Leaving the Places You Love

Look, you've met me, right? So you know: I don't like talking about my feeeeeeeeeelings. They're gross and dumb and, where I come from, you bury that nonsense. But every now and then, I get all sappy and stupid and sentimental. I lay around, basking in the sensation of spring, listen to Sugarland, and cry. (I mean, it isn't always spring, and it isn't always Sugarland, but it is usually country music. Country music makes me sappy.)

Anyway, all the sunshine and sap and Sugarland and sentiment make me want to, like, talk about my feelings or whatever.

Blech. This is the worst. We should probably all collectively ditch this blogpost ASAP but I'm in it for the long haul. You, however? Live your life. Pursue happiness. Read better blogs.

In one week, I'm going to be transferring to a new library. As a result, I've been feeling... just... too much of everything. (UGH. FEELINGS. SERIOUSLY WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE RIGHT NOW?)

I've been at the same library for a little more than a year and a half now. I got hired as a page and it was basically the best thing that had ever happened to me. Libraries are pretty much my favorite places on the planet. They're just these building stuffed full of books that people get to borrow for free. And I love books. They're so cool—all full of entirely different worlds and entirely different people. They can be learned from and escaped into. After about ten months, I got my first promotion. It was the next step in what I'd known since my first few weeks on the job: this was what I wanted my career to be.

There's something special about libraries. They're peaceful and calming (even in the midst of a particularly rambunctious story-time). You can meander through the aisles and get lost in your thoughts. Whole worlds are opened up to you—and not just the ones found in books, but through web resources and access to educational opportunities. Movies, music, and opportunities to engage with the community. Libraries are special.

But there is something special about my library in particular. I've had a lot of jobs in the past. (I've served food and cleaned classrooms, I've worked in offices and tutoring centers, I've sold bras, books, and spices. I'm pretty much the employment version of that "I've Been Everywhere" song.) But of all the places that I've worked, nowhere has felt so comfortable so quickly. I can't think of a place where I have ever felt so consistently happy. The past year and a half, I've dealt with a lot of stressful and/or heartbreaking situations. But, even when the rest of my life seemed to be saturated with worry or sadness or frustration, those feelings never came with me to the library.

Everyone that I work with at the library is kind, interesting, encouraging, and funny. They're the kind of people I would want to hang out with, even if I wasn't working with them. One of my coworkers gave me a recipe for a pie crust that opened me up to an entirely new facet of baking. Another one of my coworkers is constantly giving me awesome book recommendations (including Levithan which is what I'm currently reading). Two of my friends from the library accompanied me to the roller derby, thereby fulfilling my lifelong dream of going to a roller derby (and reigniting my desire to join a roller derby). I work with a ton of really great people and this blogpost would be really long if I made note of them each individually so I'm not going to. (Sorry friends. Just pretend I did, okay?)

Last August, I was particularly lucky to find myself in two jobs (both were part time so I had to work two to get by. These are just the sad, sad facts of being 24 in 2016) that I really, genuinely enjoyed. At both places, I worked in environments that felt comfortable and with people that I considered friends. I quit my non-library job at the end of April to really, really pursue a full-time career in the library. It was kind of a gamble because it reduced my income by, well, a lot, and library gigs are hard to come by. It was also hard to leave my other job because I really loved the people there. It was heartbreaking, but I knew it was something I had to do to pursue what I really wanted.

I spent the next couple of months applying to every full-time position that got posted in my library system and in the neighboring ones. I did some interviews. I asked for more hours and tried to accumulate more responsibilities at work. I had a few friends help me edit and revise my cover letters and resumes. One friend, in particular, did a mock interview with me. (It went mega-long, too, because we kept taking breaks for friend-time. She's the besssst.) I stressed out a ton. (And extra-stressed Kat shops which, at least in this situation, was stupid because I'd already halved my income.)

Meanwhile, the amazing people that I work with at the library proved themselves even more difficult to leave. They were all so supportive and kind. Then, it happened. I got hired full-time and I had to tell everyone I was transferring libraries. And once again, they were all so supportive and kind. The message has been, consistently: we'll miss you, but we're excited for you.

I feel that way, too. I'll miss this library and the people who are there. But I'm also, almost unspeakably, excited.

It got me to thinking about this post on tumblr that I saw a few months ago. The author was leaving her job at a coffee shop. She started with an anecdote about tutoring a kid in math. The girl got frustrated and asked, "Will everything always be hard?" And she wanted to encourage the girl and promise that, someday, things won't be hard any more. But, instead, she said, "Yeah, something will probably always be hard."

