Adventures in Europe Day 3: Amsterdam, Netherlands

I don’t know how many more times I can stress the lack of luck we seem to have every where we go. Let us pick up from where we left off yesterday. We had just arrived in Amsterdam …

We rolled up to our lodging at 11:30 p.m. in the middle of an alley across from a sketch parking garage and nestled between a pizza shop and a car wash. We hopped out of the nine-seater van and waited in the freezing misty rain until two men with indistinguishable accents let us into the Hostel we would be staying in. By the way, my older brother booked this 5-star experience, and he might potentially be cheaper than my parents.

Six loud Italian humans slept in three creaking bunk beds in an eight-foot by eight-foot box of a room. The toilet was located outside our shoe-box in the middle of the vestibule to the building, and the three “private” showers were at the top of a steep staircase in a room that didn’t lock. The males and females of the family had to take rotating shifts so that someone could stand watch while the others quickly showered. Needless to say, we all slept fitfully last night and had to be up and on the move again bright and early before we received a major parking ticket.

Once we managed to assemble ourselves in a semi-decent fashion, we loaded back into the van and began the journey into the city. We located a parking garage and trekked around in search of a breakfast spot. It was still completely dark at about 8 a.m. and it was raining, but we found a cute little café called Omelegg, where we devoured lattes and omelets.

After sating our hunger, we proceeded to the Heineken Brewery for a tour, which was my first experience in a brewery, and I grew up a few blocks from the original Yuengling Brewery. During our tour, we learned the entire fermentation process and even had the chance to drink – and let me tell you, we all needed it. At the end of our tour, we each snagged a brew … well, all except for my younger brother. He was only allowed to drink a soda. While he was a tad bummed, I still have plenty of interesting photos to capture the experience.

After the brewery, we had plans to visit the Anne Frank house; however, all tours were sold out. Therefore, we took a canal tour where we learned about the intrinsic architecture, including a lopsided bar, a house boat with a statue of Kim Kardashian at the helm, and the lofty price of a one-night stay at the Waldorf Astoria. While it is beautiful, it is not worth €2,500 a night.

Once we emerged from the boat, we walked to a little Italian pizzeria, and munched on various pizzas, which were so delicious. The next stop was the car, and of course, we got lost trying to read Dutch signs leaving the parking garage the wrong way. That’s right ladies and gents, we were going down the wrong lane, and then when we got to the kiosk at the end to pay, we almost lost a credit card in the machine because it turns out we needed to pay before we got to the exit.

And then we traveled four and a half hours to Cologne, Germany, and you bet we got lost once again. However, we did manage to arrive, and now we are in a better-quality Air BnB. I mean, for the most part because there is no hot water until Wednesday … we’re only here for one night. Here’s to cold showers and many more artsy lattes because I’ve definitely been a hot mess this trip even though I am enjoying every bit of this European experience. Stay tuned for tomorrow’s adventures!

Adventures In Europe Day 2: The Journey To Amsterdam

Our trip was delayed … by about half a day. Let me explain or catch you faithful viewers up-to-date on the Disabella tribe’s first impression of London. Our luggage was lost, and the airline had no recollection of where our suitcases could be. But then, dear readers, we received a message over the wire that our luggage had been located at the airport at 3:55 p.m. and was being sent to the courier. The courier promised a timeline of delivery that very night before our midnight departure time to the Euro Tunnel. Of course, our luggage did not arrive as promised, and we spent a restless night crammed in my brother’s house arguing and sneezing and coughing ... Picture this:

Five loud and obnoxious humans, one equally as obnoxious homeowner (my brother), his roommate, two of his energetic friends, and the storm of a century. The windows were rattling as my mother prepared a feast of a meal for family and friends as we chatted. After friends departed, all five of us had to cram on a small couch, a love seat, and an air mattress … or so we thought. It turns out that the air mattress was a flop – literally – and we had to squish. My sister and I slept on the bigger couch, butt to butt. It was an intense battle all night; teeth were grinding, covers were stolen, and my sister nearly fell off the couch and smacked her head on the coffee table. An emergency room run would have been the unfortunate icing on the crap cake we were experiencing thus far. My younger brother paced until midnight and then finally conked out on the floor cocooned in a comforter, sans pillow. My dad snoozed on the love seat while my mother also slept on the floor and coughed up a storm all night. In short, I slept fitfully once again, and all the while my older brother slept peacefully in his comfortable queen- size bed.

Finally, we awoke, and guess what? Our luggage was still AWOL. My mother called the airlines, and yes I say airlines because Heathrow was directing her to Dublin and Dublin to Philadelphia and then back to Dublin and then to Heathrow; it was a never-ending cycle of zero answers. Each customer service representative at the various airports had no idea why our luggage was missed for easy transfer or where the luggage currently resided. They claimed that the courier service had the three ginormous suitcases in custody and that we needed to contact them directly. Tell me why every single representative gave us a different European number for the same courier service, and not one telephone number worked. This back and forth began last night and continued throughout the morning.

For those of you who do not know my mother, she is a no-nonsense kind of woman, and where there is a will, she will always find the way. Eventually, after exchanging some course words with the customer service representative at the Heathrow Airport, she managed to swindle a textable number and the location of the courier service. So, guess what ladies and gents, we drove there ourselves, and now I finally have my luggage.

Like I said, a material girl is only satisfied when she retrieves her best clothing back from the luggage hoarders at the airports. But no matter, I’m over that now – a quote from one of my favorite professors.

After securing the luggage, we drove to Dover and ate a nice meal at Nandos where those legal participants on this journey consumed some delectable ciders and chowed down on some grub. (Boy, I’m beginning to sound like my father.) We laughed and ate, and my sister got a little tipsy because it was her first experience drinking legally with the family.

Once we felt full, we hopped back into the car, which by the way, is this monstrosity of a van that seats nine. The entire trip has consisted of throwback jams and meme sharing, mostly between my brothers, while my sister and I scream/sang at the top of our lungs as my mom snoozed through it all. I’m still not sure how she managed that; I guess raising four rowdy humans allows for you to sleep in the most unfit situations.

From Nandos, we made our way to the Euro Tunnel (the Chunnel), which would take us to France, so that we could travel from the United Kingdom to Europe. The Chunnel is the strangest contraption I’ve ever experienced. It is basically a train that specifically transports cars – with their passengers still in them – across the English Channel. And of course, I would have the absolute worst case of IBS in the history of my life. If you are not familiar with this unfortunate health condition, look it up at your own risk.

Basically, I had to relieve myself in a major way, and the Chunnel sways, so I had to quickly race to the restroom that I technically wasn’t supposed to use before the train accelerated. Let’s just say that there was a line when I emerged and only two bathrooms for the entire train filled with cars of various sizes. It was such an amazing experience, and I look forward to my next run-in with the devious IBS machine who consistently attempts to ruin my life at the most inopportune moments.

We emerged from the train and now had to travel about three hours or so to Amsterdam. After last night’s fitful sleep and jetlag, we need a night of rest before we explore the city tomorrow. While I only had one coffee today, I somehow managed to come out in one piece. Stay tuned for tomorrow’s adventures because there is a guarantee that there will be more excitement, embarrassment, or straight up ridiculousness to report tomorrow evening.

Adventures In Europe Day 1: The Flight(s) - Are You Ready For It?

Where there is a possibility for disaster, disaster strikes the Disabella tribe. It is like clockwork. Every time we venture outside the confines of comfortability, the world decides to put a damper on our excitement and throw us to the wolves.

Let me preface by stating that the issue has since been resolved, but the past 12 or so hours have been some of the most excruciating times of my life. It all began at security…

We arrived at a Philadelphia International Airport parking garage, and of course I had to pee. We already know that my bladder is the size of peanut, and I had consumed two large coffees within a short time span; therefore, I was uncomfortable, and we still had about three miles until we reached the check in point. We stood in a frigid parking garage, huddled around our luggage, waiting for the speedy bus driver to claim us as we made our way on this hectic adventure through Europe.

I want everyone to remember that the trip hasn’t even officially begun yet, and I’ve already had enough stress to last me a lifetime. I’m too young for grey hairs, and I certainly don’t need a heart attack at the ripe age of 22. My social anxiety was through the roof, and as fate would have it, we were stuck with the most obnoxious and annoying humans I’ve ever come across.

First came check in. I cannot pack efficiently to save my life. Instead, I over pack, anticipating every possible scenario and outfit opportunity. (I need to look my best on this documentation journey.) Therefore, I was severely concerned that my suitcase would be overweight and that I would have to pay an ample fee to cover the extra poundage. However, it passed the scale test, and we were on our way to TSA. Now this is where the story gets interesting.

We make it to the lengthy line, and it becomes apparent that we will have to tear apart our carry-on luggage, separating out electronic devices, toiletries, shoes, etc. It was a hassle. It also didn’t help that I forgot the strap to my laptop bag, which made transporting it a pain. We were half stripping and going through the metal detectors, and lo and behold, my mother’s purse gets pulled aside because she forgot that she left a 16oz bottle of water nestled between her miniature skeins of yarn. We were stopped and had to wait even longer, all the while I still had to pee. It had now been an extra hour, and I was about ready to burst.

After we had taken care of business, we made our way to the boarding gate, to make sure that we were in the right place, ready to begin the journey. The seating area surrounding the various gates was jam-packed full of people. There was barely an open seat, and of course my parents decide to push their way to the front and just linger. My family has a habit of doing that, just dawdling around, waiting for life to happen around us. In short, we made our flight on time after waiting for about two hours at the terminal, munching on burrito bowls.

During this time the only thing we could really find humor in was people watching. There are some very strange creatures who emerge out of the woodwork and make their debut amidst society. I love people watching – it is how I craft some of the crazy characters who make appearances in my short stories. We were flying to Dublin for our layover, so there were a bunch of Irishmen tittering along, making incomprehensible small talk loudly near the completely occupied seats. There was a young mother trying to choral her daughter as she ran around the seating area, peeking out the water-stained windows at the various planes awaiting departure. And if you thought there wasn’t an elderly man strumming an untuned guitar, you would be wrong.

They finally announced that all passengers could board the aircraft, and once we stepped foot on the plane, we quickly realized just how “tight” this flight was going to be. I was sat in an aisle seat next to both of my parents, and I regretted that decision from the moment we stepped on the plane. For starters, my mom was sick and having hot flashes the entire time, fidgeting and complaining about the family of four squished into the three seats in the row ahead of us. This family made the decision to recline their seats back into our laps for six straight hours. That was for sure a fun ride, let me tell you.

I already dislike people, and to fly for six straight hours with a family basically laying in our laps is something that I will not forget because I’m a little salty about the ignorance especially on a packed flight with tiny seats. But, in Alex fashion, this still is not the hook, line, and sinker of this story.

During the first flight, my parents – yes, both of them – decided it would be a smart idea to get up when it wasn’t yet safe to stand in the aircraft and wobble their way back to the restroom. Granted, they were not the first to make the courageous stance against the “stay buckled” warning. However, they were the first to be called out for this misdemeanor on a flight experiencing mild turbulence.

If you know me, you know how much I despise being the center of attention, and I was sat smack dab in the center of the commotion my parents were causing during a lengthy flight on a crammed aircraft.

At last, we exited the flight and walked to the next terminal, awaiting boarding once again. Fun fact, when you have a connecting flight, your luggage is supposed to be tagged with a blue tag signaling that it must be accessed for easy transfer from one plane to the next. We spent our one-hour layover just chilling at the terminal, and then we boarded our second and last flight for 20 days. We boarded a more spacious plane and landed in London where my older brother would meet us to take us to his house. Now THIS is where the story escalates to drastic proportions for one Alex Disabella.

Our luggage was not at baggage claim. Actually, let me rephrase. Mine, my sister’s, and my dad’s luggage was not at baggage claim; my mom and brother’s luggage artfully flew off the ramp into their awaiting hands, while the rest of us stood dumbfounded wondering what we were going to wear for the next few weeks. I was furious because I am a material girl, and I love my clothing and my shoes and my accessories.

We then had to report that our luggage was lost, and once we arrived at these counters, we noticed that half of our flight was without their luggage. Now, this would not have been that much of an issue for me if I had intelligently packed my carry-on. But no, instead, I packed a pair of mauve pants, a brown sweater, and four-inch brown booties along with extra scarves and hats, my makeup, my polaroid, and NO extra undergarments. I was literally stranded in London with the clothes on my back, an outfit I hate, and a Polaroid to document this horrendous day.

I was fuming the entire time we were exiting the airport, the two-and-a-half-hour drive from the airport to my brother’s house, and the frustrating experience at the BX on base to find adequate clothing that I can rotate for 20 days if I have to. At this point, there was no news about our luggage; the airline had no clue whether the luggage was in Dublin or if it had even left Philly. My dad, my sister, and I scoured the racks at the BX (Base Exchange) to find cute outfits to get us through Europe. We made some bargain choices and spent way more than we should have because the irony is that the airline called a few hours ago to inform us that our luggage will be shipped before we head out at midnight for Belgium. So now I have even more clothing to lug back with me, and I couldn’t even make this up if I tried.

