiety kicks in full-throttle, and I can feel the red waves creeping up my neck. Typically, men go through two stages: the “getting around stage” in their late teens and well into their early twenties and the “settling down stage” in their late twenties. Nine times out of ten, I end up with the “getting around” type, and if you know me well enough, you know that’s just not my style. If I do happen to meet someone with the same goals, the conversation takes an unexpected turn, and here is why.

I think the only way to accurately describe the verbal exchange is to compare it to job experience. For example, most places of business will not hire an individual unless they have some sort of experience, whether that be an internship or volunteer work. The applicant must demonstrate prior knowledge to receive the privileges and benefits of a well-payed full-time job in their career field. (It’s the one thing they don’t tell you while in your undergrad.) This analogy is pretty spot-on for the conversations I have with men when the prior dating experience question pops up mid-date.

When the man utters the question, I normally take about five seconds to mentally prepare myself for their response because it’s definitely a doozy. And maybe I shouldn’t be as confused by the response anymore, but for a girl in her twenties to have very limited dating experience, my story is pretty normal. Apparently, men see it a little different, and it’s actually quite ironic that my story in society today is shocking. To start, it is necessary that I take it way back to my high school days because that will set the the tone for what follows. Buckle up ladies and gents, because here goes my tell-all about the times that men made me feel small for my experience or lack thereof.

High school for me was a time of discomfort; I was insecure about my weight, I had no fashion sense, and I never really felt like I fit in. Guys paid me no attention, and I spent four years watching everyone around me pair off into “relationships” (because if I’m being real, they’re infatuations in high school). This included all of my siblings, and I was the shy girl who liked to be by herself. Don’t get me wrong, the introvert in me was thrilled that I would rather spend my time writing or reading rather than going to trashy parties that got busted more often than not. In other words, I never wanted to be a part of the crowd; I wanted to stand out against the trends and tropes and be different. I never thought being different would come back and try to haunt me later on.

When college was just around the corner, I thought this is it Alex, you’re finally going to break out of your shell. And I did just that. I overcame a lot of my prior anxieties, but that does not mean I eradicated every loose end. I went from the shy girl who watched everyone around her pair off into relationships to the girl who now has to watch everyone tie the knot and have children. I am so happy for each person in my life who has someone to share their joys with, but after a while, the smile fades, and I have to fake it because it does want to break me down. The loneliness takes over, and I feel sorry for myself. “Friends” often tell me that I have to put myself out there to be happy, and while there is some truth to this in retrospect, the insecure woman that I am finds this the most difficult. However, I did put myself out there, and it has definitely opened my eyes and taught me a few things along the way.

My dating experience started about six months ago. I attend a rather small Catholic college where I take the maximum amount of credits a semester and work 25 plus hours a week. I see my friends very rarely, and I live alone. Male attention is pretty limited going to a Catholic school and working in all of my spare time, and when I do receive attention from the testosterone ridden species, it is only from the greedy eyes and mouths of the pre-pubescent and the elderly. Men my age do not approach me, and when I tell guys this on dates, they give me shocked mutterings and expressions and then provide two reasons when I ask why men do this: 1) “You’re a beautiful woman, and that is intimidating to a man;” 2) “Men are scared of rejection as well.” Let me just tell you that this is the most frustrating thing because women are not generally programmed to make the first move, and I feel when we do, there is an immediate assumption that we’re promiscuous because we dared to approach the guy gawking so hard that he lost his man-card and ability to get up and speak.

After the initial shock of this admittance fades, the next question proceeds as follows: Well you have hooked-up, right? Again, I would like everyone to refer back to the little tidbit about high school, or if you knew me back then, try and picture what I did and how I looked. No one was trying to talk to me back then, and you know what, I’m glad. At the time, I was heartbroken and ashamed, but now that I look back, it shaped me into the person I am today, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. Most people go through the awkward dating stage in their teens, and I never did. I skipped right over the “flaunt it and fling it” stage because I knew it was something I didn’t want. I can confidently say, that to this day, I have not had a hook-up or a one night stand. What I learned real quick is that this admission makes men uncomfortable, but I’m not going lie or gloss over the facts. And it’s honestly okay if it makes a man uncomfortable, but in the processing stage, don’t allow your “shock” to make me feel small and insecure about the choices I’ve actively made in my adult life. If it’s not for you, call it quits. I have a tough exterior; I can handle it. I’ve made it this far without the crutch of a man to make me feel better, and I can keep going if that’s what I have to do. Like I said, I’m strong and independent; I don’t need someone in my life. I’m just now at that point where I’m realizing that I want to share a part of myself with someone else.