And it's true. It's hard to have to work two part-time jobs to get by—to know that when you get sick, it'll cost you more than you can afford to take a day to get better, to always be running from one place to the next, to worry consistently about your future, to try to socialize in the midst of an insane/unpredictable/not-constant schedule. But, then, it's hard to leave the places and the people you love, even when it means moving into something stable and consistent. It's hard to pursue something that you really want. It's hard to be confident, to remember that life is manageable, to rise up to new challenges. It's hard to have your heart broken. It's hard to move forward. Sometimes it's just... hard to be.

The tumblr post continued when the girl asked, "Even when things are hard, some things will still be good, right?" And the author said, "Yeah, gurl, things will be good. (Thank you for reminding me.)"

And that's true, too. Opening yourself up to new experiences is good. There are always new places and people to find. Moving forward is scary, yeah, but it's also... hopeful. Really, really hopeful. Trusting in God and yourself and a bigger picture is good. It's good to get your heart broken—to remember that it's there, to feel it mend again. New opportunities are exciting. And it's good that you got to be in the place that you got to be in, and to know the people you got to know, before you had to go. It's good to have memories, things to carry with you.

It's hard to leave the places that you love. But it's exciting, hopeful, and really good to find some place new.

Okay. We've officially talked about my feelings more than I am comfortable. So, you know. You go do whatever it is you do after reading a big chunk of mush. I'm going to tuck my knees under my chins, listen to Small Town Jericho on repeat, and cry. Shut up. I'm a person! SOMETIMES I feel the stupid sentiment.

My Web of Lies

99.9% of the time, when I lie it is for the solely for my own amusement. I like saying that I've done things that I obviously haven't done, or saying that I know people that I definitely don't know. I like telling tall tales, weaving elaborate and borderline farcical stories. It's deceit, but not for the sake of deception. When people believe me, I confess almost immediately so that they, too, can be entertained by fabrications.

I don't lie to fill others' with a false sense of confidence. I don't lie to weasel my way out of mistakes. I don't lie to make others look bad, to avoid work, or as a part of some nefarious ploy.

I lie to amuse and entertain. Myself, if nobody else.

When I was in high school, I went to a street fair with Laura, one of my very best friends. Laura is an almost unnaturally good person. Smart, funny, compassionate, studious, and more "true to herself" than a teenage girl at the end of a lifetime movie. I only saw her get in trouble one time, and it was as a result of a teacher's faulty perception rather than as a result of something she actually did. She is the kind of girl you want to befriend, the kind of girl you want to have date your son, and the kind of girl you hope you bump into in a club bathroom when you're slightly drunk and on your period and without your handbag. (How easy was that to follow?)

Anyway, I was at a street fair with my "unrealistically good" friend Laura and we walked by a young man handing out samples of candied nuts. "Pecans?" He offered.

Laura said, without even slowing her gait, "Sorry, I'm allergic to nuts."

After we walked a little ways further I looked at her. "You are not allergic to nuts."

She shrugged. "I know, but it's easy to lie to people you'll never see again."

I was astonished. I was floored. I was... inspired.

Now, don't get me wrong, I didn't turn around and start lying to every person I happened across. But sometimes I get a little bit close. Like, in my city there are a lot of people who work for a grassroots campaign organization that try to collect regular donors for human rights and environmental campaigns. And while those are, often, things that I want to support: I'm, fundamentally, broke. So, if we're walking and I see we're about to cross paths with someone holding a clipboard, I might turn to you and say, "So, at this point, I'm like 6 weeks late and Eric isn't returning any of my phone calls and, like, I don't know what to do." (I have this theory that even grassroots campaign people won't interrupt if the conversation seems scandalous/important/tragic enough.) It's a technicality, I think. A fly-by lie. Not that bad.

Direct, face-to-face lies for non-entertainment purposes? I typically avoid those.

Until today.

I arrived in the neighborhood where I work a little early today. And a little hungry. So, I decided to run into a grocery store and pick up some pistachios. (This isn't the point, but I wasn't actually able to find pistachios. So I wound up getting lightly salted edamame.)

I could see, standing in front of the doors, a woman with a clipboard. I didn't have a friend with me. I didn't have my headphones. I didn't have a way to avoid her. Unless I could just be really intentional about not making eye conta--nope. She stopped me.

"Excuse me, would you sign a petition? We're trying to get a bill to legalize medical marijuana on the ballot."

I'm always suspicious of petitions. But I totally sign them. And I am not, fundamentally, opposed to the legalization of marijuana, even for non-medical purposes. But, regardless, you're never going to see my name on a weed petition.

While she was in the midst of listing the various types of cancer patients who benefit from medical marijuana, I was in the midst of trying to come up with a way to get out of talking to her about it and signing her petition. So I lied. "I'm sorry, I'm not registered to vote in Jackson County."

It's not a terrible lie. I mean, it's a complete and total lie in that I work, live, shop, and, yes, am registered to vote in Jackson County. But it should have served my purposes well because if someone who isn't registered to vote in a given county signs a petition to get something on the ballot for that county it's not of any actual use. So, you can keep that in mind if you're trying to get out of petition signing.