Every time we travel, disaster strikes, but we made it through. I was a sass master 3000 all day, but I’ll have my luggage soon enough. While today was quite the experience, I’m sure we’ll have more qualms in the coming weeks. All is well with the Disabella tribe, so stay tuned for tomorrow’s adventures in Brussels, Belgium with a steaming mug in hand. We all know I’ll be on the hunt for the cutest coffee shops and cafes to get my caffeine high on this trip, and I invite you all to do the same because it’s about to go down. Are you ready for it?

Rehashing The Past: XOXO Gossip Girl

While last week was a hot mess of late starts, looking like trash, and not enough coffee, I had high hopes that this week – my last week of classes – would flow smoothly and effortlessly, but of course, I would be wrong. This week I felt like death. Remember last Monday when I felt like a truck ran over me on its way into the bay because I decided that an all-nighter was the best option? Well, this past Monday morning it felt like a train had steamrolled over me – I had the flu.

I despise being sick. I make it my mission every year to mentally coach myself into a defensive attack on the submissive hold germs have on the immune system. I would much rather refrain from sick dollops and high fevers, but unfortunately, the virus caught me and held me hostage until … well, I’m still sick, so now.

It was such a pleasure to zombie walk through my last week of my last full semester on campus with some of my favorite characters. Behind curtain number one we have the stout older gentleman with his signature red suspenders and thin wire framed glasses. Behind curtain number two we have yet another gentleman with eclectic taste; this chap wears numerous patterned ties and consistently arrives late. Haughtily sat behind curtain number three is another gentleman, and this one prescribes lengthy novels and oodles of criticism – most times constructive. And lastly, behind curtain number four sits a professor who consistently tried to get me to call him instead of emailing him like a normal professor. That right there, ladies and gents, is this year’s cast of characters for “One of the Most Stressful Experiences of Alex’s Life.” 

These crazy professors kept me on my toes, and at least this time they didn’t tell me that I looked like trash. Needless to say, I made it through, and I’m finally home for an interim of one more day before I jet set to London, which will begin my next set of exciting adventures. However, while I’ve been home for all of 0.3 seconds, a lot has happened. For example, the other day I was reminded of something that happened to me quite a while ago now, and I feel like I need to say more about this experience, and of course it involves men.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again … dating in this generation is horrible. However, it is even more atrocious when they lie to you over and over again. This is the sequel to a story that occurred as summer ended and my last semester of strictly English classes in undergrad began. And this story is centered around gossip – something I despise.

I never buy into gossip. I’ve been the subject of many a rumor in my day, and I just don’t see the point in perpetuating a thought, a belief, or an idea if I’m not fully educated about the topic. Gossip can also be detrimental when the fiends grasp at straws to filter an idea into society. Therefore, I typically refrain, but this is the one caveat to refraining from gossip; this was one situation when I should have listened to the “rumors” floating around.

If you avid readers have kept up with these crazy excerpts from my life, you would remember an episode titled “You’ve Got Mail: An Unromantic Comedy.” I contemplated even posting that initial tidbit because I didn’t want to cause drama. However, I did because it was my truth about something that happened in my life at a time when I had finally let my guard down with someone. And then it fizzled into the nothingness it derived from, and I am forever grateful. It would have been a disaster, and I am worth so much more than a side piece or someone you spill your woes to because you can’t or won’t give them your full attention.

Now, here is where the story gets juicy and where my neurotic female tendencies emerge to foster a fury that I’m not sure where to direct. I had completely forgotten about this individual who led me on for quite some time. I’m going to be real, I was probably stupid for even letting it go on for as long as it did. I mean, it started with an email, which wasn’t the most professional form of communication at the time, but I’m over that now.

Anyway, I had forgotten about this human, and then I was asked about him once again. A pet peeve of mine is when people whisper about you when they are two feet from your person. Just say it to my face; however, don’t always expect an answer. Another pet peeve is when people randomly inquire into my personal life. Like, “hi, hello, yes, please ask me about how crappy and nonexistence my dating life is. I’m not lonely or anything.” I share what I share online; that’s all you get. I comply sometimes just to satisfy the masses, but generally, I don’t like to retrieve tools out of the toolbox if they’ve already done their job in making my life more difficult.

What I will discuss, however, is the fact that I am not your typical garden hoe, but I have stumbled across quite a few – men and women included. Without causing too much of a rift or calling anyone out, all I’ll say is that tools and garden hoes happen to infiltrate my life, which also furthers my distaste when it comes to dating.

It turns out that a lot of the rumors I was hearing were true in some respect, and I chose to ignore them because I was blinded by attention. Every woman loves to be the center of a man’s world for just a little while. Next time, I’d prefer if it wasn’t a rusty tool out of a crusty toolbox, me, his past, and a garden hoe. From now on it’s my world, and I’ll decided whether or not I’ll allow you onto the premises. I don’t have time for getting played, and the irony of the entire situation is that the rusted tool expressed a similar bout with suspicion of multiple personas. I should have known …

This is the last time I’ll ever speak on this experience. I think now all my anger has been expressed through various metaphors; the art of writing has curbed my fury. I will never be your typical garden hoe, nor will I ever understand having relations of whatever capacity with more than one partner. I can barely handle texting more than one person at a time. What I learned from this monstrosity is that I was never friends with a bunch of girls for a reason. Some can be vindictive and two-faced, and I don’t have time for that.

I’m moving forward once again, leaving tools and garden hoes in the past with my coffee cup in one hand and my pen in the other, because my life is sure to be a wild ride from here on out. I’ll definitely have more stories – hopefully none that involve gossip and drama. Stay tuned for the next 20 days because my Europe blogs begin tomorrow. I’ll be reaching you from 35,000 feet with a smile, a hot brew, and many more adventures.

A Day In My Life Part Whatever: My Professor Told Me I Look Like Trash

Today has just been one of those days. It was one disaster after the next, yet somehow I came out with one of those belly laughs that hurts your nonexistent abs (because we all know I don’t have any). Before I even begin disclosing today, I must first give ample attention to the day prior because that set the tone for the rest of this week, especially if what occurred this morning is any indication about how the next week and half of the semester will go.

The first item on the checklist is a reflection on my Thanksgiving, because I had every intention to write about my time with my family, but school and work put my one outlet on hold for just a little longer than I had intended. Typically, I will update my life with more exciting excerpts at least once a week … it’s been well over a week, and I feel all out of sorts. Let’s remedy that, shall we …

Thanksgiving break was less of a break than I expected. I had all these plans to write various papers, blog, respond to emails, you know, just catch up on life. Instead, I worked 34 hours over a four-day span, which left little time to relax. While I did manage to spend some quality time with my family and my cats, I wanted more of a “break” from my life at school. Therefore, I decided to stay home an extra day – Sunday – which would have been my travel day. Because I made this uncharacteristically rash decision, I now had to leave my parents house at midnight to make it in on time for my shift at 5 a.m.

I thoroughly regretted that decision as soon as I lugged my overstuffed suitcase into the trunk of my car. I told myself that I would get at least four hours of sleep before I made the lengthy drive, and of course fate would have different plans for me. In fact, I couldn’t fall asleep because my mind likes to race when my body wants to sleep, and I only managed to squeak in an hour of fitful nightmares. Yes, I had more than one in only 60-minutes, but that’s a tale for another time.

The worst part about driving four and a half hours to work is that you have to get ready for the day during an hour when you would have been fully indulging in a round of REM so powerful that you wouldn’t remember who or what danced through your subconscious when you woke up.

I was irritated, and anyone who knows me knows that I am an actual monster when I am even the slightest bit irritated. To curb my anger, I decided a coffee run was the only necessary option to cure the raging RBF I was trying to combat with tunes alone. I arrived at the speaker and placed my order, which was entirely different when the kind worker repeated it back to me. I had asked for a medium coffee with cream, sugar, and a shot of toasted almond. She attempted to verify by saying, “okay, one medium French vanilla coffee coming right up!” I immediately said “no, I would actually like toasted almond instead.” She said, “Okay, $4.07, pull around.”

Four dollars and seven cents is expensive for a medium coffee, but okay. I’m not going to be THAT person … I should have been that person.

After I paid and waited for my delicious coffee, the woman asked me if I would like a carrier. Um, no, it’s one coffee. My raccoon paws can certainly handle it’s massive size. And then I was handed two coffees – one French vanilla and one toasted almond. By the way, I despise French vanilla coffee; it’s gross. Now I had to drink BOTH coffees because I was raised by a man who won’t waste anything at a restaurant, including the crusts off toast or the remnants of a soggy bun.

During my lengthy drive I consumed two coffees, which for someone who has a bladder the size of a rodent’s that decision was not the smartest. I have to take the turnpike to school, and when heading west, the first rest area is like 40 miles into the 170-mile stretch. Needless to say, I had to use the restroom so bad that it was the most uncomfortable time of my life. Then, as I was driving, it started to torrential downpour. I despise driving in the rain almost as much as I despise driving in the snow. Basically, if there is even a slight possibility of precipitation, I’m not having it. Also, it’s that time of year when deer decide to be stupid and just run into oncoming traffic and flashing headlights; so, I was paranoid that a deer would jump out of nowhere and delay me while destroying my car.

I heard the same five songs about 50 times because for some strange reason I have a strong opposition to Spotify. I now know all the words to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” a song I had heard before, yet I never learned the lyrics. Finally, I arrived at my place of work, exactly on time, and here I was worried that I’d arrive too early.

After I worked a seven-hour shift unloading a truck, I had to quickly change and head to class. I felt like death. It felt as if the truck had accidentally run me over on its way into the bay. My eyes were bloodshot, my caffeine buzz had worn off, and all I wanted was sleep. Instead, I had to sit through a metaphysical poetry class and a modern world literature class, both complex and equally boring considering it is the end of the semester. However, I knew I was getting paper grades back; so, I had to suck it up.

Today, as I sat writing this excerpt, one of my professors from the day prior stopped to ask me how I was doing, if everything was okay, and if I was feeling well. When I said “yes,” he responded with, “okay, good because you didn’t look too good yesterday. You were all out of sorts.” Yes, thank you kind sir for pointing out that I looked like actual trash yesterday. I am well aware of this fact.

While my Monday was a shamble, I was convinced that my Tuesday was sure to be better than the day prior. Boy was I wrong. For starters, I was running late. Let me paint the scene for you.

I got up to my alarm at 3:30 a.m. ready to take on the day. I meandered out of bed, washed my face, washed my hair, and made my coffee. As my coffee percolated, I had this sinking feeling that I should check my schedule, just to be sure that my start time was 6 a.m. I opened the app, glanced at the timecard, and released an expletive so loud that my annoying neighbors definitely heard that little slice of karma.

I actually had to be at work for 5 a.m. For those of you who aren’t aware, I live about 40 minutes from work. It was now 4:10 a.m., and my hair was still wrapped in a towel. I dumped my coffee into a travel mug – which would later spill all over my brand-new coat in the car – frantically brushed my teeth, threw on some clothes, slapped on some eyebrows, packed my lunch, grabbed my backpack, raced down the steps only to see that my car was buried in a thick layer of snow and ice.

At this point, it was already 4:30 a.m. I had about three minutes to uncase my car and speed off to work. When my ice scraper and defrost were not doing the trick, I decided to just take a chance and start moving. I would not recommend doing this because ice was flying off my car, and if it had been a heavy traffic hour, I could have damaged another vehicle. Eventually, I made it to work, ten minutes too late. Regardless, I’d call that a win. Actually, it was a half win because I looked like Casper’s second cousin twice removed. All the makeup I had on my face was eyebrows. Now, I have really dark brown hair, and typically, my eyebrows match, which means that my translucent face was framed by none other than two thick brown arches and dark undereye circles. Plus, I suffer from rosacea, so my face was bright red all day. I was killing it, for sure. I did eventually apply concealer, bronzer, and mascara in the car because I did in fact look like trash.

But, the best part of my day occurred once I finally made it to campus. After one professor told me I looked like trash, my thesis adviser approached me and another girl as we chatted in the hallway. This woman is petite, with long black hair tied up in a scrunchie. She wears heels every single day, generally stilettos, and she has her eyebrows tattooed because she is in her 70s. This woman is actually me in 50 years; I cannot wait. Often, she can be found with a signature coffee mug with a grammatical rule or saying etched on the side accompanied by a lipstick ring. Like I said, me.

She stopped in the hall to ask this other girl if she noticed anything different about her appearance. The girl responded by complimenting my professor about her new eyebrows because she had recently gotten then retattooed. And then she said something that 1.) shocked me, and 2.) made me feel honored. My professor said that she got her eyebrows tattooed a little thicker this time because she loves and admires MY eyebrows so much that she wanted them for herself. I laughed so hard internally because people give me so much crap about my eyebrows, claiming that they are too thick and too dark. At least they don’t look like the sperm they were freshman through sophomore year of college; unfortunately, I have photographic evidence. Ladies and gents, I started a trend with my 70-year-old professor who has more style than I ever will.