At this point in my tell-all, you’re probably waiting for the expected spiel about how coffee gets me through everything, but there is one last morsel of truth that I need to throw your way before I end the longest blog ever. After the “hook-up” question I feel as if men can sense that I’m a little more inexperienced than I let on, which by the way, is normal if you’ve only met a few times. I’m not going to tell my life story after knowing you for 0.3 seconds. Maybe it’s the way the question comes up in conversation, but when asked, it took me right back to that girl in high school who struggled with her weight and didn’t fit in. Have you ever kissed anyone?

The answer to this question is no, because if I haven’t dated or partied it up like a fish out of water, how was I supposed to happen upon waiting lips? Once again cue the shocked mutterings and facial expressions, and I’m never sure how to handle the responses. For my age, I realize that it is a little abnormal, but when you’ve lived the life I have you’d understand why. I need a connection with someone and intellectual conversation; I don’t just throw myself at people for the sake of it. I’ve watched friends and acquaintances do just that, and I can’t. Maybe you’ll think less of me or think I’m just weird or that there has to be some other reason why. I can assure there isn’t, and it all comes down to the fact that for seven years of my life, the attention of boys and men gravitated everywhere but me. That did a lot of damage to my self-esteem, and I’m only now starting to feel confident in all parts of myself.

I said from the beginning that I would be discussing the good, the bad, and the ugly, so if you can’t handle the truth, take a hike. I’ve been doing fine just the way I am. Ladies, don’t let a man make you feel small for something you have or have not done or experienced, whether it’s common or not. Be true to yourself, and one day, the right man will be by your side with a steaming mug just for you.

The Bee Never Stings Twice

Laughter truly is the best medicine. In my darkest days or even the darkest times of my life, a simple laugh could make me forget about all those pesky little seeds of doubt, insecurity, and regret that plague my existence on a daily basis. Whether visibly etched on my freckled face or found creeping in red waves up my neck and cheeks, those seeds fight and stretch to catch a glimmer of sunlight in this dark, dark world. Over the past two weeks, I’ve caught myself laughing without a care in the world, forgetting the possible judgments of others, just living my best life. It has been such a relief to just let go and bury the seeds even deeper into the darkest soil of my soul.

One particular instance steals the show this time around because even though it involved insects, and at this point, all of you faithful readers should know where I stand with the insect community, it still made me crack up in a laughter I had forgotten about.

Just the other day during another long shift, I happened to find myself in the break room, overly excited for an impromptu date with my Kindle. I’ve been on a reading high lately, and I cannot seem to get enough of it. I skipped through the threshold, created my time punch with a flourish, and made a beeline for my locker. I grabbed my Kindle and reached up for my lunchbox only to find my dainty fingers dangerously close to a bee the size of an uncracked walnut. I screeched a little, I’m not going to lie. Mind you, one of my managers was sitting across the room, fully immersed in something on her phone. (This will become an important detail later in the story).

It looked like I was going to have to fend for myself. Typically, I would have looked to another individual in the room, hoping that he or she would get the hint that I am not the best option for capturing an insect for release. The reason being that ten times out of ten, I kill them because it appears that they are trying to harm me. These bees duck and swerve with an astonishing resilience, making it even more difficult for me to remain calm in these stressful encounters. I’m convinced the insects are out to get me. The other reason that proves my inability to act like a relatively normal human in situations where insects of any kind are involved is as follows.

The bee was merely sitting on my lunchbox, right on the handle. I stood for a solid minute debating a proper course of action, or at least one that would minimize my embarrassment. Eventually, I decided that I needed to stun the bee so that it would not be tempted to attack my face. I carefully took my giant purse out of my locker and carried it to the nearest chair, never taking my eye off the bee. The problem with having a tote for a purse is that it took me an anxious minute to rummage through all the junk until I found my travel-sized hairspray. Once my fingers met the cool metal container, I knew this battle would be over soon.

I gripped the miniature bottle and prepared to make a sneak attack. Once I was close enough to the bee, I yanked on the cap preparing to fire, except as luck would have it, the cap wouldn’t budge. Again, I would like to remind everyone that one of my managers witnessed this scene unfolding, whether she was fully tuned into the action or not. I must have looked calm, cool, and collected as sweat dripped down my forehead straight through my carefully filled in eyebrows.

Finally, the cap came off, and I unloaded a generous amount of tacky hairspray onto the waiting bee. As soon as the aerosol mist met the furry thorax, his wings went mad; it sounded as if a toy helicopter were flying around the room. Slowly, the bee turned to face his attacker, and I swear he looked me dead in the eyes. At that point, I decided it was time to escalate the battle, so I fervently tossed my lunch box onto the ground. The bee fell off the handle and began frantically crawling on the floor, wings still a flutter. I won’t share the gory details of what occurred next, but let’s just say that the bee is in a better place.

After I cleaned up the aftermath, I turned around expecting to see an amused look on my manager’s face. Instead, I noticed that she had not moved a muscle and was still engrossed in whatever entertainment her phone provided.