Unfortunately for me, though, she wasn't just like, "Oh, okay." No, no. Instead, she asked...

"Where are you registered?"

What?? I thought. This didn't happen to Laura when she offhandedly lied to the candied nuts guy! "Johnson." I replied.

If I had thought more about it, I would have said, "Oh, I actually just moved here from Idaho." Or Illinois. Or Minnesota. Or I could have even said, "I'm not actually registered to vote anywhere." But instead I went with "the county on the other side of Stateline."

I figured it was pretty believable. Johnson County and Jackson County are basically in spitting distance from each other. Throughout college, I lived and went to school in Jackson County, but I worked in Johnson County. The last few times I went grocery shopping, I went to a Trader Joes in Johnson County. Needless to say, there are lots of Johnson County folks hanging out in Jackson, and vice versa.

So, see? Believable.

But unfortunately, I wasn't speaking to an accepter. I was speaking to a problem solver. "I'll just make up a petition for Johnson County, then!" She said.

And then: I was struck with panic. What could I do at this point? Confess? "Oh, sorry, I'm not really registered in Johnson County. I'm registered in Jackson. I just didn't want to sign your pot-tition." Lie again? "Oh, I'm sorry, I meant: I just moved to Johnson County, but I haven't registered there yet. Haha, better do so before the next election, right? HahahahHAHAhah." Perhaps point behind her and scream, "WHAT IS THAT?" and then, when she's distracted, run as far away as possible as fast as possible?

"You... have... a petition... for Johnson County?" I stuttered.

"I'll make one right now!" She explained as she started filling out another petition.

"I'M SORRY I DON'T HAVE TIME," I said, a little too loudly.

"Wait!" She said, desperate frustration exuding from her pores.

"SORRY!" I called back as I bolted into the store. As I wandered through the store, I wondered how I would get past her as I was leaving and I chided myself for not being a little quicker on my feet while deceiving.

The moral of this story is, I guess, that I should stick to my lane and only use lies as a means to entertain.

An Ode To Sookie St. James

I think I fell in love with her the moment that I saw her: beautiful, happy, talented, funny, and round. She was able to achieve it all--a supportive best friend, a fulfilling career, an adoring husband. She was never forced into a role of insecurity or reduced to an easy punchline. I first met her a decade ago. I grabbed on tight and to this day would sooner die than loosen my grip.

Sookie St. James.

She wasn't flawless. She was clumsy and at times neurotic. She could be overly sensitive and forgetful. She was often aloof. A perfectionist to a fault. But when the darkness starts to bully me, when magazine images come alive and start drawing dotted lines along my thighs, or when well-intended but ultimately harmful comments seep under my skin: she's the image I turn back to.

As much as we can point to movies, TV shows, books, and magazines and say, "Well that's not reality..." I think we all know that, at its core, storytelling impacts us in a major way. Stories--all sorts of them--are woven together to create our society's narrative. Thanks to their connotations, you only need a few simple words to create a pretty detailed and potentially damaging narrative. I don't want to delve too deep into this because I think we all know it intuitively. Uh... let's just use an ad to demonstrate:

Using images alone, the story here is: "I put on this particular mascara and now I'm gorgeous, edgy, and cool." When we factor in the slogan, "lots of lashes, lots of impact, not a lot of mess" the story elaborates a little: "I matter. Because I have some impressive eyelashes. But I'm still not high maintenance! Thanks to this particular mascara."

You get what I'm saying right?

Okay, cool, let's talk body positivity. One of the downsides to the ten-million-super-skinny-pretty-girl movies, TV shows, magazine ads, commercials, runways, musicians, songs, comic books, video games, and cartoons is the unspoken story: "skinny" is a requirement for the ideal woman. As a result, there are teenaged girls trying to starve themselves into worth, young women trying to seduce approval out of unworthy men, and a whole host of women scarring their bodies out of frustration.

Oh! Hey! Check out one of my favorite spoken word poems EVER! 
"I Know Girls" by Mary Lambert:

Cool. Back to the blog. In recent years, we've seen an increase of "real size" and "plus size" models in ad campaigns. Movies and television shows are seeking out more diverse casts. The overarching narrative is getting a lot more inclusive. (And before you get all huffy and start romanticizing media eras past, just consider the composition of FRIENDS versus the composition of Parks and Rec. Facts are facts, as time progresses we've seen greater diversity in age, race, gender, and body types in the media.)