And that is where I will end this lengthy tale. Word to the wise, don’t drive on little to no sleep and then work a long shift. It benefits no one. Also, be your own leader. I know my example about the eyebrows is silly, but I’ve seriously been made fun of for them, and now for some reason someone else has acquired my taste. It feels good. The point, be you and care less about what others think, and always keep a mug at your side because it will pick you back up when you’re feeling down.

Overcoming Adversity: Breakdowns, Spiders, and Twenty-Nine Pages

Six hours. That’s how long I sat at my desk yesterday editing my thesis, a thesis I was afraid would not reach the minimum requirement of 25 pages. Well, I’m here to inform anyone who may be remotely curious that my paper is now 29 pages of actual text and six pages of footnotes and references. I’m spent, but it’s a rewarding kind of exhaustion because I completed an assignment that has been weighing on my mind for two and a half months. I cannot even imagine how long it would have taken me to craft a paper that didn’t tickle my fancy, so at least I had that going for me.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, college is the worst, especially for someone who isn’t down to party every weekend and blow through money that I don’t have or isn’t even mine. In my mind, I’ve rationalized college as a place of study, which is an apparent foreign concept to the masses. To others, it is a place to let loose and experience the horrible decade that is your 20s. I’m only two years in, and I’m not impressed. My old soul appreciates going to bed at like 8:30 every night and rising before dawn, mainly out of necessity, but I’ve literally turned into a grandmother, and I’m kind of okay with it.

It baffles me that I only have two more full weeks of this semester, which entails three more papers, three finals, two three-hour state certification tests, and work, of course. At this point, I’m over it, but as soon as I take my last final, I drive home, work a few days, and hop a flight to England. It is literally the only thing keeping me sane while I traverse through this last year of college.

It has been a wild ride with way more downs than ups, and I haven’t nearly scratched the surface with these little snippets from my life. One day I’ll delve deep into the archive and extract the most ridiculous things I’ve encountered over these four years as well as the hardships that gave me a reality check really quick and taught me the value of hard work.

A few blogs ago, I had mentioned that I was on the verge of a mental breakdown, and this past week, I got as close to one as I ever have before. Now, I’m not including this part of my week for pity or to vent my woes. I’m including it because I’m sure other young adults experience similar situations and have the same struggles. One of the reasons I began this site was to speak a truth I rarely hear anyone talk about, which is the real life of young adulthood. A life that includes work and school and the semblance of a social life. It’s hard, and I’m tired of the generalized assumption, especially from my own professors, that all college students have on their plate is their studies because I am the proof that it is the farthest assumption from the truth.

Next semester I student teach, and I am so excited to spend three months in the classroom in preparation for my own classroom one day soon. Last week, I attended the first meeting for student teaching, and while it was informative, it left me feeling more stressed and anxious than ever before.

I wish I would have known how intense next semester was going to be my freshman year of college. I would have liked to know in advance that I have to basically work full time without pay because I still have to work my current job next semester while I student teach. Again, this was one of those reality check moments. And before all you avid readers even think it, I’m going to explain why “just working over winter break” won’t solve my issues.

For starters, I will be out of the country for almost all of winter break. Second, I don’t know how people just work and save over summer break or even winter break. Do you not have bills of any kind, because I still have all my bills all year? Also, where are you working that you can save thousands of dollars over the course of three months or even one month because I’d love a reference? This will not work for me based off of the sole fact that I’ve worked two jobs every summer for three years, and I have not been able to accomplish this feat. I don’t even spend a lot, I just have to pay rent for a place I only live in for nine months out of the year.

So, this was one issue my brain was trying to tackle throughout the entire meeting. The other issue was that I also have to complete a portfolio, which in itself isn’t an issue. The problem lies in the fact that I had a class freshman year designed around this idea of the portfolio, and now I have to change everything I have on my site. Basically, I have to start from scratch because there are new requirements that I was only made aware of a week ago. This portfolio is also due right at the beginning of next semester, so I’m thrilled.

After the meeting, I got in my car and called my mother to vent as I usually do after a rough day. By the way, the city where I go to school is constantly under construction, and my commute to and from school is now compromised. I have to take a detour both ways which adds about 10-20 minutes to my drive. As I was driving, I could feel myself getting choked up because I didn’t know how I was going to get through the next semester. This semester was already the most taxing few months of my life, and I truly didn’t know if I’d be able to handle an even more stressful semester.

Ladies and gents, I had a breakdown in my car on a bridge downtown while snow blew frantically around my vehicle and clouded my already blurry vision. And then I happened to catch a glimpse of an iridescent spider crawling across the inside of my windshield. I was now on a busy highway because of the stupid detour, and now I was screaming bloody murder while sobbing uncontrollably at the thought of how anxious and stressed I’m going to be next semester. Eventually, I lost sight of the spider which made claustrophobia settle in, and made me freak out even more. The whole time my mom was trying to calm me down from 300 miles away. Let’s just say I’m lucky I didn’t crash that night.

I was a mess, and my mom kept trying to be the voice of reason saying that I’ll get through it and they’ll help me, but that makes me feel even worse. My parents already do more than enough for me, and while I do work all the time, it just doesn’t balance out. I always feel like I’m not doing enough, which sounds ridiculous now that I type it onto the page. I don’t live the same life as all my friends and peers, and I’ve accepted that. Others now just have to follow suit.

When I got home, I emailed my professor for student teaching, explaining my situation. I doubted whether she would understand because I’ve had professors in the past tell me that with my school and work schedule I would most likely fail. That’s right, professors insinuated that because I had to work full-time while doing school full-time that I would not succeed in my studies I proved them wrong considering I’m on the track to graduate with honors come May.

It turns out that my professor was very understanding and willing to work with me where the curriculum and scheduling allows, which is exactly what all my professors should have done from day one. If this snippet from my real-life encounters in young adulthood resonated with anyone reading, then it served its purpose. You can succeed in life no matter what hand you’re dealt. While I am privileged in some respects, I did have to work twice as hard to get to this point in my life. I wouldn’t change any of it; I just wish more understood that not all college students or people in general fit the same mold. As always, copious amounts of steaming caffeine got me through the week, because without it, I would not have survived this semester with the stumbling grace and blunt sarcasm typical to a woman just trying to get through this crazy, crazy life.

My Life Is In Shambles Part 2: The Bird Is Back

I’m drowning in a sea of words and the occasional drop of coffee to keep me afloat as the waters rush and flood the screen with research papers, reflections, and of course the details of my daily life. Over the course of a two-day period, I managed to crank out the roughest of rough drafts on a thesis exceeding twenty pages, a few lengthier assignments for a business writing class, and this here account of my life, which is still in shambles if you’re curious.

I have no surprise left in me regarding the various incidents that plague my weeks as I traverse through this intense semester. When something out of the ordinary happens, I just accept the aftereffects and potential damages because there is no sense getting all worked up over something as mundane as falling up the stairs in my apartment building not once, not twice, but every day last week. Not only did the falls document my days, but each time I took a tumble I just so happened to be carrying more than I had the previous day.

As a future teacher, I am prone to the description of “a frazzled woman with three totes on one arm, two on the other, a travel mug in her left hand, a water bottle in her right hand, and a laptop briefcase strung over her shoulder, swaying to the beat of her signature heeled boots.” Yes, ladies and gents, I am a proud bag lady.

You would think that these falls would have put a damper on things, but in fact they were the least of my worries. You see, when I think I have my life in order, I fail, or outside entities like Ned the bird, for example, proceed to aggravate my stress and anxiety. If you’ve been keeping up with these excerpts from my life, you might recall the snippet about Ned the bird who disrupted my metaphysical poetry midterm by trying to break into my bedroom window, which would have given me a heart attack at a premature age, something I do not need at this point in time.

Well, Ned is back and in action. After a few days of peace and quiet – except from my obnoxious neighbors – I thought Ned had left the woods surrounding my building in search of bigger and better things. I was basking in the glorious silence, sipping hot chocolate as I read yet another novel for yet another class. And then, I heard it – that incessant pecking and chirping, amplified by the metal air conditioner still sat in my window because I’m weak and cannot remove the device myself. Or, I’m just lazy; take your pick.

It sounded as if Ned was making progress, but after a few minutes the noises ceased, and it appeared that he had left once again. My hope was that he had found a pretty lady far, far away, one with whom he could have his happily ever after, away from my humble abode. Fast forward to bedtime, which for me exists at the ripe hour of 8:30 p.m. on a weekday because I have to rise well before dawn to make it to work for a six or an eight-hour shift.

I was lying in bed, Hallmark movies playing in the background as I started drifting into what I had hoped would be a peaceful night’s rest. And this my friends, is exactly why I do not hope for restful sleep because I always jinx myself, and this is prime example number one.

Like I described, I was drifting off while the wonderful sound of trope-filled Christmas movies determined the course of my dreams for the night when the most terrifying sound penetrated my eardrums and jolted my drowsy frame into a position of fear … shoved underneath the covers with the sheets over my head because obviously that will save me from whatever danger I thought had infiltrated my bedroom.

The sound itself is comparable to a surcharge followed by a deafening boom. This heart stopping sound woke me up initially; and then it sounded as if an army of Ned’s were trying to break into my bedroom through both the window and the ceiling. I’m not sure why the sweet chirping and pecking of a bird can sound so serene during daylight hours and so monstrous when the sun sets, but I was convinced that Ned had brought his entire extended family and all his home boys to my bedroom window for a raging house party, and I was not having it.

I don’t even know what I would do if a swarm of weightless creatures with pointy beaks broke into my house. I could just see myself having to call the police and explain to the officer that my reason for calling is to report Ned and the bird bandits because they broke in and are currently swarming around my house while I’m locked in the bathroom. When they initially ask if the call is an emergency, I would swiftly report that yes, wild birds are in fact in my apartment.

While I realize that this sounds outlandish and as far from the truth as possible, I assure you that Ned is real, and he probably has a bird gang, as well. I’m convinced, and his antics will most likely fulfill numerous excerpts because if crazy things are going to happen to me, I will document them.

Aside from the bird antics, I also managed to break one of my favorite mugs by accidentally dropping it in the sink. I also decided that as a young adult, I should get out a little more; so, when fall break arrived, I took off from work and went ice skating with my own gang of friendly humans. I was doing just fine, and after numerous loops holding a friends hand, I took a few spins around the rink on my own, shawl whipping around me as I zoomed and teetered … and then I fell. And it wasn’t on of those cute stutter-step falls; no, in fact, I happened to look like I was slipping on a banana peel. My leg flew high into the air and I landed on my backside so hard, that it gave me a migraine.

Struggling to stand and embarrassingly recover from the incident that the packed rink just witnessed, not one of the young male workers came to help me or see if I was okay. However, a young girl of about ten zipped to my rescue with one of those guided walkers. It was just fantastic to be helped by a ten-year old who was well-balanced on her skates, while I still wobbled about like a spring chicken.

All in all, I had a great week and weekend. These events that continue to plague my life serve as proof that there exists a higher power, constantly testing my abilities in this life, for which, I am forever grateful. Leaving you avid readers with a piece of my embarrassment, I sign off, coffee in hand, until next week.

"Seize The Day:" Weird Dudes, Hallmark Movies, And Ned The Bird

The holiday spirit is officially in the air, and while I am a firm believer that advertising companies need to take a chill pill when it comes to pushing Christmas down our throats before Halloween, I find myself faltering. Take today for example.

Sundays are my solace. It is my one day a week when I don’t have to wake up before dawn and make the 45-minute trek to work. It is the day when I can sleep in underneath my cozy sunflower afghan and let the sunlight be my alarm. It is the day where I can catch up on my assignments and read and blog and drink my coffee in peace. And now it is the day when I can curl up on my unique yellow chair with a steaming mug of hot chocolate and binge Hallmark Christmas movies.

And that is exactly how I spent my Sunday, alternating between metaphysical poetry, business writing, and cheesy Christmas cheer. It is just delightful to see a trope-filled romantic comedy that brings forth the holiday spirit. I’m ready, although I am still bitter about premature advertisements.

But that is not all that my week entailed because as you all know, my life is a continuous string of crazy encounters. Let’s look at the other day for example, and let me preface by stating that this encounter is the perfect example of why I do not have a love life.

I was just leaving another tedious American Literature class when the weirdest thing happened. The material is boring; however, my professor is a charming man with classic red suspenders and signature phrases that make the one hour and fifteen-minute experience worth the boredom.

 I began the brief stroll to my car and found myself a few yards behind a young fellow with a backpack on his shoulders, a briefcase in his right hand, and his phone in his left hand held right next to his head, almost as if he were holding a conversation except that the phone screen was facing behind him, aimed directly at me. I thought it was weird, but I just kept moving, minding my own business.