Needless, to say, I’m glad she did not consciously witness how I made a fool of myself that day, and it made me laugh knowing that most times, nobody is watching. It’s okay to act a fool sometimes, or most times when it comes to my crazy life. As long as I have my morning coffee, everything else becomes merely a memory in the never-ending Rolodex of instances that I can look back on and heartily chuckle. It’s important to remember that the bee never stings twice, unless you’re me, than you better believe that bee is trying to come back for round two. Don’t worry; I’ll be ready with caffeine flowing through my veins and hairspray flowing onto the waiting victim.

Compression Socks and Ankle Braces: The Ultimate "Goodie" Bag

Doctor’s offices have a distinct smell. The overpowering rush of antiseptic and mothballs invaded my senses as I rushed in to make my 2:15 appointment. Glad that I had made it in the nick of time, I found an empty chair and pulled out my tattered copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, figuring that I would at least be able to read a chapter. After 45 minutes, I had made a generous dent in the story and had still not been called back. I guess the intensity of my eye roll caught the attention of another member of the waiting room, because as my tired eyes finished their rolling adventure, I noticed a graying man with a cane smirking in my direction. I took that as a sign that I was justified in my frustration. As I looked around the seemingly empty waiting room, I happened to notice the demographic. I was easily the youngest member, and the nurse who finally called my name made sure to express the sentiment.

When we reached the room that would serve as a make-shift waiting room, the nurse apologized for the wait and told me that I was the youngest patient she had encountered that day. Boy, that made me feel stellar. She took down all the required information and informed me that as soon as a room was available, I would be transferred once again. Once she excited the room, I pulled out my phone to respond to a few texts. Not even halfway through the first response, I was lead into yet another room, which is where I would wait another excruciating hour for the good doctor.

Another nurse entered requesting a description of the pain I was experiencing. The point of the visit was a follow-up on all the physical therapy I had been receiving for my feet. After describing in as much detail as I could, the kind nurse walked over to the patient chair and began adjusting the recline motion and height of the chair. At one point it felt as if I would catapult backwards off the mahogany colored leather seat.

She then proceeded to raise me up as high as the chair would allow, and for what, I’m not entirely sure. I was probably about three feet off the ground. I am pretty short, so this would be a challenge to leap down. The nurse also raised the footrest, which made me look like a child sitting in the chair waiting for her lollipop at the end of her routine visit.

The nurse finally left, and I was sat so high that I was level with the low-quality art piece hanging on the puce wall. After twiddling my thumbs for about twenty minutes in utter silence, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed at least my phone to amuse myself. I knew I could climb out of the chair like a child escaping from her high chair; the problem would be getting back onto the chair. I managed to hop down and grab my phone, and now the challenge began. I placed my phone in my pocket, assessing the height difference and possible means to getting back up. After three attempts at hopping onto the seat, I managed to hoist my petite frame up with minimal damage to the now ripped paper seat cover.

Pleased that I could now at least entertain myself with a mindless scroll through Instagram, I happened to notice that the battery was almost empty. As luck would have it, I would be stuck with nothing to amuse myself for another half hour because there was no way I was getting off the chair again. I knew as soon as I would have attempted the doctor would have walked in. I would have been caught in the act, which would have been an unnecessary embarrassment after a day of waiting.

Finally, the doctor walked into the room, and it was a good thing because I had to use the restroom. My small bladder did not appreciate the long wait. The appointment went a little different than I had expected because while I was the youngest patient, I had more in common with the typical geriatric than I would like to admit. I found out that orthopedic shoes were a must, and this was what I had dreaded most. My mind immediately conjured up images of elegant dresses paired with clunky Velcro sneakers. Thank the Lord that I was able to find a company that makes fashionable shoes. They say women will endure any amount of pain to look good, and I can assure you that there is so much truth to the saying.

Before leaving the office, I was fitted with a hideous ankle brace and handed a paper bag with an additional accessory. Inside the bag sat compression socks; you know those starkly white or black socks your grandfather wears with the chunky black sneakers? They were the type of socks given to me in a little “goodie” bag for future use. I have never felt older than I did that day.

That day was yet another glimpse into what my future will be if I don’t take the necessary precautions now. So, if you ever see me rocking compression socks and clunky Velcro sneakers, you know why. But in all seriousness, I am glad that I finally received a professional opinion even though it’s going to be a rough day when I purge all my wonderfully expensive shoes. I will have to spend a pretty penny to replace my taste in footwear, but it will be worth it in the end. My addiction to coffee has definitely kept me sane, especially when it involves a woman and her shoe collection. However, I will get through it because I realized that it shouldn’t matter what shoes I wear. As long as I keep spilling the truth about coffee everything else will eventually fall into place.