It's not a secret that representation is important. Consider race for a moment. One test used in determining the outcome of Brown vs. Board of Education involved African-American children pointing at different dolls when prompted by a description. The test revealed that the children thought better thoughts about the white dolls, and discriminatory practices (the whole idea of "separate but equal") was determined to cause a feeling of inferiority amongst African-American children. But, in recent years, the doll test has been reformed and re-administered. Since desegregation, results have not been dissimilar to the original tests conducted by the Clarks. This is, largely, believed to be the result of living in a racist society--a society characterized by the negative portrayal of a certain group of people. (The most recent studies still, often, have unfavorable results, but they do show a trend toward higher self-image amongst African-American children. So, that's awesome news.)

I believe that as representation of all groups grow so will self-image and community acceptance. 

For me, very few things are quite as important as narratives featuring diverse, well-rounded characters. Lots of diverse well-rounded characters. 

And there are certainly strides in that direction. Now, back to the body shape sector of body positivity...

Throughout the past few years, we've seen more "real size" and "plus size" heroines in the media. Which is exciting and refreshing. But, there are aspects of several of these narratives that make me deeply uncomfortable--things that I can accept occasionally, but, to my infinite frustration find time and time again.

My first complaint is that the majority of "plus size" models and actresses are not "plus size" people. There are exceptions, of course. Like, these models for Target's swimsuit line are fairly diverse:

But other "real body/true beauty" campaigns are less satisfying. Take for instance, Dove's "Real Beauty" Campaign:

Here, we have various heights and ethnicities, but when it comes to size, we're tapping out at about a 12-14. It's still refreshing to see a representation of women who exceed a size six, none of these women deviate too far from traditional expectations. 

I remember in 2010 being so excited when Whitney Thompson, the "plus size" contestant, won America's Next Top Model. But I also remember wanting to chuck my Seventeen magazine featuring her spread at the wall as soon as I got it. 

Here it is, by the way:

I'd been hoping to feel represented when I flipped open my magazine. I wanted to see someone shaped something like me looking gorgeous and confident. Instead I got... every guy's dream girl? I felt the way I did the first time I watched Cinderella Story, when I sat in the movie theater and wondered, "Are we really supposed to believe Chad Michael Murry didn't want to date Hilary Duff before she curled her hair and put on a dress, because we all know she was pretty to begin with."

My second complaint is that with almost every plus-size bone curvy girls get thrown, there is deafening backlash. In summer of 2014, Meghan Trainor's All About That Bass became a power anthem for curvy women all across the United States.

Now, while many women grasped onto this song, excited at the lyrical declaration that rounded women are equally desirable to their thin counterparts, there was also a sizable backlash to the hit. Meghan Trainor isn't your typical size-4 pop star, but she also isn't confined to the "plus size" section of Forever 21. Despite her fairly good physique, many an angry internet troll insulted her size and claimed she was "promoting an unhealthy lifestyle" upon the release of All About That Bass's music video. Oh, you know what? Here are a couple of concrete examples that I found earlier today:


Aw, aren't angry body shamers so adorable?

The other major negative response to Trainor's song claimed that it supported body shaming rather than body positivity because it implied men preferred curvy women and it included the line, "I'm bringing booty back/Go 'head and tell them skinny bitches that"... (Then it says "Nah I'm just playin/I know y'all think your fat" but that part usually gets left out of skinny girl laments.)

Okay. So. Don't get me wrong: I'm really fighting the urge to delve into a lyrical analysis right now. But I'll save it for another day. But for now, just remember this:

(You should check out this whole twitter rant. It's pretty spectacular.)

And if you're interested, I've talked about All About That Bass before and you can follow these links and find more of my thoughts here:

• Regarding "worth based on male approval" 1, 2
• Regarding that Natalie Kills nonsense 1, 2, (this one's not mine but it's good)
• Partial Lyrical Analysis

The third incredibly irritating "fat girl heroine" trope I see frequently is "comedic overeating." First and foremost, this is troubling because binge eating is an actual, real, unrepresented and therefore underexposed eating disorder. Making it a joke in various narratives makes it harder to recognize as a legitimate struggle for others in our society. Furthermore, one of the biggest hurdles fat people have to overcome is the assumption that they constantly overeat and are overweight because of a poor diet of hyperbolic proportions. Not only does this trope exasperate this assumption, but... since most of the women portraying plus size heroines have average body types, the unspoken message is that anyone over, like, a size six gets that way from binge eating.

Take for example... 

The Mindy Project is one of my favorite shows and I totally want to be Mindy Kaling's best friend. But, here are some quotes from and about the character Mindy Lahiri regarding comedic overeating: 

• "But a doctor told me that my metabolism is so high that I basically have to eat every hour. That doctor... was me." 
• "I've been eating for two my whole life... and now I've actually got an excuse."
• "It's my favorite kind of cake: gigantic." 
• "I already ordered for us and ate all our appetizers. Should we order more?"
• "Over the holiday, I had five hams and a goose. I am a wolf in a children's story."
• "I ate an entire loaf of bread before I came here tonight."