When I walk, people can hear me coming. I live in heeled shoes, so the methodical clacking of my heels on the sidewalk is almost as relaxing to me as the clacking of the keys as I type this excerpt from my life. The point, this dude definitely knew I was behind him, and made a point to initially turn around and give me “the nod.” That’s right ladies and gents, he gave me the nod like that was supposed to mean something to me or make me think he was special.

And then, one of the strangest things ever in my life happened. Like I said, I was walking a decent distance behind this gentleman so I could clearly see what he looked like and what he was doing. I happened to glance up at the phone in his left hand and noticed that the screen was blank, and then I noticed the dude continuously looking at the screen and then looking back at me and smiling.

This guy was using his phone as a reflective device to catch a glimpse of me as I walked behind him in the parking lot to my car. But, that’s not even the craziest part of this story. After a few sneak peaks, he noticed that I noticed him checking me out, so he stopped. He proceeded to switch his briefcase to his left hand and place his phone in his right hand. We continued walking. And then …

I heard something enter the sound stage that wasn’t my clacking heels or the general sounds of nature and bustling activity on a busy campus. In fact, I heard something that I haven’t heard in years. When this human switched his phone to the other hand, he actually started playing music, and not just your typical jams. No, this young chap began blasting “Seize the Day” from the Newsies soundtrack.

I was dumbfounded, and I immediately started cracking up. After a few paces to the beat of truly one of my favorite show tunes, this dude made it to his gleaming white truck, and I meandered past on the way to my own car. Once I made it a few yards, I heard running behind me, and because of the nature of the song, I was convinced that this guy was going to try and seize the day. He didn’t. It was just a couple cross country runners, but I would have died if he did actually tap me on the shoulder and get my attention more than he already had.

To end my week with a reoccurring story from the blog prior, ladies and gents the bird is back. This morning, before I even had the chance to drink my morning coffee, I heard the insanely loud chirping from the chipper little guy who likes to torture my already frantic heart.

I feel like at this point I need to give him a name … I’m thinking Ned. Little old Ned likes to try and break in through my air conditioner, and this morning was no exception. However, my coffee did help to calm my nerves because I truly have no clue what I will do if Ned ever succeeds at breaking in. As it gets colder I’m sure Ned will make more attempts, which means more coffee for me.

Tomorrow Is A New Day: Coffee, A Midterm, and The Jailbird

Life slows down for no one. This is something that I am still trying to come to terms with. I keep waiting for there to be a lull, a brief period of time where I can just relax and be me, and I’m now realizing that there will be no such lull.

As a college student working almost full-time and as a future educator, I will never have a stress-free life with an advantageous lull. I know what you all must be thinking, “But Alex, you’ll have three months off for the summer every year!” While I will not physically be in my own classroom, the work never stops. I am a firm believer that education goes beyond the classroom setting, and while I will take a much-needed vacation, I will never stop teaching for three straight months.

However, very recently I heard some advice from a very reliable source claiming that stressing over things so far in the future is the worst thing you can do. If any of you avid readers know me personally, you know that I am the queen of stressing over things in the near and distant future on top of the things I have currently going on in my life. I’m trying to take things one day and one assignment at a time so that I don’t have a nervous breakdown.

Just one example from my week that was on the brink of a breakdown involved a cup of coffee, a metaphysical poetry midterm, and a small bird. One of the perks of college is that sometimes your professors will opt to allow you to take your midterm online from home. I love that college affords the option to take a midterm in your pajamas and an ugly bun.

I woke up fairly early, brewed a giant mug of coffee, loaded up the old computer, and began to take my midterm. The test itself had high expectations for only an hour. I had to answer at least four clusters of 5-6 questions about a poem excerpt without using any of my materials. All of the question clusters were also short-answer questions, and the poems were complex stanzas loaded with convoluted conceits. In short, I was struggling hardcore to answer each question effectively due to the time constraint.

About halfway through the time, not necessarily the exam itself, I heard what sounded like rainfall right outside my window. It was as if water droplets were lightly hammering away at my air conditioner from the outside. But then I happened to glance out the window and noticed that it was sunny, bright and cheery without a cloud in sight. Hmm … interesting.

Once the hammering ceased, I sipped my coffee to calm my jitters and began analyzing and typing away before time truly did run out. And then I heard the hammering again, except this time it was coupled with an intense scratching. Immediately, my brain interpreted the situation as being high alert, and I jumped out of my chair, ran to the other side of the room, and began frantically searching my bedroom for any signs of forced entry. Let me remind you that the time on my midterm was now at about 20 minutes, and I still had two full question clusters to answer.

After searching in a panicked state around my bedroom, I ventured over to the window, the source of the noises. I grabbed my desk chair and stood on it because I’m short and couldn’t see over my air conditioner. As I stepped up and peeked through the blinds I found myself face-to-face with a pudgy little bird. This bird was hopping away on my air conditioner, its tiny talons clacking away like keys on a keyboard. He began chirping at me and then flew away.

I quickly sat back down and frantically started answering questions in the hope that I would at least finish the exam before time ran out. At 15 minutes to go, I heard the noises again – the hammering and the scratching – except this time it sounded as if the bird were physically trying to enter my home. Panic immediately settled in once again because if this chubby little creature actually managed to get in, I would not know what to do. I can barely handle stinkbugs and the occasional bee, but a bird … not a chance. I’d sooner lock myself in my bathroom than deal with something that could potentially poke out my eyeballs. Better yet, you know what, the bird can actually have my house; I’ll find a new home because we will not be cohabitating.

I kid you not, it sounded as if this bird were trying to squeeze its way inside my air conditioner to make it into the warmth of my bedroom. At one point, I even saw him trying to squeeze between the two panes of glass like an actual stinkbug. It was the craziest thing and it had my anxiety through the roof through an already stressful situation, my midterm.

At this point, I had about 10 minutes left before the test exited and saved whatever measly answers I provided, so I answered them as best as I could. The whole time I sat rigid listening to the bird actually terrorizing me from the outside. I thought he was going to get in and I’d have to explain to my professor why I failed the exam. Talk about “the dog ate my homework,” more like “a bird broke in.”

Finally, I hit “save and submit,” and you know what? As soon as I exited the exam, the bird left my window, and I haven’t seen him since. My life is still in fact in shambles. Later that very same day, my family came into town for the weekend to celebrate my birthday a little early this year. As you may know, last year’s birthday, my 21st, was not the best of times. It was tragic, but I got through to another year, and my 22nd will hopefully be more exciting than depression and buying a new car.

We spent the weekend visiting yet another zoo, because apparently, it’s a thing now with my family, eating lots of yummy food, enduring a power outage, and just laughing and loving life. I love when my family comes to visit or when I get to go home because it reminds me that there is more to life than what’s directly in front of me. It also gives me a much-needed break and assures me that I am not alone in this world even if at times it feels that way.

I also got to attend a teacher dedication ceremony for the senior education majors at my university, and while it seemed a little cheesy, the message behind the event is something I’ll never forget: know your why, that is always remember why you want to be a teacher. I already touched on this in a previous blog, but my why is to be the change I want to see in the world and to always strive to teach the whole student. I’ve known from a young age that this is my vocation in life, and every step and obstacle along the way has led me here, to this spot, on your computer, phone, or tablet screen.

I take pride in what I do, and I love learning from others just what it takes to be the best educator I can be. As I get older, I most certainly hope I’m getting wiser because, while coffee helps, I need people in my life whom I can trust to teach me how to embrace the crazy stress and anxiety and just take each day as it comes because tomorrow is a new day.

Fall Weather, Summer Spirit: Anxiety, Apple Juice Explosions, And Stinkbugs

Fall is finally in the air. This week I was met with a not-so-subtle chill as I left in the wee hours of the morning for work during the week. I can finally break out my cozy sweaters and over-sized shawls to accompany my sweater weather mug. Basically, the season finally matches my overall aesthetic, and I couldn’t be happier. Actually, I could.

The stress is more real than ever before. There truly aren’t enough hours in the day for the amount of work I have yet to accomplish in the next eight weeks. However, I have managed to stay semi-productive. The reason I say semi lies rooted deep in my unconquerable anxiety and introverted tendencies.

For example, after an eight-hour shift interacting with customers, all I want to do is get lost in Netflix. I have no desire to sit down and write more of my thesis or write a paper for class or read the never-ending slew of historically based novels for a literature class. I would much prefer sleep, but school wins every time.

However, my anxiety has been trying to get the best of me, which is made visible through the constant onslaught of hives and my signature twitching eye. I have been trying to combat these signs of a nervous breakdown through budgeting my time better and sitting down with a cup of tea almost every night. It has been helping some, but not curing the issue. I’m almost positive I’ll always suffer with anxiety – I just have to find better ways to control it.

On a lighter note, I managed to squeak in a few hours to see my friends, which as always, was a delight. I realized that I have to take the time to decompress or I’ll combust, and no one needs or wants that to happen. This week truly forced me to reflect. I will always be the person who wants to cover all the bases, to make sure that I’m fully prepared for anything that can be thrown my way. This, in essence, is my fatal flaw.

I honestly don’t know how to say “no” to people. I stretch myself so thin that I forget about myself some of the time. I go into things standing firm in my “one-hour” time frame, and I end up staying well past the limit I had originally set for myself. This all connects to last week’s installment about my work schedule in relation to my school schedule. I feel bad that I can’t just let loose whenever I want or do whatever I want. With adulthood comes a sense of freedom, yet with that freedom comes responsibility, and this is me trying to encompass my responsible persona.

Living out on my own, i.e. being an actual adult, I find that the most interesting things happen to me on a daily basis. Earlier in the week, I got lost in paper writing and forgot the intense need to quench my thirst. After three hours, I emerged from the hypnotizing LED screen and methodical clacking of the keys to finally slake the thirst that now wracked my body. I entered my kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed the best apple juice on the face of the earth, and crash …

You see, my favorite apple juice comes in a pricey four pack in little intricate glass bottles because I like to pretend I’m fancy. Actually, the juice is so good it’s worth the price. When I grabbed the second to last bottle, it hit the lip of the door, fell out of my hand in slow motion, and smashed all over my kitchen floor.

Just picture little old me, hair in the opposite of a cute messy bun, glasses on, baggy sweatpants, attempting to pick up the minuscule shards of glass out of the puddle of liquid pooling around my fridge. Then I had to mop up the apple juice with paper towels and Clorox wipes. My floor was sticky for three days, and I’m still finding little slivers of glass in my living room and my bedroom, two rooms where my fridge does not exist.

Another interesting facet to my week involves bugs … my favorite part of the week. Every night before I go to bed, I turn off all my string lights, lamps, and wax warmers. Every night this week as I went to switch off my Eiffel Tower lamp in my living room, I found myself face-to-face with a stinkbug. These stinkbugs also like to sit in the exact same spot on the lamp, near the bottom, directly in my line of sight.

Each time I see the creepy crawly insects I participate in a full-body cringe and proceed to grab them and give them the royal flush. It has become a ritual I wish would end, and with the weather dropping and fall clearly becoming more of a reality, I think this is in my near future.

My weeks are always the most interesting even when I don’t manage to do more than work and go to school. However, events occur, and I always have an interesting story to share with the world. This upcoming weekend my family is making a trip to see me before my birthday next week. I am looking forward to days off work and time spent with the people I miss the most. As always, coffee is literally leading me by the hand through this thing that we call life. In fact, this morning I had two mochas from my favorite diner and they managed to spark a productive streak in me. Maybe that’s what I need, more coffee. Time will tell, I guess.

The True Life Of Young Adulthood Part One: My Life Is In Shambles

Nothing in life truly surprises me anymore. I’m typically a neurotic person, constantly anticipating the intrusion of a creepy crawly or the downfall of a staple kitchen appliance. I’ve been trying my hardest to be more of a “fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants” kind of gal, but it’s not working. Two prime examples from my week thus far had me reeling and ready to throat punch anyone who just so happened to push the wrong button.

Let’s take the other day, for example. My day began with an early rising at the ripe hour of 2:30 a.m. I stumbled around, coffee in hand, attempting to look semi-presentable for a long shift at work followed by a full day of classes. You see, that’s the struggle of working almost full-time hours while simultaneously balancing a full class schedule and tutoring. I go right from one location to the next, a travel bag at the ready to freshen up and switch out a look, specifically my shoes.

I think we all remember the blogs about the fact that I have to wear orthopedic shoes, which by the way, my work shoes are a blinding shade of white and are not the most flattering footwear. I always have my sky-high booties at the ready to make an outfit pop as well as give me a little bit of a boost considering I’m so short. They make me feel confident and more professional.