Sipping Coffee And Chasing Cats

As the stress of the semester officially fades into the distinct shadows cast by the summer sun, I find my life more hectic than ever before. I thought leaving the intensely anxious environment that is college would be a reprieve from twitching eyes and hives. However, as my life normally takes a turn for the worst, that anxious environment followed me home as I embark on the adventure that I’m certain this summer will be.

Just yesterday morning, I was lazily sipping my coffee, watching The Office when I realized that I needed to speed up my routine in order to make it to work on time. The low growl of my stomach was the only necessary cue to convince me that breakfast was a must. I sauntered into the kitchen ready to make some potatoes and eggs when I happened to glance at my back door. The door was wide open, and the screen was pushed open just enough for an animal to squeeze its chubby little body out into the toasty morning air.

I have four temperamental cats, each with their own unique quirks. One common quirk these pampered pets have is their love for being outside amidst the dead grass and potted plants. My mother has these cats so spoiled that there is absolutely no way they would last more than a day fending for themselves in my neighborhood. Each of my cats is like the millennials of today who cannot seem to function in the real world without expecting everything to be handed to them on a silver platter.

Therefore, as I made a mad dash to the back door, one of my cats (Ivan) skipped on in. When he saw my frazzled face and frizzy hair, he knew he had been caught red-handed. I ran past him, telling him that I would deal with him later and rushed onto the deck. And, yes people, of course I speak to my cats like they are my children; when they misbehave they deserve to be reprimanded. Frantically searching the yard as the sun blinded my sensitive eyes, I caught a glimpse of a bushy tail on the neighbors back porch. This bushy tail belonged to Beatrice, who again looked at me like she knew she had been caught red-handed.

I raced through my house and made it to the neighbor’s porch in record time to find that Beatrice had disappeared. I looked high and low for this cat, only to glimpse her sitting at my back door waiting to get in. This vindictive cat knew I was coming to get her and deciding to hippity hop on over to our deck instead. I swear my cats had me running all over the place looking for them knowing that I had to get ready for work. I then raced back through my entire house to let the impatient cat back into house. Two down, two more to account for.

I scoured the entire house, hitting all the usual haunts and hiding places. I found Lucy, our resident introvert who could care less about human interaction, snoozing on my parent’s bed. But for the life of me I could not find Benedict, the biggest cat in the house with the softest and daintiest meow. I put in a good cardio workout looking for him, but time was running out and I needed food. So, I sat at the kitchen table and quickly scarfed down a yogurt, when all of a sudden, I heard the intense high-pitched yipping of Bella, our sassy Yorkshire Terrier. I ran outside once again because I knew that the last cat was outside somewhere waiting for me to come to his rescue.

I ran to the banister and looked over the edge to see Benedict pressed up against the lattice meowing full-voiced up at me. Again, I ran full-speed through the house to save him from the harsh outdoors. When I reached the walkway he was sitting in not even thirty seconds ago, I realized that he had disappeared seemingly into thin air. I booked it down the neighbor’s yard and searched our back alley, snooping around the garages at the back of our house. I could not find his furry frame.

I even searched out front, peeking under cars and behind trash cans. In my paranoid state, the thought crossed my mind that someone might have taken him. I almost went to accuse an elderly woman of stealing him straight off the sidewalk and placing him in her car. I was a mess, but I had to get to work, so I decided to put a pause on my sleuthing until my shift was over. My poor mother sat outside almost all day waiting for our beloved furry friend to come out of hiding into her waiting arms.

This, however, did not happen, and by about nine o’clock there was no sign of the cat. My mother was convinced that he was hiding in the depths of 15-year-old wood stashed underneath our neighbor’s porch. At about nine thirty, my younger brother wedged his slim frame underneath some of the boards, and with a flashlight discovered the trembling body of Benedict as he sat terrified at the furthest point under about thirty two-by-fours.

It must have been quite a site to see five frazzled humans of various petite heights trying to finagle these boards so that we could save our home boy Benedict. After about 40 minutes of board shifting and flashlight placement, my brother was able to army crawl into the perfect position to shoo the cat into my sister’s waiting arms. This crazy adventure came to an even more exciting end when I took the cat into the shower with me to wash all the dirt out of his fluffy white fur.

Only the Disabella family could experience this level of excitement in one day, but you know what, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Our lives are always a hot mess, but that’s what keeps us humble and makes these trying tales even more real, which was the exact vision I had for this blog site. I’m always down to let the cat out of the bag, or in this case, the cat out of the house.  Of course, the truth always comes with a steaming side of coffee, because without a large dose of caffeine in my life, the anxiety and crazy experiences would outlive and outshine the stories I have coming next. Stay tuned …

Anxiety And Me: Taking On The World One Day At A Time

Anxiety is a term that I never thought applied to me. I’ve muddled through life thinking that my twitching eye and eminent rush of hives were normal occurrences; I mean, they happen often enough. It took me years to realize that these characteristics are far from the scope of normal reality and bode well into the realm of severe anxiety.