I could go on, but I think you see the point. And, yes, part of the actual humor lies in how far these quotes deviate from reality. Like Mindy Kaling said on Jimmy Kimmel:

Finally, the hyper sexualized larger woman joke really grates my goat. (Enough to make me use the phrase "grates my goat" which I think we can all agree is a completely bonkers idiom.) Larger women are told, starting from a very early age, that they are not the physical ideal and, as a result, they won't be wanted. The women pursued in movies and TV shows are almost always tall, thin, with very tight clothing. Songs and stories pay tribute to tight stomachs, slender features, only certain specific curvatures. When larger women are presented as an object of desire, they're typically fetishized. He likes large women as compared to He likes that woman.

I was a junior in college when I read Eleanor & Park and it was one of the first times I had ever seen a fat heroine who got to fall in love respectfully (and didn't have to lose any weight in the process). It was... life changing. 

So! Now let's talk about Sookie St. James. 

In all seven seasons of Gilmore Girls, Sookie St. James was never once forced into a spell of insecurity regarding her physical appearance. She at times was insecure about work, parenthood, and relationships. But never ever about how she looked. 

Sookie St. James is almost always in the kitchen. Because she's a chef. But she's never binge eating. When she's frantic and stressed out, she's cooking. She's decorating cakes. She's scrapping old menus and writing up new ones. In fact, it's her skinny counterparts (Rory and Lorelai) who binge out every episode and could be accused of "promoting an unhealthy lifestyle." 

Sookie St. James gets to fall in love. In a none grotesque, fetishizing or mocking way. She gets to fall in love with someone who loves her back. She gets to decide who she wants. She gets to make a move. And yes she has to spend some time fretting--but not because she ever questions her worth. Only because she worries about changing the parameters of their relationship.

Jackson is Sookie's first relationship that the audience witnesses, and it's a successful one. Imperfect, yes. They fight, and miscommunicate, occassionally lie (sometimes in pretty big "oh yeah I definitely got that vasectomy like you asked me to" ways), and sometimes hold onto anger. But ultimately their relationship is built on friendship, love, respect, and support for one another. Most of the time, they treat one another with kindness, understanding, and forgiveness.



In one season, Sookie accidentally winds up on a date with a friend from college. (She was already married and had been under the impression they were just catching up.) So, while Jackson is the only person Sookie shows any interest in, other people do show interest in her. And her size is never presented as something they have to overcome they way teary-eyed Bianca Piper accused... uh... what's the dude's name in The DUFF again? oh well doesn't matter. that guy... "You're embarrassed to be seen with me at school." And it's never something she has to overcome, the way Rae had to walk away from Finn in My Mad Fat Diary or Janet's insecurity ran her away from Eddie in October Road.

Sookie is allowed a well rounded and fulfilling life. She wants to be a chef, so she is one. She wants a husband so she gets one. She wants to pursue a business with her best friend, so she does. She wants children so she has them. She's never reduced to a punchline. She's funny and talented, hardworking and kind. Everyone in town adores her. She gets to be emotional, flawed, and insecure in ways that never weaken her.

So, see, since the first time Sookie St. James appeared on my television screen, I've had a name to hold onto. 

With Love From 2:00 in the Morning

My mind, in an almost unforgivable act of betrayal, decides that I should still be awake at 2:00 in the morning. It does this from time to time, I think, for the sole purpose of reminding me that, if and when it chooses to, it can still be a b--I mean--witch.

Insomnia used to be a daily (or, rather, a nightly) reality for me. Throughout high school and college I was all too familiar with the exhausted body and active mind. Slowly, though, it started to fade. I spent more nights sleeping, and fewer nights tossing and turning bitterly. Occasionally, though, I like to revisit the good old days.

Things always start out the same. Somewhere between 10:30 and 12:00 I crawl into bed, read my devotional, journal a bit, then snuggle in with the intention to read some of whatever book I've been intending to read but then feeling too sleepy and letting my eyelids just drift close instead. Usually, that's it. I'm out. I'm dreaming about combination church services and rodeo shows or forgetting that I'm a vegetarian and ordering a steak or breaking out when I'm supposed to go on a date and then it's morning.

But on nights like tonight my mind drifts aimlessly for awhile and then zeroes in on a problem. Sometimes that problem is some kind of physical condition--a pain in my wrist, a tightness in my chest, an ache in my head--and then I dwell on if it's real or imaginary, if it's the result of temporary factor or a permanent condition, if it's a foreboding apparition or just the byproduct of being human. Sometimes it's a state of being--footsteps upstairs, music next door, too hot or too cold--and I start to wonder if it's something that I can just ignore, something that might stop soon, or something that I'll have to try to rectify. Sometimes it's a reminder--something I'd been intending to do, money that is owed somewhere, unfinished work, unsent messages--and it brings me to stare at the ceiling and chide myself, "this is absurd, you can't do anything about it right now, just worry about it in the morning," while also feeling the inability to do anything but worry about it constantly. Eventually the problem always becomes: I'm still awake and I should be sleeping.