After my shift ended, I rushed into the bathroom, changed into something less drab, and made a mad dash to my car because I only had 45 minutes to make it to class on time. That’s another thing that impedes my every day – I work about 40 minutes away from where I live and go to school. Therefore, most of my days are blocked out down to the minute. I am grateful, however, that my classes this semester allowed me to have my nights free. That is a true blessing … except that after a long day, I am not motivated to sit down and read 100 pages for class the next day or start a paper due at the end of the week.

This is the biggest struggle I face as a young adult. I want to be the type of person who can work eight hours and then go out with the girls or go on a date. Actually, I probably wouldn’t go on a date – men aren’t really tickling my fancy these days. They’re either boring or rude or expect things that I’m not willing to give them because it will compromise everything I stand for and my sense of morality. However, I always want to go out with the girls and shop or see a movie or get food or just drink wine and catch up. But, I’m drained. I’m so frustrated that I can’t be as carefree and available as those around me.

I see women and men my age constantly out on an adventure or relaxing or just to put it simply, having fun. I feel like I’m stuck in a place that’s more adult, and I don’t mean to demean anyone or “throw shade” as the young people say, but it’s true. I’m working because I have to, and it really tries my patience when friends tell me or ask me to “just call off” because we haven’t seen you in forever. Like I said, I don’t work because I like to be this stressed. I work because I have real bills that I have to pay, and I’m attempting to save money for a huge trip I’m taking in a few months.

I have people telling me that I need to slow down, and here is where I have an issue with that statement. I have slowed down. This site, my story, was born out of a tragedy. I went through something that I wish on no one, and I’m not going to get into it. If you’re curious or new to my life then I suggest scrolling all the way to the first episode. There you will learn my purpose and how I discovered that while life is too short to wait around for things to fall into your lap, it’s also appropriate to take a step back, evaluate, and slow down. I have, however, one thing thing that I can improve on and that is time managing assignments better, which is a tedious process, but I think I found a solution.

Anyway, I know this seems like a pretty significant digression, but it all ties together into a sloppy bow because I think that’s an accurate representation of my experience as a young adult. It’s messy, and if anything depicts that better than a sloppy bow it’s this. So, after I rushed to campus, I briskly walked to the class building and went straight to the restroom because my bladder is the size of a pinhead. I looked in the mirror, attempting to tame the wild frizz that is a result of this wacky weather we are still experiencing. I noticed something odd, but couldn’t quite put my finger on it, so I went to class, and as I was sitting there marking things off my lengthy agenda, A BUG FLEW OUT OF MY HAIR.

I was so stunned, I sat staring for a hot minute, then I jumped, and then I started repeatedly hitting it with my agenda until it was dead. That incident threw me off for the rest of the day because I was convinced there was a colony of bugs living in my hair. I was also experiencing that itchy sensation you get when you find like a mosquito on you; I thought there would be more exciting surprises so I was on edge for the rest of the day.

Once I left classes and came home, I lit my fall candles, and because my day was a wreck, I needed something to pick me up and make me feel better. You would think that would be alcohol, but instead, I wanted bacon. I laid out a few pieces on a lined baking sheet, preheated the oven, and … nothing. It turns out my oven is broken as well as one burner. So, I had to make my bacon the unhealthy way on the stove.

It was just the kind of day that had me waiting for even more to go insanely wrong. I won’t even have a working oven until next week because that is the earliest that maintenance can come to look at my faulty kitchen appliance. You see, my life is in shambles.

Actually, my life is pretty great. I have the best support from family, and I recently started a brief internship where I get to tutor the most amazing girl. She’s carefree and loves life and has taught me so much about myself and my career as an educator. That’s what I love most about teaching – it’s a two-way street, and I’m constantly filing information away because each unique child brings something different to the table.

While my week was not the best, I did accomplish a lot. I get that my way of life is different than most my age. I come from a family of hard workers – we were never handed anything in life. I’m also from a small city that praised a few and pushed the rest aside. If you had a well-known name, you had specific opportunities, if you didn’t you had to work harder. I’m a firm believer that good things will come to those who put in the work to get them. I guess that’s why I’m constantly on the move, and it’s why I started this site. I wanted to share my struggles because they’re real.

It’s not like Instagram where the best parts of my life are displayed through a smiling photo. While I do post only the best version of myself there, I post the ups and the downs here. That’s why I’m a writer because words capture depth in humanity. I struggle mentally, physically, emotionally, financially, and spiritually. That’s the beauty of life. We’re tested so that we can make changes and become the best versions of ourselves.

I will continue to live my life the way it is; I just want everyone to understand that I work a lot because I have to, and I write and study a lot because I have to. My free time is most likely going to be for me and not you. I still see friends when I can, but at the moment, I have responsibilities that take up a lot of my time. I try to balance work and social life, but it is what it is. Eventually, it will get better, but I love what I do academically and I do what I do at work because it’s a bridge that closes the gap between what I have to do and what I will be doing in less than a year.

As always, coffee is my number one sidekick, and the abundance of new creamer flavors have me spicing up my life one day and one cup at a time. Even though my life appears to be in shambles right about now, I know that there is a reason for all the madness and in a few months, I’ll be sightseeing through Europe, so I have a lot to look forward to.

Another Day, Another Blog: An Emotional Wreck

The smell of fall is in the air. Brisk weather, the aroma of three variations of a signature pumpkin scent, a steaming mug, and the first glimpse of flannel this season were all I needed to feel calm, cool, and collected during the most stressful semester of my life. Basking in the warmth of my cozy home, I made comfort food and dove right into a documentary that threw me off balance and disrupted the Zen atmosphere I had created for myself.

Having my own space is wonderful; I can customize my décor, have a jam session without headphones, and I can leave my dishes in the sink for as long as I so choose – which is never more than a day, but it’s nice to know I have the option to let utensils crust over and bowls fester in the remaining morsels of the gooey grilled cheese I just consumed.

However, the biggest downfall to living alone is the loneliness that settles in every now and again. Don’t get me wrong, I love the freedom that single living provides, but it would be nice to have someone to share certain experiences with.

For example, I can’t open a jar to save my life. Every time I reach for an unopened jar of pickles, I spend a good chunk of time trying to pop the seal of the stubborn lid. I also cannot seem to pull the foil tabs off the vast variety of coffee creamers that line a shelf in my fridge. It would be so nice to have someone, anyone, with the skill and dexterity to accomplish the little feats in my day that seem unconquerable. Just having a companion to combat the slew of insects that torment me in the warmer months would be ideal because then my anxieties would lessen and my eye would stop twitching.

As it would appear, I am still living life on the singles train, which is fine for now, but when the Zen atmosphere takes a turn, company is something I crave. The documentary that captivated my attention for two hours discussed sociopaths, and while it wasn’t scary per se, it did project a creepy resonance into my home that left me jumpy and hearing things that probably weren’t there. In other words, I’m a wimp, and I was overreacting.

The way the documentary flowed had me questioning every person I’ve come in contact with, every person currently in my life. Each characteristic and trait were affirmations that these people exist in my day-to-day, which is a sobering and scary thought. It just affirmed that you never truly know a person.

Now I know what you may be thinking, “Alex, you’re blowing this way out of proportion. You probably don’t know any sociopaths.” I am here to tell you that it’s more common than you think or than I ever thought possible. One in twenty-five humans have the characteristics of a sociopath.

My mind was blown, and as I sat, eyes glued to the screen, I started taking an inventory of all the people I’ve encountered in my life, especially those from middle school and high school. I was shocked as I found that some of the people I’ve known since I was a kid fit the psychologist’s checklist. Now, I’m not saying that these people are sociopaths, but I don’t know for sure.

Something else mentioned in the documentary really threw me for a loop. Online dating sites are a sociopath’s ultimate toolkit because this is where he or she compiles information to imitate and figure out how to infiltrate your life. I got the chills hearing that because I use online dating sites.

Online dating is scary and blind as it is, and now I’m paranoid about running into a sociopath. The documentary truly opened my eyes to the reality of life, and that is that humans are a mystery. I am a very trusting person once I open up to another individual. So, it genuinely hurts my feelings and demolishes any progress I’ve made in self-acceptance and worth when I come to terms with the fact that the person I’ve opened up to wasn’t who I thought he was.

I also realized that it’s okay to be guarded in what you share and what you keep behind closed doors. I’m very vague in answering personal questions and sharing personal information because I’ve already had one run-in with a crazy date, and I don’t plan on having another any time soon.

However, the documentary also had me questioning my own mental state. I feel as if once we fall deep into something as captivating and intriguing as this was, we start seeing the characteristics and qualities arise within ourselves. I happened to be doing just that, and it freaked me out. Don’t forget, I was alone and it was late and I have obnoxious neighbors, so every sound felt like the impending doom of something I wasn’t ready to come face-to-face with. And then it ended, or at least this installment ended.

Once the screen went black, I felt like I needed something to get me out of the funk I was in. I stumbled across the music video for Marshmallow’s “Happier,” and I immediately started bawling my eyes out. It was as if every emotion and feeling came bubbling to the surface and was released as the lyrics enveloped me in a cry I honestly needed. I was consumed with the reality that while I may never know others, I’ll always know who I am, which is all that truly matters.

I’m so over the quest for the perfect date. Frankly, I’m too busy to care, and I’m so over the fake persona men try to sell to get me to be the person they want me to be. While this documentary was creepy and telling of just a fraction of the human race, it also forced me to find solace in who I am and what I’m doing right now. From now on, I’m sitting back with my steaming mug of caffeinated bliss, and I’m just going to see where life takes me. Near or far, I’ll never forget who I am or where I got my start.

Another Day, Another Blog: My Modeling Experience

Perspective drives experience. In a world where society forces the mold of perfection down the throats of the young and the impressionable, I oftentimes find myself spiraling into the depths of self-doubt and insecurities, which is common among the masses. I never felt comfortable in my own skin, finding every possible excuse to avoid anything that would document the way I saw myself, i.e., photos.

I hated the way I looked in photos. I remember the day I took my senior pictures so vividly. My smiles were forced, my hair looked like Medusa due to the humidity, and I was not confident in my outfit choices. I loathed the entire experience, and every time I glance at the photos on the wall in my parent’s house, I participate in a whole-body cringe because they remind me of a time in my life when I didn’t like myself.

My perspective on my appearance has changed in the past four years since the overweight naïve girl posed for her senior pictures. I found an inner beauty that I could appreciate through my writing. Recently, in an assignment for a business writing class, I acknowledged for the first time on paper that I am a blogger; I am a writer. It may seem silly, but this minute admission cleared the path for whole-body acceptance, which is a daily struggle for me. I always shied away from the title because I truly felt like I wasn’t good enough to encompass the role. I realized that I have to be confident in myself first before others will find a value in the tales I tell on this site.

This admittance also made me realize that I need to appropriately market my site. Currently, the little excerpts from my life consist only of words, but isn’t there truth to the saying “a picture is worth a thousand words”? Well, I certainly plan to find out.

This past weekend, a dear friend of mine captured the true essence of my persona. She agreed to take professional photos for me, and I was shocked at the outcome. Like I said, years of insecurity and hating the way the lens captured my nose or my thighs or my chubby cheeks resurfaced, and I prepared for the worst. I expected to hate every single shot … but I loved them all.

She took my Pinterest board of inspiration and made me the focal point. Each photo expresses a part of me that the words I publish every week cannot. Ladies and gents, she even managed to catch a few genuine smiles, which don’t happen all too often. This was my day as a model, and while it was awkward at first, it was freeing to finally push outside judgments and opinions aside and just be me.

The photoshoot extravaganza began with an outfit change. Coming off a six-hour shift, I needed to change out of my work attire and put on something more my aesthetic. Sticking with a pretty neutral floral color pallet, the flashes began.

The first location was a worn white wall outside my place of employment. She took a few strategic shots, after each click ensuring that I felt as comfortable and as carefree as possible. We then moved to some greenery near a brick wall, and she captured a few more shots, this time with the added prop of a yellow flower. Just picture little old me standing outside a pretty populated Kohls store, attempting to pose for photos. It must have been quite the sight.

After yet another outfit change, we moved onto the next location which was an outdoor shopping center. I need to set the scene for this one …

It was an overcast Saturday afternoon as two determined young women set out to find the perfect backdrop for photography. Situated between a Panera Bread and a Barnes and Noble, this ambitious duo stumbled upon the perfect runway for some “modern meets classy chic” style photos. We spent about an hour goofing around and letting the shutter do all the work. While she clicked and I posed, there was a consistent beat from a community soft rock concert acting as the soundtrack to this photoshoot. Each person enjoying the band also had the opportunity to watch me stumble around in three-inch booties in 85-degree weather. Again, I must have been a sight for sore eyes … literally.

This location – the runway – was probably my favorite because I felt the freest during these shots. I had coffee and an arrangement of greenery and my brown tote purse and a novel to add some spice to the shots that will ultimately market me and my blog. I had so much fun strutting my stuff so that I can show you – my audience – who I truly am as a human.