As you well-adapted readers already know, I have an overactive mind. It races constantly, never pausing to give my exhausted frame a well-needed break. I stress over the most minute details – things that the average human would gloss over in a heartbeat. I overanalyze a situation to the point of mind-numbing migraines or heart palpitations so violent I feel as if my heart will burst through my chest cavity and land in my waiting palm. In short, my anxiety has intensified over the years, and college served as the catalyst to the ultimate realization of my mental state.

The reason I address stress levels and severe anxiety is because I think it is a correlative component of the depression I sometimes sink into. Just the other day, I felt the restrictive dark cloud looming over me, and I just wasn’t myself. Everything felt slightly off, and even the typical coffee pick-me-up did nothing to improve my state. Eventually, the looming cloud parted, and the sunshine broke through, beaming down on these last few days of the semester.

However, it is important to recognize that everyone has their struggles; the hardest part of life is finding a way to overcome or manage the struggles you face daily. Living on my own was a reality check, and it forced me to find what worked best for me. When depression sinks in, I like to be alone, which is why having a bachelorette pad is ideal. I can throw on oversized sweats and a cozy sweatshirt, brew a steaming pot of Columbia java, and sink into a delightful book.

When anxiety strikes, I find writing to be the perfect remedy; whether it’s poetry or another chapter of my exciting life, writing to me is a punching bag to a frustrated youth. The rhythmic clacking of the keys calms the erratic beating in my chest, and eventually, all is well with the world once again.

While these remedies provide temporary relief, overtime, they will gradually become a normal segment in my routine. I’ve discovered what works in my life, and what works for me might not work for you. Take the time and figure out what calms you; this at least is one step in the right direction. I do not mean to dismiss the calming powers of medication; I’m just not at the point where I’ve considered that an option for me. I’ve evaluated my life and discovered unnecessary stressors in need of purging.

The biggest stress in my life was trying to balance school and work on the fast track I thought I needed to be on to prove to others that I could accomplish things in my life sooner rather than later. A life altering experience was what it took to change my outlook on life. I realized that the only person I need to prove anything to is myself, and I am so proud of everything I’ve accomplished so far. I went from having immensely low expectations of myself and my future to having the highest of hopes that anything is possible if I put in the work. I cannot just sit around waiting for anxiety to box me into a corner while depression sucks the air out of the room and stalks my every move.

All it takes is patience, and I know that sounds naïve, but it works. Anxiety will not rule my life because the power of the written word is always on my side with coffee as its loyal sidekick. I’ll never lose hope because every negative has an even more potent positive waiting to lead me into the next chapter of my exciting life.

Girl Vs. Insect: The Saga Continues

With the semester standing on its last leg, and my headspace teetering on the brink of summer bliss, it seems appropriate that I would be scrambling to finish one last paper. Professors meander through the semester at a sluggish pace and then pile on the paper assignments at the last minute to accumulate some sort of a grade point average. This abrupt assault of late nights and coffee highs leaves me tired and indifferent while professors sit back, relax and wait for the inevitable request for an extension. However, the tables eventually turn, and the learned educators find themselves stuck in the never-ending mountain of mediocre assignments (because they were assigned last minute) and coffee stained clothing. As I sit constructing the final paper of the semester, I find my focus waning.

Proper sentence structure and grammatical conventions escape the foggy landscape of my brain waves, and I discover myself utterly distracted and seemingly on edge. Why, you ask? I think you already know the pesky little culprits, and it appears that they deem it necessary to continue infiltrating my camp and tormenting what little sanity I have left. The battle of the stinkbugs rages on, and I will not cease extinguishing their ranks until not one remains … or until I go home for the summer. This is going to be the longest week of my life.

In the past three hours, I have conquered duels with fifteen unlucky contenders, and each has met their royal flush. The battle began when I happened to notice the wispy movement of antennae as they timidly peeked out from the seal in the window frame. I am not sure how I came to discover this most pernicious stinkbug, but I made quite certain that he would not escape my weapon of choice. I ran to the sink, grabbed the full proof bottle of Windex, raced to the window, and sprayed him until he retreated into the depths of his arrival. For good measure, I sent a few hearty streams into the hole he crawled into, and not even a moment later, he emerged right into my waiting death grip.