In all my years suffering from insomnia, I have pretty much everything to help me sleep. I've listened to calming music, and I've listened to complete silence. I've gotten up and then gone through my entire evening routine a second time. I've read. I've counted backwards and thought of colors, I've made lists. I've tried to figure out whatever boring prayer the apostles were apparently praying when they were supposed to be staying awake for Jesus but just kept falling asleep in the garden instead.

These are the most effective techniques I've found:

• Ignoring the insomnia and pretending that I'm still in the "almost asleep" phase. It's nice when this one works because it gets me to sleep the fastest. BUT it doesn't always work. If I'm having trouble sleeping and I act like I'm not, I'll either fall asleep within the next hour or so, or I'll wind up glowering at my ceiling and muttering, "This is stupid and unfair just go to sleeeeep!!" under my breath. 
• So when that doesn't work, I'll try doing as much of the stuff that I'd have to do in the morning at night so that I could sleep later. It helps because when my brain starts to complain about how I'm still awake (as though it isn't to blame), I can kind of calm it with: yes but you get to sleep innnnnnn! Plus it kind of extra-wears me out. But the down side is, sometimes I'll get done with those things and I WON'T FEEL TIRED AT ALL I'LL JUST FEEL READY FOR THE DAAAAAY!!!
• So, the most effective thing I've found is (drumroll, please)... canceling stuff. This might be, in part, the result of the almost sick pleasure I get out of canceling things, but it's an almost automatic relief. So, in the middle of the night, I send emails or texts asking to reschedule meetings or canceling appointments or asking for rain checks for coffee/lunch/whatever plans. And then, almost always, I can just burrow back under my and fall asleep. Pretty much immediately.

Tonight, of course, none of those things helped. (I can't really cancel any of my tomorrow things, so I didn't try that one.) But sometimes that happens, too. So I just try to make the most out of my extra time in the middle of the night. I actually read a bit of the book that I'd been intending to read. I make goals and challenges for myself--schedules, lists, and organizers. I write my brain quiet again. And then, at super early AM, I reset my alarm to score myself a few more minutes or hours of sleep. And then, I try it all over again. 

Just Stop Already

Whether you're twelve or twenty-four, if you're a single girl (and, especially, if your friends aren't) there's a cornucopia of advice, cliches, and comforts that people will sling at you. As you get older, they get more numerous. And more obnoxious. So, here's a few things you should just stop saying to those single girls in your life.