I like floral prints and high heels. I like pumpkin spice lattes and kimonos. I like statement piece earrings and bandannas in my hair. I like fashion and books, and I want to show everyone and anyone who reads about my life or encounters me in person who I am because I like myself, all parts.

While I still struggle with self-doubt and insecurities, at the moment, I feel great. I’m happy, and I want to share that with the world. It’s okay to doubt your worth, but never lose yourself to the ugly voice inside your head telling you that it doesn’t get better. It does, and I can say that because I’ve experienced life taking me down a dark path and then something like writing, brought me out of it into the light. I’m so excited to share these snapshots of my life with you, as well as give credit where credit is due. I believe that people come into your life for a reason, and I’m so grateful that my dear friend entered mine. Stay tuned to Instagram for the photo releases – a new photo will accompany every new tale from my life.

As always, coffee truly did get me through my day as a model. Each sip took me one step closer to self-acceptance, and I hope I can ride this caffeine and photo high for as long as possible … or at least until another photoshoot extravaganza is in order.

You've Got Mail: The Unromantic Comedy

One of my favorite 90s movies is You’ve Got Mail. I can remember countless weekends with my signature late night cup of tea and the wonderful portrayal of the original online dating. That distinct email notification gave me hope that true love does exist out there for me or at least a half decent man … I just never thought that the internal turmoil one email can cause would chip away at my hopelessly romantic heart until I would lose almost all hope that the right guy exists.

It all began with an email from an old acquaintance. The email in question was undoubtedly platonic, and in fact, was such a pleasant surprise. I never receive personal emails, and it truly made me feel like Meg Ryan, sans the whole mystery of the man. However, I can’t even confidently say that there was no mystery to this madness that lasted for about a month and a half, because I truly had to decipher conversations and situations to make sense out of whether I was happy with the circumstances. Word to the wise, if you have a doubt about a person or a situation, that gut feeling is always the truth.

I feel like before I delve into this tale, I must first preface by saying that I mean no ill will towards this individual. I truly connected with him, more so than anyone ever. We connected on a literary level as well as an emotional level, at least for a brief stint. He made me feel special, and I wish him the best. We just weren’t on the same page no matter how much I tried to convince myself we were. The signs were all there, and I continued to ignore them.

That first email sparked a friendship. It felt easy and refreshing to talk to a man who was genuinely interested in my endeavors and what I am currently doing with my life. On some level, I knew that I had always been attracted to him, but I felt like he didn’t reciprocate.

About a week or so into our friendship, I finally got him to admit that while his intentions were platonic from day one, he had always felt an attraction towards me as well. I can’t even describe in words how reassurance can do bounds for the insecure. For the first time in my life, I felt noticed. I had butterflies, ladies and gents, and I’m not the gushy type.

A few more weeks of nonstop conversation went by, and I was happy. I was the kind of happy a puppy gets when his owner comes back from war. I was giddy and enjoying life to the fullest. We had set a date to meet in person, deciding not to put a label on anything. This was the third sign. I’m not saying that a definition is necessary to describe every encounter between a male and a female, but in this case, it was necessary. He cooked me breakfast and made me coffee – which was a plus – and it was delicious. I drove away feeling like we were making progress.

That same night, I left for the beach, and from the beach, I made my long trek back to college. However, we both decided it was worth it to see where this communicative journey would take us. That breakfast encounter really sparked an interest, and over the next few weeks, we talked all the time, whether it was over text or on the phone. I hadn’t had an hour-long conversation with anyone other than my mother since grade school.

I had let my walls slowly crumble and replaced my stony demeanor with laugh lines and crow’s feet. Even my friends and family started to notice this stark change in my persona, and they were happy for me. I became this vulnerable human, and I wasn’t used to sharing deep, personal thoughts and information with anyone, let alone someone who could relate on some level.

And here is where I started to have issues with the situation. I felt as if I was spilling all these truths and not receiving any in return. Half truths and vague mutterings about your life don’t tell me who you are as a person. That’s the scariest part of dating or even just talking to someone you’re attracted to: sharing your truths in the hope that someone will share their truths in return. It was like pulling teeth to get him to tell me how he felt. I was a blubbering idiot, and he sat back reaping the benefits of my vulnerability without ever truly committing.

 And then, the story takes a sharp left into the muddle of madness I mentioned previously.

After talking for weeks again, he decided to come and visit me. Once more I need to pause and preface this portion by stating that I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. This man was driving a significant distance to spend some quality time with me, and I appreciated and enjoyed every minute of it. I would also like to point out, that I repeatedly told him that he didn’t have to make that trip just to see me, but he insisted if I was okay with it. And I was okay with it. I truly felt like he cared and that this trip was another step in the right direction.

It turns out I was wrong. Before the trip, we had a conversation about where this was going; essentially, we talked about the future. And let me tell you, I was all in. I was ready to commit to a relationship, and do you know what he told me? He basically said that he isn’t over his ex-girlfriend yet, and if I gave him time, he would be ready to commit. And herein lies the fourth and final straw.

I decided to give him a few more weeks. I’m not the type who likes to be strung along, and that’s what this situation ultimately morphed into. After his one-day physical appearance in my day-to-day, I barely heard from him, and if I did hear from him, it was because I texted first. At this point, I felt an immense frustration and truly slighted.

He just kept telling me that I had nothing to worry about and that I was overthinking everything. What was I supposed to think considering he wasn’t telling me how he truly felt about me, about the visit, about where he thought this was going. When I start talking to a potential date, I preface by stating my intentions and who I am as a person. I’m not down to lessen myself or change parts of me to fit the agenda and needs of the male species. And I can’t even blame myself this time for being naïve because I didn’t use Tinder. This was a genuine chance encounter that flourished in the type face of an email.

My mind started racing, and now that I’m reflecting, I’m realizing that this would have never worked. I started to think the worst; I thought well maybe he wasn’t as different and genuine as I assumed. What if he only wanted to use me and throw me aside? What if he’s ghosting me? What if, what if, what if? All of these “what ifs” were the lightbulb moment when I finally figured out that I deserve better.

I don’t deserve days of silence because you’re “busy.” Anyone who knows me on a personal level knows that I barely have a moment to myself. I’m pulling 35- hour work weeks on top of classes, an internship, and a thesis, yet I was still trying to make time to get to know this man, pushing aside the distance because I cared.

What really threw me over the edge and fueled the innate desire to blog about my life status was a text that came through the wires late last night. Because my shifts start before dawn, I happened to notice the message at 2 a.m., and I am so proud of my deliriously profound response to his bull rebuttal to my admittance that I feel an issue exists and that things have shifted in whatever it is we were doing.

In short, he told me I was being petty, that he never intended to lead me on, and that I needed to realize that after long day at work, he likes to nap, eat, and go to bed. Apparently, I wasn’t even a thought anymore, yet he consumed a lot of mine. I read this grammatically incorrect and muddled text in stride and essentially told him that by telling me that he wanted to see where this went was him confirming that he was interested, hence, leading me on. I also stated that what he perceives as “petty” is me communicating my anger at the fact that I’m not as special as a nap. The real issue though is that he literally led me on for over a month knowing that he still felt some type of way about another woman.

I don’t have time to be second best or some confidante you can tell your woes to. I deserve someone who will treat me like the woman I am. I deserve respect and conversation and a genuine interest into the happenings of my everyday because if you cared, you would want to know about the great things happening in my life.

After this “experience” I’m about ready to throw in the towel on dating. I’m sick and tired of continual disappointment, especially from men I thought were better than the crude and sexually driven men with little to know morals who keep entering and exiting my life. I’m not saying that this man fits that description, but I honestly don’t care anymore. I’m proud of myself for staying true to my morals and beliefs and femininity. There is always a beautiful mind behind a pretty face, and not many men want to reach beyond the surface. And that’s fine, but just know that if you cross me, I will write about it because I have every right to spill my truths. If what I portray paints you in a bad light, maybe you need to do some soul searching and reflection about what you did wrong and how you treat women.

I know this was a lot to divulge in a blog, but I felt it was necessary to tell my side. As women, I think our truths are lessened because men will find a way to make it our fault even if we are straightforward from day one. I’ve never lied about an intention or what I want. I’ve said it before, I know that one-night stands and random hook ups do not reflect the truly beautiful human I am. If I succumb, I’m only hurting myself, and I’m stronger than that. From now on, I’m putting men on the back burner and focusing on me, one day, and one cup of coffee at a time.

Lost In Translation: The Great Flood, An Unexpected Guest, And A Missing Package

While the fall semester is officially in full swing, the weather finds itself lagging in hundred-degree heat with a humidity so intense you can see it in the air. I’m out of sorts because my mind is telling me pumpkin spice lattes and sweater weather, and mother nature is telling me ice water and a signature bandana to tie up my hair. However, the weather is not the only thing making me feel out of sorts these days.

This past week has been interesting to say the least, and even though I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I think interesting isn’t a strong enough word to capture the constant chaos that is my life. Since I’ve been back in my cozy little apartment, I’ve experienced a great flood in my living room, an almost stolen package, numerous mornings stumbling around in utter darkness, an unexpected guest, and a passive aggressive neighbor.

My week began with an early shift at work and then slowly progressed into a seemingly unmanageable mountain of reading assignments and papers. Let me remind you, that I’m only in week 2 of 16. I stumbled out of bed at the unruly hour of 3 a.m. and managed to look semi-presentable for my first day back on the job. I made my coffee, gathered my belongings, and entered the stuffy hallway in a slow decent to the parking lot. I yanked open the rusty white door only to be met with an impenetrable darkness; not even the flashlight feature on my phone helped guide me to my car in the wee hours of the morning.

I’m sure it was quite a site if anyone in their right mind also found themselves stumbling around the building earlier than necessary. I was juggling a backpack, a purse, a lunchbox, a thermos containing copious amounts of water, and my trusty travel mug containing the rejuvenating serum that would kickstart my weary spirit and sluggish body in preparation for the insane day ahead of me. Have I mentioned how much I dislike adult responsibilities?

Every morning for the past week has commenced in the same manner. I wake up and expect to find the parking lot lights up and running as they should be only to be disappointed once more. It honestly scares me half to death because there could be a wild animal roaming around in the trees at the perimeter of the parking lot. I would like to mention that I have reported the lights to the realty company and still no one has come to resolve the issue. Just. My. Luck.

If it’s not lights out in the morning, it’s passive aggressive notes stuck on the driver’s side window of a neighbor’s car. Because it feels like the apocalypse in the morning and I’m too afraid to walk a far distance from my car to the door, I park close enough so that all I must do is hop, skip, and step on over to the stoop. Imagine my surprise when I happen to glance to my left after entering my car to go to class and notice a tattered piece of loose-leaf taped to the window of a neighbor’s car.

The note said, and I quote, “unless your going to carry my child in please stop parking where it’s closer.” The first things I noticed were the grammatical mistakes and lack of punctuation. The second thing I noticed was how rude this individual was being to me, a stranger. I’m the queen of passive aggression, but let’s get the facts straight before we start making demands.

There are no assigned spots in the parking lot, so until I see a nameplate and a sign, I’ll park however close I want to. First come, first serve. I was parked in my spot before this neighbor even arrived home for the day. The entire parking lot was open for her to park her car so that she could easily remove her child and take him or her inside.

Instead of parking elsewhere, my lovely neighbor parked so close to my car that I had about five inches of space to work with to squeeze into the driver’s seat. This is just one of the many experiences that I must laugh at because if she keeps it up, I’ll start a full-on War of Passive Aggression and we’ll see who comes out the victor.

During all the darkness and passive aggression, I also found myself trying to sop up the tidal wave that hit my living room one weekday afternoon while I was falling asleep in my American Literature class.

When I made the trip back to school for the year, I brought another air conditioner whose new home would be my stuffy living room. This air conditioner is pure magic; it sucks all the heat out of the air and replaces it with the cool, crispness of summer solace. However, when I lugged this machine almost 300 miles and through 3 states to its new home, I forgot to attach an important hose that filters the water back through the machine.

After a long day of work and class, I came home to a sopping wet carpet and an air conditioner leaking everywhere. For a few days, I had to leave a baking sheet under the leak, just until my mom could send out the correct attachment. The package was set to arrive the next day before 3 p.m. So, imagine my surprise when I check my mailbox and find no package patiently waiting to be ripped open. (She also sent my favorite rice because I can’t find it here, so I was extra eager.)

I was freaking out because I needed the attachment for the air conditioner and my rice, but there were also other important things that could not be lost. I thought the passive aggressive neighbor stole my package, and I was not happy. Needless to say, my mother sent a semi-nasty email to the realty company and then I potentially illegally opened my neighbor’s mailbox just for kicks and found my package. The mailman made a mistake with the apartment number. My mother also had to immediately send an apology email because her daughter is ultimately a ditz … although I blame the mailman.