I do not play games when it comes to stinkbugs, and I put my new take on smoking out the enemy to good use with the second fallen intruder. This sneaky little insect – we’ll call him Ralph – thought himself intelligent because he wedged himself between the two panes of glass in my bedroom window. I watched him for a solid ten minutes scale the slick glass like Spiderman until he got too close for comfort. I then sprayed copious amounts of potent blue liquid down the glass, saturating Ralph, delaying his ascent. Eventually, I smoked him out, and as he reached for the metaphorical bell at the top of the wall, I snatched him up and sent him on a log flume to the sewage system. I also find it important to note that while this particular duel raged in my bedroom, I was simultaneously cooking dinner and binge watching The Office. I am the queen of multitasking, or I like to think that I am.

All the duels that followed did not end well for the stinkbugs, which now incidentally, I universally refer to as “Ralph.” I truly feel as if I have a sixth sense when it comes to these distinct insects; I just happen to look up, and there is a monstrous creature crawling on the ceiling, or I hear the barely coherent fluttering of crisp, harshly clipped wings. The metallic clang is a sound that will forever be engrained in my memory.

Every time I attempt to grab the creepy crawlies as they make their grand escape, I injure myself in some way. For instance, as I was reaching for Ralph #10 as he clung to the pane of glass, he managed to burst through the thin material of a Puffs Ultra Soft. I felt him use his miniscule talons to claw through the pillow-like formula, and the distinct clang of the wings sent my body into full escape mode myself. I released the tissue, let out an ear-piercing screech, and fell backwards into my glass coffee table. Save for the tiny scrape on my elbow, the only thing bruised was my ego. I figured I could waltz out of each battle unscathed, and while I did conquer Ralph #10, I now know that they’re on to me. However, I will not let this brief mishap stop me from taking on all the Ralphs in this world.

The great battle of the insects continues in my humble abode, and I am forever grateful that I will be taking a three-month leave of absence from the never-ending war. The only thing getting me through this final week of the semester is my loyal and trusting Keurig, for without her, I would most likely take measures to unnecessary extremes by patching every conceivable orifice in my apartment to try and keep the enemies at bay.

The Dating Game

Dating is like blindly reaching into the candy bowl on your grandmother’s coffee table. She has all sorts of tasty treats: jolly ranchers, miniature chocolate bars, jelly beans, Werther’s Originals, those strawberry candies that taste like cough syrup, etc. You eagerly reach your hand into the depths of sugary sweetness hoping for a cherry jolly rancher or a piece of dark chocolate. You swivel and swirl, feeling around, relying on your keen sense of touch. Finally, your hand emerges, tightly clutching the brief surge of energy that will hopefully get you through your grandmother’s incoherent mutterings about politics and her neighbors “attractive” son. You look down, salivating as your eyes slowly reach the strawberry candy. Apparently, your sense of touch isn’t all that keen after all.

My dating life thus far has been exactly like reaching into grandmother’s communal candy dish. Very rarely have I been lucky enough to pick a delectable treat. Most times I end up with a Werther’s Originals, even though they had the promise of magically gaining a blast of fruity flavor. However, one date stands out amongst the rest … the strawberry candy. I’m not entirely sure I can call it a date, and here’s why.

Everything seemed normal. I had been talking with this guy off and on for about a month, and finally decided to give into his incessant inquiries about a date. We settled on a location and a reasonable time to make acquaintance. The day arrived, and I just had a feeling. My intuition took over, and I felt that I should skip the date. Something felt off and maybe even a tad unsettling, but the writer in me reared her greedy little head looking for a juicy story to tell. You lucky readers are very welcome for the “date” I had to endure to get this tale.

I arrived at the restaurant of his choosing, and upon entering, he asked whether I would like to sit at the bar or in a booth. I liked that he asked as opposed to just choosing for me. I went to respond by saying that it really didn’t matter, but before I could get through half a sentence, he said, “We’re sitting in a booth.” I guess he really didn’t care about my preference, which was only made clearer as the dreadful hour continued. We sat down, and as I was reading over the menu (because I hadn’t eaten there before,) I felt his eyes boring into me as I perused entrée options. It was unsettling, and if that didn’t set the tone for the rest of the encounter, it was most definitely the fact that he was dressed like a 12-year-old boy circa 2009: Hollister flannel and probably the jeans to match.

We ordered, and it is imperative that you attentive readers remember that he specifically asked for French fries on the side. Conversation continued in a one-sided manner. I think during the precise 60 minutes I sat across from this man’s petite frame I spoke three times. The first was a brief summary of my day. The second was in response to the falsely snobbish assumption that I knew nothing about the military. And the third was my rejection of his premature supposition that there would be plans after the agreed upon date.

Once our meals arrived, this “gentleman” talked at me for an hour, winning the award for the worst date of my entire life. He managed to break every rule of dating etiquette in a short amount of time. He spent much of his allotted hour complaining about familial problems, mental issues, and an ex-girlfriend who stopped responding to him, all the while reassuring me that he is not one to complain. He brought up how much money he makes, and indirectly hinted at the fact that he can’t keep a job due to his overbearing pretention. His voice carried in the small restaurant considering he spoke at such a high decibel, and every other sentence contained an expletive, most beginning with the letter “f.” I sat with an indifferent expression, keeping my facial muscles at bay for fear that one slight twitch of the eyebrow or eye roll would set him off.