1. "Have you tried..." Have you tried online dating? Have you tried joining a club? Have you tried, just, talking to people at the grocery store? Have you considered joining a single's group? Honestly, unless you're going to follow that up with something really off the wall (like: "Have you considered cryogenically freezing yourself and thawing out in a couple of decades to see if you've finally come into style?") we've probably already heard your advice. From someone else, a magazine, stupid romantic comedies, or our own obnoxious internal monologues. Not only that, but we've probably heard the contrary advice as well. Have you tried wearing more makeup? Less makeup? Different makeup?
2. "You just need to put yourself out there." Oh, the proverbial "there." That shelf where you just need to be put in order to find unending love and happiness. The problem is, unless we're Shirley Temple's grumpy grandfather in Heidi, we probably are out there. Assuming "out there" is that world where we live, work, go to class, get coffee, shop, go to shows, play laser tag, walk our dogs, take dance, or do whatever it is that we do. Yes, sure, there are varying degrees to which people interact with the world around them. But, even your shyest introvert is going to be engaged to some degree. 
3. "It'll happen eventually." What's obnoxious about this little piece of placation is... you don't know that that's true. Look, I get it. You're coming from this totally genuine and kind hearted place. You probably really, really think that this person will eventually fall in love. You probably think that because you probably think that this person is swell and deserving of love and joy and what not. But, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes really great people never fall in love. Sometimes it just isn't in the cards or the plan or the whatever. What you mean is: it probably will happen eventually. But, and this is important, if it doesn't that person should get to know that that's okay, too. 
4. "Love will find you as soon as you stop looking for it!" This bit of advice is usually couched in a personal story. Somebody who had been searching for love to no avail. They were somewhere between stressed and depressed. Then, they said to themselves, "You know what? Enough is enough. I'm okay." And then BOOM! the very next day they met a handsome man at a pretzel stand, fell madly in love, got married, and that was all she wrote. I take a whole slew of issues with this bit of advice. First? It's a catch 22. If I stop looking for love in hopes that I will find it by ceasing to look for it, doesn't that, kind of inherently, mean that I'm still actually looking for it? Second: it's contrary to the advice that I'll inevitably get a week later which will be some form of "put yourself out there." Likewise, it's contrary to the cultural narrative which says: work for what you want. And, most importantly, the personal anecdotes you used as evidence really don't have anything to do with my life. They're entirely, and exclusively, related to the individuals' lives who are in the personal anecdote. 
5. Speaking of: "I had a ____________ who was _____ years old before they fell in love, but now they've been married for ______ years and they're super happy!" Of all things that make me cringe, this story might top my list. It's usually the anecdote that accompanies #4. The message is supposed to be a comfort: even if it takes a long ass time, sometime, you'll eventually fall in love. But, just because you're second cousin, Virginia, fell in love at 47, doesn't mean that I will. Furthermore: how is that a comfort? "You might be lonely for another two decades. But, like, don't give up or anything." And, most importantly, while I'm totally happy for your best friend, your great aunt, that girl you went to high school with, and the secretary at your work: your story isn't actually relevant to my life. 
6. "I think guys are just intimidated by you." I'm sorry, who am I? Sidney Bristow? Did I just miss the part where I learned another six languages and started roundhouse kicking people in the chin? Who in their right mind would be intimidated by me? I have literally cried during Parks and Rec, I have to psych myself up before making phone calls, I like woodland creature prints, and for many of my formative years my closest friend was a guinea pig. I've met more intimidating lamp shades. The "you're intimidating" bit usually comes from a friend and what it really means is: "You're a really cool person and I have no clue why you're still single." But, unfortunately, it reads a lot like: "You're a megabitch. So, despite the fact that you're smart and funny and can bake a killer pie, you'll probably be alone forever." 
7. "You're so lucky..." You're so lucky to have your free time to yourself. You're so lucky to not be dating the jerk that just mistreated me. You're so lucky to be able to play the field. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. So, true: there's almost always an upside to a given situation. And sometimes, when people aren't living out the American Dream, it's our instinct to point out the benefits to their current situation. It totally has merit, too. At least... when it's approached... well. But, when it's approached like: "As someone who has the thing that you don't have, let me just say, you don't really want the thing that you think that you want..." it's a little less helpful and a little more patronizing. So, in addition to "you're so lucky," some of the other obnoxious things you might be saying to the single women in your life include: "Just be glad" and "You don't have a boyfriend? Well, you don't want one." 
8. "Well, guys like..." This is followed up with one of two things: the shudder-inducingly cliched "self acceptance" speech, or the stupid and inane "change yourself" advice. Sometimes, there's option "C": the border-line insane hodgepodge of the two. The first one starts like, "Guys like confidence." It's usually packed full of helpful cliches like, "Just be yourself!" and kind of makes you want to tear out your hair one strand at a time. The core of the speech is the thing that's true: the right person will like you for you. But that's the thing that we all already know, which makes it a little unnecessary to actually vocalize to somebody. The latter can include... well, basically anything. "Guys like blonde hair." "Guys like soccer players." "Guys like pianists." "Guys like girls from Abercrombie and Fitch." Or "Guys think it's fly when girls stop by for the summer. (for the summer.)" The fun thing about this list is that it's totally true. But also totally false. Because what "guys like" really just boils down whatever preferences a given guy has. 

All right, look. You're a fantastic person with a nice golden heart, so you probably don't intend to push the single women in your life to the proverbial brink. The next time you speak to your niece or college roommate or sister-in-law or granddaughter, you're probably going to get the urge to comfort them about their singledom all over again. And that's totally sweet of you. But... all we ask, is that you think before you do. Some girls, are perfectly happy being single and your attempts at comforting them risk making them feel awkward or like there's something wrong with their life. There are other girls who want to be in relationships, who feel lonely or embarrassed or whatever else about being single, and there's a chance that your advice just makes them feel worse about it. The rest of us bounce between the two: happy and content to lonely to embarrassed to whatever else to happy and content all over again. (We don't really want the advice, either.) 

And the thing about whatever it is that you want to say: at the core, it's probably good, honest, and true. But the way that you present it is the problem. So, you want to tell all the single ladies out there that everything will turn out all right? Repeat after me: "I think you're awesome. So, if you want a relationship, I imagine you'll find one. But if you don't: that's okay, too. You're awesome either way." 

Say "awesome" a lot. It's one of those words that exists at the crux of amusing and disarming. That's not even advice on how to advise people on perpetual singledom. It's just regular life advice. Other good words to use: rad, groovy, super cool, supa kewl, mad-rad-bad, awesomesauce, and "like totally awesome." 

The Fly Carcass in my Water Glass

I see him there, bobbing around with the ice cubes, as cool liquid pours in between my lips. He's so small, it takes a moment to process what it is. A clump of dust. The torn off corner of a magazine page. A fleck of leaf. But there he is: wings, abdomen, little limbs. Floating. Falling apart.