If these antics weren’t enough to make my week interesting, I also had an unexpected visit. I got to hang out with someone I hadn’t seen in a while, and while it was nice, I find myself even more confused than before. Are men intentionally obtuse? Are they all the same, or do I just really have bad luck? I guess I’m still trying to figure all of this out, but in the meantime, coffee remains my one true love … well, coffee and a Hardy novel because this girl needs to escape reality for a while and focus on the fantasy; it’s almost always better than the real thing.

Senior Year: The Beginning Of The End

As the summer sun fades into the background, the hustle and bustle of fall resonates in the urgency of securing a parking pass and spending oodles and oodles of cash on textbooks that I probably won’t have the chance to read this semester. That’s right ladies and gents, it’s that time already; I’m back at it again with intensely hilarious descriptions of my college experiences and the real life that is young adulthood.

It all began a few days ago with what I had assumed would be a brief drive to my cozy apartment. My younger brother and I buckled our seat belts, secured the aux cord, and blasted as much undecipherable rap as possible. We munched on sour candies and bopped along to the thumping bass until we discovered a two-hour traffic jam in the Pittsburgh area.

Not in the mood to sit in a car for an even more extended period, I decided it was best to entrust Karen – my faithful GPS – with the task of finding an alternate route that would avoid miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic and my uncontrollable road rage. Karen got the job done and found an alternate route that may have been just as insufferable as the traffic jam in Pittsburgh.

Karen’s new route took us through the farmlands of West Virginia, and while we avoided massive six lane highways and claustrophobia and seizure inducing tunnels, we did get stuck traveling on every back road imaginable. It was exhausting, and my brief trip turned into a seven-hour extravaganza.

And now I find myself sat across from the Faculty Men’s Restroom after what was supposed to be an hour and fifteen-minute-long class. Instead, my quirky professor sauntered in a few minutes late, signature coffee thermos in one hand, syllabi in the other. He stood in front of about ten female English majors and described the course materials in the most roundabout way imaginable.

The course is titled “American Literature to 1865,” and unfortunately it is a requirement for graduation in the spring. I am not a fan of the stylistic qualities of most American authors; I would much rather lose myself to the lyrical musings of Hardy or the Brontes. Instead, I get to spend sixteen weeks trudging through texts that I would have never voluntarily chosen, except for Poe; him, I’m excited for.

Another perk to starting my senior year of undergrad is beginning the tedious process that is my thesis. While I have an idea in mind and a significant amount of groundwork already laid, I’m still not necessarily looking forward to spending hours upon hours crafting a twenty-five-page research paper. I guess it helps that I’m passionate about the topic, but still; I’m not ready to end my last semi-free summer and begin my second to last semester before I’m launched into the real world for the first time.

At the same time, I’m ready to begin my career … or at least I think I am. I’m sure this semester will be chalk-full of experiences and insight that will prove my overeager mindset wrong. I’ve learned the hard way that I have to slow down because trying to race against time is a feat no man or overly sarcastic woman such as myself has achieved before.

Walking around campus today recharged my spirit, and I felt the rush of excitement only an English major would feel after catching the tantalizing aroma of a new book or the gentle clacking of the keys on a keyboard or the recycled jokes of the same professor that left class early on the first day. It felt great to be back and even better to be one step closer to cap and gown.

I have a great feeling about these next few semesters – a feeling I’ve never had before the start of the school year. I have a fantastic bundle of friends who make sure to tear me away from my busy schedule just long enough to eat dinner and drink wine over musings about our summers. And of course, I have my trusty Keurig to provide me with my daily dose of caffeine so that I can attack every day with a smile and a sassy comment at the ready, because in my life, you never know what’s going to happen next. Stay tuned.

Summer Vacation: Karaoke Sessions, A Gimpy Foot, And A Girl Lost In A Sea Of Highways

The trees were a blur as I sat gazing out the tinted glass at the scenery surrounding me. The soft hum of 80s on the 8 pulsated, providing the gentle beat of the journey from pine trees to palm trees, from rain clouds to sunny skies. At least this is the description I had hoped to write as the introduction to my week of solace at the beach. Instead, my three-hundred and thirty-mile trip went a little something like this.

When the clock struck midnight, four work-weary humans piled into the car, anxious to finally have a week without the constant monotonous routine of work, eat, sleep, repeat. I’m generally the type of person who falls into a blissful slumber as soon as I pop a motion sickness pill and feel the rocking motion of the car against the open highway. Minutes from a REM cycle and swaddled in the comfiest blanket I own, Mother Nature decided to stick it to me with an obscene throbbing in my abdomen.

You see, Mother Nature didn’t care that this was my one week off the entire summer; she could care less that I wasn’t scheduled for intense cramping for at least a few more days. She was coming early, and there was no stopping her.

A constant string of cramps began rolling in like the tide on a red flag day (pun intended), and I was a miserable old lady on the back seat complaining the entire trip. After a few hours on the road, I noticed my younger brother snoozing to my left, my parents talking in the front seat, and I was struggling to find a comfortable position. For those of you who have never had the privilege of feeling a PMS cramp, let me explain why this was the most painful car ride of my life.

In scientific terms, a cramp is a muscle contraction. In Alex terms, a cramp is like getting kicked repeatedly in the lower abdomen by a pint-sized soccer player – forceful enough to leave residual pain without the mark of a bruise. The pain was so intense that the only comfortable position I could find looked a little something like an infant lying on its back in a playpen playing with its tiny, tiny toes. In fact, I was lying on my back across the bucket seat with my legs pressed against the door and my feet flush against the roof of the car. My parents thought I was insane, but at the time, the feeling was mutual because as I sat writhing in pain, they were having a karaoke jam session to 80s music at 2 a.m. at a decibel only appropriate at a high school reunion or a wedding reception. It was horrible.

However, we finally arrived, and the next few days were just what I had expected: numerous hours tanning on the beach with a Hardy novel in hand and the salty air swirling through my hair. I did manage to get a little sunburn; it wouldn’t be a family vacation if I didn’t leave looking like a lobster. But the real kicker to this trip is a three-part extravaganza, and while they are not related, they accurately capture what a trip with my family is like no matter where we go.

Part 1

It was about the third night, and I was ready to wash the ocean spray and sand away to reveal the tan I hoped I’d have. I was jamming out, like I usually do, letting the shampoo suds slip through my hair, when I heard a loud bang, a crack, and felt a searing pain in my left foot. After a long string of expletives, I looked down to see the culprit – a jumbo-sized bottle of conditioner – and saw what used to be my tiny foot. It now looked like a moldy piece of meat the size of a golf ball sitting on top of my foot. I thought it was broken; now wouldn’t that be a story to tell? My foot is not broken, but it looks half-dead and barely fits in my shoes, so there’s that.

Part 2

With a gimpy foot and a flaming sunburn, I emerged from beneath the warm cocoon of my sheets and readied myself for a trip to the Cape Henry Lighthouse at the Fort Story military base. We all piled into the car once again and spent about an hour in the car before we even got on the base. Let me explain.

To start, the car only had about 21 miles left on it before we’d be stranded on the strip with no gas. Therefore, it was necessary to find a gas station, which is almost impossible with my family, it seems. You see, we don’t like to plan out our trips, small or large. Instead, we like to hop in the car, throw caution to the wind, and just expect that the hand of God will reach down and navigate our car to the destination without hazard.

Finally, we refueled, and we were on our way to the lighthouse. We reached the guard at the gate, and he asked us each for our IDs. We each pulled out our inaccurate photos from at least a few years ago, and then my mother says, “Oh, I don’t have my ID.” The guard kindly explained that to get on the base, everyone must have some sort of photo identification, and unfortunately, we would have to be turned around. The kind man helped us turn around, and we made the lengthy trip back to the hotel so that my mother could retrieve her license.

As we were sitting in the car, my dad decided to look at the car’s registration and noticed that it was out of date. So now we had to find a way to print out the most current registration for the car because that was also a necessary document for passage onto the base. We went to a Walmart first, and that was a disaster and a half, and we left with no registration. The next stop was a FedEx store, and my mother emerged waving the registration high. We were on our way once again.

Upon arrival at the military base for the second time, we waited in line for a solid fifteen minutes. We eventually passed the identification test and were moved along to the next station where more guards would search our car. In short, we didn’t pass this stage because I forgot that I left my pepper spray in my purse. Needless to say, we were turned around once again, and we didn’t tempt fate with a third try. Instead, we went to Outback and called it a day.

Part 3

The final installment of this three-part disastrous extravaganza is the most recent and most important part of the trilogy. At the beginning of this tale, I mentioned that only four work-weary humans entered the car at the start of the trip. That is because my lovely sister could not leave until later in the week because she was finishing up her CNA classes. She left our hometown around noon and did not arrive at the beach until 11 p.m.

I know what you’re all thinking … “Alex, Virginia Beach isn’t that far from where you live; it’s like six hours. Why did it take her so long?” Well ladies and gents, it took my sister eleven hours to reach the beach because Apple maps did her dirty. This automated map system took her all over God’s creation on every toll road imaginable. She racked up quite the total in EZ pass fines because at one point the GPS on Apple maps took her all the way to the coast of Maryland, she was in Delaware, she was near Philadelphia. At one point she was even going north and seeing signs for New York.

My parents spent most of the day trying to navigate a directionally challenged girl to the beach from the beach. It was such a disaster; however, I can’t even say I’m shocked about it because at this point, I expect it.

This has been the most entertaining trip I’ve had in quite a long time. I’ve laughed and laughed, and of course I got a blog out of the constant string of disasters. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have it any other way – the battle of coffee against impending doom is just the balance I need to keep this site fresh, but most importantly, your weekly dose of the true life of young adulthood.

Summer Camp: The Closing Ceremonies

When I was a child, I could get lost for days in a good story. Instead of playing on the trampoline or swimming in the pool, I could be found sitting on the bench swing in my backyard with my nose buried in the sweet, sweet aroma of a brand-new novel. My favorite book to read on that bench swing was Sleepaway Girls by Jen Calonita, and believe it or not, this book made me want to be a camp counselor. It was my dream job at the time, and I never thought that I would have the chance to live out one of my dreams in real time.

I longed to attend a sleepaway camp at the ripe age of ten; however, the cards were not in my favor, and I never got the chance. Almost ten years later, I had the opportunity to work my childhood dream job, and for the past three years, I have spent each summer working as a camp counselor. There have been both highs and lows to this job choice, and unfortunately, there have been more lows than highs. What I am about to indulge by no means speaks to my time working with the campers, because even though they tested my patience over the years, they were a pleasure to work with and foster a growth in their personalities and characters that I hope lasts as they grow into the fine human beings I know they can be. What I am about to indulge speaks to the poor leadership qualities and organization methods of the men and women in charge of a facility that aims at shaping the community’s youth into fine young citizens.

The great irony of this situation is that the children at times acted more like adults than the adults in charge ever did, and not only that, but the campers were very attuned to the poor planning and non-existent boss. Before I get too into the great disaster that was this summer, I need to take it back a few years to my first summer on the job …

I was so excited to trade in ink stains and coffee highs for running shoes and tan lines; I was beyond ready for camp to begin. I was excited to work with the kids and knock out a few internship hours while I was at it – you know, two birds one stone. I’m a master at multi-tasking. If multi-tasking were an event at the Olympics, I would win gold.

That summer was my first insight into the demands and creativity behind child care. My boss was invested in the program and performed regular check-ins with the counselors, who were all either fresh out of high school or in college. The summer was meticulously planned out from start to finish, and the campers truly enjoyed every activity as they came and went during the summer of 2016.

One year later …

Once again, I found myself itching to throw the classics aside and dive right back into a fun-filled summer with a great group of kids. I was placed at the same camp location as the year prior, and it was so delightful to hear the campers yell, “Miss Alex, you’re back!” as they enveloped me in a giant bear hug. I was ready to take on the summer one day at a time, and that’s exactly what it felt like – the slow crawl from one day to the next for about three months.

This was the summer when the program started its slow descent into mass destruction. The summer agenda was not as thoroughly planned out as the year before, and I couldn’t place my finger on exactly what could have changed. And then it hit me like a slap in the face: boss lady had a new boyfriend, who just so happened to be her assistant.

And this is where I pause because at the time, I was baffled. Fast-forward to three months ago, and I was furious. When I started this job, I was given a little handbook that expressed the rules and guidelines a person must follow when working for this affiliation. One of those rules just so happened to express the utter inappropriateness of dating a coworker, especially someone who works under you. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that rule applies to most work environments, and I just couldn’t believe that it had been going on for almost two years and no one said anything. Play.

So, not only did boss lady have a new boy toy to follow her around, but she also became less and less present to the counselors who worked for her and most importantly, the campers. At my camp particularly, we were always running out of supplies, and they were never replenished. That forced four young counselors who work part-time making barely over minimum wage to buy supplies just to get through a week or a month. We would go about a week without tape or paper towels or cleaning supplies. Where was boss lady in our time of need?