Then the semi-masculine figure sitting across from me with a high-pitched squeak of a tone looked to his right at the French fries sitting next to him. He complained about the proximity of the potatoes to his salad because he doesn’t eat carbs. He couldn’t fathom why the waitress would place them so close to his plate. I would now like everyone to refer to the part of the tale that mentions his precise ordering of French fries. He clearly ordered them, and throughout his meal, he referenced them as if the waitress planted them on the edge of table to trick him into eating carbs. I would also like to mention that this doofus, after describing his brief stint of homelessness without prompt from me, gave an in-depth play-by-play of his daily eating habits. I figured because he strayed from carbs that he was a health enthusiast; but instead, I learned that his diet consists of a Slim Jim, string cheese, and an energy drink.

If this doesn’t make him seem like a winner and a true gentleman, how he ended our encounter sure will. As I was making it completely obvious that I wanted to go home, curl up with a book and drink my coffee, he felt it appropriate to make a racist joke, loudly I might add. I was as red as a tomato, and after he walked me to my car, awkwardly hugging my nonreceptive frame, I hopped in, revved the engine, and sped towards the setting sun. I called my mother to relay the horrifyingly true experience.

The next day, I found myself dodging messages from this looney tune left and right, forgetting that I had my read receipts on. The third message served as a warning of sorts, claiming that I had clearly not gotten his message the day prior about wasting his time by not answering him right away. In my defense, I was busy and had no desire to ever see his smug face again. We sparred a little via text, and after he called me a few unsavory names, I blocked his, because frankly, I deserve better. All in all, at least I gained a blog out of the experience.

I will never forget this mediocre man; he made me realize my own self-worth while subsequently giving me a frame of reference so that I could heed all future suitors, weeding out those lousy minnows. While dating is like reaching into grandma’s collection of candy, hopefully one day the options change, and finding someone isn’t as difficult. If I could skip the dating stage of life, I would; but for now, I’ll trudge onward because awful dating stories are better than no dating stories at all.

When Old Souls Collide

I have never really indulged in spontaneity. Some have described me as more of a demure woman who sticks to the status quo. However, something changed in me this year. There is this braveness that I discovered deep within that allowed me to take risks unnatural to my introverted state of being. One such example refers to the ever-changing hue of my hair. Right before I embarked on the journey that has been the spring semester, I added a pop of color to my dull locks. I walked out of the hair salon a new and improved Alex with the taste of the rainbow staining the ends of my hair. I loved it, and it seemed that others loved it, as well. In last week’s blog, I discussed my old soul and grandma-like tendencies and characteristics. Therefore, this next little tidbit only solidifies my findings and proves that I am in fact a grandmother at heart.

When I returned to my retail job after dyeing my hair, I was greeted by “the look.” This look refers to the calculated eyebrow raise of the unapproving general public at my choice of color. I could already feel the judgment oozing out of them, and I could care less. I was confident in my appearance, and frankly, enjoyed the edgy juxtaposition of a future high school English teacher rocking a nose ring and rainbow hair. I wasn’t looking for verification of my choices; I really wasn’t looking for any reaction at all. However, one reaction still steals my heart and vote for the best compliment I’ve ever received.

In my temporary line of work, most of my coworkers are significantly older than me. You would think that I would not necessarily have a lot in common with this gaggle of oldsters because of the age gap, but then you would surely be mistaken. I have more in common with the 60-year-old woman rocking New Balance and an appalling shade of red lipstick than the women my age hitting the club scene every weekend. I guess you could say that I gravitate to the educated and wise women of yesteryear who have the most interesting stories to tell, because I like to think of myself as a storyteller. I enjoy listening to women talk about the good old days, and that is why the compliment I received is the best in my short book of compliments.

The compliment came from a quaint woman of about 80 with perfectly curled white hair. I walked into the establishment, and I was greeted by this woman. She hobbled over to me, leaving behind an inquiring customer, and made a scene in a way that only a grandmother knows. She took one look at the frizz that was once a supple curl, made me do a 360, and told me that my hair was the best she’s ever seen. Then she proceeded to tell everyone she encountered that day about my hair. Apparently, she has witnessed many a woman attempting to rock colorful hair, and none have pulled off the color well. Let me just say, that I had absolutely nothing to do with the dyeing process; my hairdresser is a genius and made my hair look better than the picture I showed her for reference.

Now, you attentive readers may be confused as to why this is the best compliment I’ve ever received. My friends, this is the best compliment because every time I go to work and encounter this coworker, she goes through the same spiel. She makes me do a 360 and tells everyone that day about the girl with the colorful hair. Since the first time, I have changed the color from a vibrant rainbow to a muted grayish blue, which I also love, and she still goes through the established routine.