I wonder how long he's been there. I've refilled this water glass several times throughout the past few days, never washing it, just rationalizing, "Only water and my lips." And, apparently, a tiny insect carcass. It would make death so indecent. Invisible walls, invisible liquid. Trapped on all sides as water filled his tiny insect lungs. Then, more water poured over his limp and soaking body and then sipped up from around him, and, later, doused once again.

Maybe, though, he's a recent development. Perhaps his lifeless corpse had fallen from the faucet the last time the glass was filled. Or maybe he dove in and drowned somewhere in the six steps from the kitchen sink to my bedroom. There's a selfish comfort to that thought: perhaps I haven't been drink dead-gnat infused water for the past three days.

But there's no comfort where he's concerned. Even if his death hadn't been ignored and neglected for that long, his body would be disposed of the same way: washed down a drain. No proper acknowledgement of his existence. No fire or burial or chance to let his energy be absorbed by an amphibian foe.

Even this obituary of sorts is an acknowledgment of death and discovery; not of life or accomplishment. And isn't that just the way? Think of the hundreds of thousands and tens of millions of people who once were faces and names and favorite colors and first kisses and weird party tricks and whispers and laughs but now live only as numbers in textbooks or sad statistics in the news paper.

Maybe it's the liberal beat of my bleeding heart but I can't help but mourn for this little monster, submerged and suffocated. Maybe it's the familiarity I feel, remembering the times that I've seen the world where I feel valued and supported turn hostile, indifferent, and duplicitous. Surely, this has happened to us all. Safe, secure, and in the midst of the pleasure that is flight our air becomes water, our wings immersed and unusable, our lungs slowly filling.

I don't say any words as I wash the fly, the water, and the melting ice down the drain in the kitchen. He probably deserved more. This creature.

Created, after all.

The Wishing Well

I am almost remarkably bad at wanting things.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I want things. But, like, general concepts of things. I want a career. I want a career where I can create, make people laugh, help people, make empowered decisions, put things together, and organize things. (That sounds weird, I know, but I think it's really, really fun to organize stuff.) I want a relationship. I want a relationship with a guy who is kind and funny and smart and mostly level headed. I want a house. I want a house with a porch and hardwood floors and a bay window. I want a pet rabbit. Or maybe a guinea pig. Or a small dog. Something like that.

So, see, I'm good at liking dreams of things and outlines. I'm good at thinking up characteristics and sketchy blueprints in my mind. I'm good at staring off into space, wistfully, crashing back to reality, and sighing, "Someday."

But when it gets to be concrete, when there are specifics involved, I get... knocked off kilter.

I once wanted a dog. A specific dog. I had jokingly harassed my parents about getting this dog for years. He was old, a cairn terrier, and perpetually happy. His name was "Yoshi" and he was missing some (or maybe all?) of his teeth so his tongue hung limp out of his mouth. I knew, when I lived with them, that my parents wouldn't let me get a pet of any kind. So for years I wanted this dog, but I wanted him in a light and noncommittal way, with just a pinch of insincerity.

This is Yoshi, by the way. As you can see: he is very cute. You can't see his tongue in this picture but I think that's just because of the angle. 

A few months ago, I had the realization that I didn't live with my parents any more and that meant that I really could get Yoshi. And then? I really wanted him. It was my most frequently recurring thought. I scoured the Furry Kids Refuge page but couldn't find him anywhere. Not as an adoptable dog, not as an adopted dog, and not on the memorial page. I started searching other local rescues, but couldn't find him anywhere. I felt sick and sad almost constantly, until my dad, who is somehow always in the loop when it comes to Furry Kids Refuge, told me that Yoshi had been adopted. 

I imagined him trotting around in a backyard somewhere, getting showered with affection, and I consented that his life was probably better with whoever his new owners are than it would have been living with a perpetually busy 24 year old on the second story in an apartment building. 

Sometimes disappointment is the only relief from desire. 

In my last blogpost, I talked about praying that God would change the desires of my heart to align with his plans for my life. I think this is a solid quest because God's plans are guaranteed to come to fruition, and I would like to be happy and excited when they do. This prayer has always referred to the more general desires of my heart because, as previously mentioned, I'm pretty bad at wanting specific things. 

Lately, though, concrete desires have been at play and so the nature of my prayers have changed. I still ask for my wants and God's plans to align, but, there's a lot more of "I think I'm going insane" thrown in there. A sense of urgency I'd never included before. "Lord, I want this one, this time, and I think I might be going crazy, so if it's not going to happen, or even if it's not going to happen soon, could replace that desire with something else like now please please please??" 

My problem with wanting specific things is that my life feels so askew when I do. My mind keeps wandering back to the same places. I can feel my heart and stomach tying themselves into anxious knots. I'll start to pull out my hair and rip off my nails. It's like I'm drunk on a poorly mixed cocktail of hope, disappointment, nerves, and longing.