This summer was most certainly on the decline from the previous summer. I had had enough, and even though I was frustrated and not necessarily in the mood to continue living out my “dream” job, something in my gut told me that one more summer was in the books for me whether I liked it or not.

Another year later …

And one last summer I completed, and while it was a nightmare, there were some moments that made the dream worth it in the end. There were so many moments where I wanted to quit or cry or scream or yell. I was frustrated and angry, and these emotions were not even about the campers half the time; it was the adults who truly never learned what child care should be about. It is never about you as the adult; it is always about the children. Therefore, your month-long vacation with your lost puppy of a boyfriend means nothing because instead, you should have been planning a summer worth the money parents pay to send their kids to summer camp.

As the boss, there should have been more involvement in the operations at each camp site. This summer, I was placed at a new location, and the way this move was pitched to me was different than what I was met with my first full week. I was told I was being moved to help work on setting a new standard for behavioral issues because this camp would have an influx of entirely new campers. This was entirely wrong, and while the summer was better than last behavioral-wise, it was still a struggle for the counselors. The biggest struggle and frustration was the fact that my boss wanted no parts of dealing with angry parents; she left all the hard conversations and explaining behavioral issues up to three college-age girls while she did absolutely nothing.

I’ve already expressed my anger about the wannabee counselor with no training who thought he was playing the role of drill sergeant, so I won’t rehash that portion of this disaster. However, there were many other outstanding issues, such as lack of supplies, never having all the supplies for planned activities, being placed at a location with minimal access to playgrounds and open fields for the kids to run around in, an attitude that unnecessarily left the counselors bewildered as to why they were being reprimanded or passive aggressively attacked for nothing whatsoever, etc. There is honestly too much for me to try and explain about how disastrous this summer was. One of my biggest issues leaving this job is that there is really no CEO or Board of Directors with accurate contact information for my coworkers and I to express our concerns. I will be looking further into this dilemma, but for now this will have to do.

Reality.

The reality of this work experience is that I learned many valuable lessons along the way. While I do not agree with how the organization is operated, I did love working with children from the community I grew up in. I made many a friend in various coworkers, and they truly kept me sane and grounded this summer. Without them, I would have thrown a punch and probably got fired and then I would be telling a different story. What I want to leave you avid readers with is this: don’t wait for the next person to come along and speak up about an issue or make a difference. Take charge, use your voice, and tell your story. Stand up for the youth in your own communities because they deserve better than to be given the short end of the stick while the boss lady and her cohorts gossip in the office and their employees handle all the dirty work. This tale doesn’t end here; I, along with a few of my former coworkers, will be reaching out however we can to make a change in this organization because if we don’t, who’s to say someone else will?

I’m about to trade in my running shoes and tan lines in for ink stains and coffee highs for the last time, and I feel more prepared than ever before based on this summer of experiences to keep taking on the world one day and one cup of coffee at a time.

Another Week, Another Blog: Emergency Breaks, Dancing, And Tattoos

Interesting is not a strong enough word to describe my life these days, or at least the past week. Let me break it down for you. I almost witnessed a head-on collision on my way home from work, my mom abandoned me at a car dealership with a car that was still broken, I danced in front of more than fifty people, and I got tattoos. I know, it’s a lot to take in – trust me, I lived it. However, I’m going to break it down for you even more.

The other day, I was driving home from another monotonous shift at work, jamming out to some Panic! at the Disco as I usually do during the four-minute drive from the parking lot to my garage. I made it to the stop sign at the bottom of the hill near my house, flipping on my right turn signal in preparation to make my speedy ascent up the road. There was a car at the stop sign perpendicular to mine, turning left. The woman behind the wheel was talking in an animated manner on her phone, steering with just one hand. Suddenly, a small midnight blue car came racing down the hill, narrowly missing the woman as she was turning. This matchbox-sized car was operated by a petite, scraggly older woman, and she was driving around with her headlights off. It was after ten o’clock p.m., so it was well within the time-frame where headlights are a necessity.

My heart stopped because for starters, it is never acceptable to be on your phone while driving and, this elderly woman was speeding along like she was competing in the Indy 500. Also, I know what it’s like to be in a major car accident, so witnessing one is something I don’t ever want to do.

Speaking of cars, just the other day, my mom made me go with her to the car dealership to pick up my dad’s car because it was done in the shop. I begrudgingly hopped into the front seat looking like a hot mess. My hair was tied up in a messy ponytail, and I was wearing my brother’s gross Nike slides that were once a bright shade of white. I waited for her to pay the bill, and once she emerged and pointed me in the right direction, I strutted on over to the car. Once inside the car, I adjusted the seat to fit my short frame by moving it all the way forward so that more than just my toes could reach the pedals. I adjusted my mirrors, turned the key, shut off the god awful am station my dad swears by, put the car in drive, and I was on the move.

I take that back. I was trying to move, but for some reason it felt like the car was straining against some invisible force or one of those locks they put on tires when you haven’t paid your tickets. So, I gave the car more gas, and I made it a few feet out of the parking spot. And that’s when I realized that the reason I was literally going nowhere was because the emergency break was pulled up.

I am the most oblivious person on the planet – we’ve discussed this already. The break light was flashing in my face, and my first thought was that there must be something restraining my tire. But, here was the real issue; I had never used an emergency break in a car before, so I was a little confused on how to release the break. I sat in the middle of a dealership parking lot wrestling with an emergency break that would not budge for about fifteen minutes. My mother had also left and was on her way home. I decided to bombard her with phone calls because clearly, I needed to be rescued.

Here is the thing about my mother. She never takes her phone with her, and when she does, it is never on her person, so no one can contact her in a timely manner. She was not answering her phone because she left it at home, and I was now in full panic mode. Now, this may sound overdramatic, but I don’t like to be in situations that are out of my control. I know nothing about cars besides where the key goes and how to use the gas and break pedals. When I am face-to-face with a situation that I cannot easily fix, I get emotional. So, just picture little old me sitting in the front seat of a 2005 Chevy Cobalt with tears streaming down my face as I struggle to move the emergency break. I was even more of a mess than when I entered the parking lot.

Finally, I get a hold of my mother, and she contacts the dealership. They send out a guy who is now face-to-face with an emergency break that’s jammed and an emotional twenty-one-year-old girl. I explain to him that I’ve tried everything, but the break won’t budge. This dude hops into the front seat and releases the emergency break in five seconds. I know I’m weak, but if that wasn’t confirmation enough that I need to hit the weights, I don’t know what is. I would also like to point out that this dude and a bunch of other dudes all walked past my car and witnessed the mayhem that was occurring inside the four doors, and not one of them offered me any assistance until my mother called and explained the scene happening in their parking lot.

If that situation wasn’t embarrassing enough for you avid readers, let me tickle your fancy with this gem of a tale from Friday morning at my camp counselor gig. It was talent show day, and our campers were bundles of nerves and resistance against the show that was about to go on. For the show, our camp had to prepare a group act, and we decided it would be best to do a dance battle: Old School Dancing vs. New Age Dancing, counselors against the campers. I, alongside my fellow counselors, stood in front of about thirty-five campers, some of their parents, and our boss and performed “Soulja Boy” and the “Cupid Shuffle.” I have the rhythm of a toothpick, so I looked ridiculous, but it was so much fun. It was great to see the kids genuinely enjoy our dancing even if it was awkward and jumbled. And, I know for a fact that there is a video out there somewhere of this performance so my embarrassment can live on long after the show ended.

After all the hysterics and embarrassment, I finally decided it was time to check another item off the old bucket list. For a few years now, I’ve been debating getting a tattoo. I had a few ideas, and I knew I wanted script; I had a quote already picked out and ready to go. Then, I decided I wanted something small near my wrist. The day of the appointment, I waited for nearly forty-five minutes as the tattoo artist prepped the images and the equipment. I was a ball of nerves, and finally he was ready to begin. Of course, I took my mom with so she could hold my hand through the pain, and she fulfilled her duties.

The artist did the script first, which I got on my bicep to accentuate the muscles I don’t have yet. The entire time he was tattooing my arm, my hand was shoved underneath his man-boob, so there’s that. The script reads “A little spark gives birth to a great flame,” which is just a little piece of Dante’s Paradiso. This quote had more meaning than I’ll ever have the words to express, but in short, to me it means that the greatest beauty comes from the smallest things and moments in life. I discovered this quote at a time in my life where I was going through a lot of deep and personal turmoil, and it truly showed me a brighter path to travel down.

Instead of just getting one tattoo the first time around, I did splurge and get another. This little image is a cactus which I placed right near my wrist. Something about this little prickly plant truly captured my personality, and I love the way it looks.

Last week was more than just interesting, and I have yet to find a word that completely captures the essence of my rollercoaster of a life. While I search the Thesaurus, I’ll let my coffee do the talking for me because maybe then I’ll actually have a tame week.

Welcome To Boot Camp, I Mean Summer Camp

Summers are for sun, sand, and relaxation; a good book and a tall dark roast are all I need to keep me happy while I waste away under the blinding rays in the scorching summer heat. At least, you would think. My summers are for working two jobs nonstop to try and save a pretty penny for the upcoming school year while simultaneously balancing various short-term internships and the semblance of a social life. There hasn’t really been much balance in this disaster of an equation.

I told myself that I was going to make plans and go on adventures and maybe even get a nice tan. Instead, I’ve worked nonstop since the beginning of June, and I have three different farmer’s tans. I look like a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich, and when I finally get to go on vacation in a few weeks, I’m going to burn like crazy.

While I haven’t really had time for much of anything interesting, I have found myself in some pretty interesting situations, especially at work. We all know I’m a camp counselor by day and a retail associate by night, and usually my interesting stories come from a long shift working in the misses department. At least once a week I come across an individual while working retail who sparks the creative match in my brain and sends me into a writing trance. But the award for the most irritatingly interesting and frustrating “character” I’ve come across in the past four years goes to an individual who lasted merely a week as a counselor to a group of rowdy children.

A few weeks ago, I had the “pleasure” of working with a new counselor who would be filling in whenever necessary, and this just so happened to be the week where I would be spending the majority of my shifts working primarily with this particular human. Let me preface my description of this individual and his influence on the outcome of the work week by stating that he was the worst kind of human. Let me elaborate.

First impressions are the basis of human interaction. Therefore, it is best to present yourself in the best way possible the first time meeting an individual or a group of individuals. It’s not the smartest idea to show up fifteen-minutes late every day of the work week. It’s also not smart to scroll on your phone for a majority of your shift, disappear and wander around the building for extended periods of time, or never once offer to help me or my afternoon coworker in organizing the activities or supervising the children.

In the span of five days, this man spoke to me directly less than five times. He avoided my stony demeanor, and I’m glad for it because I would have stood on a pint-sized chair and punched him square in the face. One comment he made to my coworker sent me into a rage only subdued by the gentle clacking of the keys as I tell this story.

I’ve mentioned before that there has been one camper giving the counselors issues, but after diligently chipping away at the walls he built against authority, we managed to build a rapport with the camper. He was finally listening to us, and there had been a significant decline in his behavioral issues … until this dude showed up and messed with our flow.

This man’s style of “discipline” was more drill sergeant than camp counselor. Instead of taking minutes away from pool time he was more inclined to make the kids drop and give him twenty. He even had the gall to tell my female coworker that we don’t know how to handle children who act out because of the fact that we are female. This guy was at our camp site for a hot minute, and he was already trying to tell us how to do our jobs, and he was making sexist comments and assumptions on top of all the other unprofessional things he was doing. I was livid.

So many wild occurrences happened during that thirty-hour work week; it’s almost too much to try and explain with the level of irritation and heartbreak my coworker and I experienced at the expense of our campers’ enjoyment and happiness – which is exactly what summer camp is all about.

This “counselor” made the week unbearable for not only the other counselors, but for the campers, as well. When it gets to the point where your campers are telling you that they’re having a horrible time, that’s when you know something must change. I won’t get into the specifics of the situation, but just know that my coworker and I used our female voices to stand up for our campers and for what we believe is right in the workplace. A word to the wise: don’t ever let anyone, specifically a man, tell you that you don’t know what you’re doing because you just so happen to be a female. Stand up for yourself and for what you believe in because the power behind a woman’s voice is just as strong, if not stronger, than this man’s voice ever will be.

This work experience was definitely interesting, but it also taught me a very valuable lesson. This disastrous week of work taught me how to stand up for my campers first and foremost. Children should never be treated the way in which they were treated that week. As a childcare provider, you should never once make assumptions about the children in your care or target them based on word-of-mouth declarations from someone who has not specifically worked one-on-one with these kids. This work week also taught me how to stand up for myself and for what I believe is right, and I’m so grateful that my wonderful coworker shared my sentiments and was with me every step of the way as we used our female voices to show this idiotic man the right way to use your voice in the workplace. Of course, I needed way more coffee than usual to get through that work week, and it kept my tiny, tiny fists calm enough so that I didn’t have to show the man who’s boss.