Just a few days ago, I had walked into the restroom, and not even a second later, I hear the iconic shuffle of my coworker. She entered the stall to my left and proceeded with a hair specific line of questioning not ideal for the bathroom setting.  Literally mid-stream and ready for answers, this woman just starts throwing out questions and compliments like there’s no tomorrow. It was an awkward situation, yet, I still found it endearing that she’s so interested in the state of my hair. She’s so interested that she’s willing to ask those hard-hitting questions while on the porcelain throne. I give her the utmost props and respect for her daring quest to stay informed and educated on the state of a young woman’s expensive taste in hair color.

I will never forget her insistence to stay in-the-know with today’s hair trends. She’s a spunky woman, and the fact that most of my hair compliments come from women closer to her in age, I’d like to think of myself as a spunky woman. I hope to one day be as bold and excited as her about something as trivial as hair color. But for now, I’ll stick to writing about these situations because then they can serve as the perfect evidence of foreshadowing when in 50 years my grandchildren are complaining about the scenes I cause in public. I don’t think any amount of coffee will deter the fate that I’ve inscribed on the internet, but you all know I’ll keep trying.

Adventures At Physical Therapy: Girl vs. Self

I am an old soul. My aesthetic leans more towards shabby furniture and dizzying floral patterns as opposed to the classic marble and rose gold stylings of the modern young woman. In my spare time, I like to go thrift shopping for antiques and other oddities, such as funky teapots and quirky mugs to add to my ever-growing addiction. I enjoy knitting and drinking tea before hitting the hay at the obnoxiously late hour of nine in the evening. I bake cookies and keep little bowls of candy out for guests when they visit my humble abode. Essentially, my aged soul inhabits the body of a 21-year-old female with the many ailments of the grandmother I was meant to be. Let me explain.

For years now, I have struggled with joint pain. Often, my hobbles and wobbles have been the butt of many a witty joke due to my early entrance into senior citizenhood. I have taken these jokes with a grain of salt, trying to refrain from utter saltiness; however, salt content is at an all time high, and a little dilution is necessary to keep me from complete crystallization.

Recently, I hobbled to a podiatrist with a hearty complaint about the status of my aching feet, which have been the source of all my joint pain. I waited two hours before I even saw an examination room. By that time, I had successfully taught my mother how to play hangman and laughed the hardest I had in a long time, but that’s a story for another blog. By the way, the fact that I had to teach my mother how to play hangman makes me sound like a 75-year-old woman who likes to eat fig newtons while she drinks her prune juice in the morning, but I digress.

The lovely doctor finally entered the room, evaluated my pronated feet for all of five minutes, and sent me on my merry way with a physical therapy referral in hand and harsh inserts in my sneakers. So, I took that referral to my local neighborhood physical therapy office and booked myself a session. And this was the moment when I realized that I am not just an old soul; I am an elderly woman.

I entered the miniscule office, and the pungent scent of menthol seared my nostrils. I diligently filled out the ninety-five documents required, each asking the same basic information. I turned in my forms like I had just finished a midterm, unsure and second guessing every scrap of information. Then I waited until finally, I was called back into the open area where hopefully some magic would happen.

The good therapist led me to the center bay and assessed my feet, scribbling notes and taking measurements. She then attached electrodes that sent tiny shocks into my tiny, tiny feet. While electric vibrations coursed through my ankles and toes, I happened to look up from a mindless Pinterest feed and surveyed the room.

In the bay to my left sat a man of about 70, singing his woes to the woman only trying to reduce his back pain. He sat and complained for a solid 25 minutes, occasionally performing exercises with those abnormally long rubber bands that moms in the nineties used in their Denise Austin workout videos.

In the bay to my right sat an elderly gentleman of about 65 dressed to the nines in Asics, baggy jeans, and a plain grey sweatshirt with an unidentifiable stain on the front. This elderly gentleman’s routine began with a solid ten minutes on the elliptical bike, in jeans, directly in my line of sight. This man rode that bike while making eye contact with me the entire time. It was one of the most awkward situations of my entire life. Something inside me came to terms with the fact that this is now my reality; my weekly routine will consist of seeing Bob and Joe, listening to them paint their complaints to anyone who will lend an ear.

It was also an eye-opening experience because a little light bulb went off when I surveyed that room. I came to terms with my early onset geriatric status. I now embrace the jokes, bringing those salt levels well into normal range. I’ll still leave out bowls of various candies, knit my scarves, and drink my tea. Although, I’ll never give up my reliance on coffee; it’s the only thiing keeping me from unleashing my true feelings about Bob and Joe’s mutterings at physical therapy. Until next time …