30 for 30 Day 4: Overcoming my fear of public running

Day 4*
Progress toward goal: -5 lbs
Workout: Run/walk around the lake

I should preface this post by saying I have a slight phobia of running in public. I used to frequent a popular lake in town, but was scarred for life when some college guys drove by and yelled, "SLUT!" loudly at me.

Excuse me? I was about as modestly dressed as one can possibly be while walk/running around a lake. So much in fact I was wearing a hoodie.

That experience, combined with a story of other college guys throwing eggs at runners around that lake, pretty much made me think running was the IRL equivalent to posting a video on YouTube and waiting for all the trolls.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

Lately, though, I've been dipping my toe in the pool of public exercise. I walk around the lake near my office building during my lunch break, I walk occasionally around the lake by my apartment building - but rarely do I actually run. Today, however, I did.

I should warn you that I cannot tell you how much I ran in how many minutes because that is not at all how I measure these things. What I can tell you is I ran from the garbage can to the fifth light pole in the distance, walked three light posts, then ran to that group of ducks.

It's very high-level, expert runner stuff.

What I found during my somewhat minimal amount of running is that it's not too bad. I made sure my headphones were blaring in case of a drive-by troll, but ultimately I was just able to clear my mind and focus on my breathing. Sure, when I actually saw an experienced runner I'm not going to lie and say I didn't feel self-conscious. Because I totally did. But I guess the point is, I kept going anyway (I mean, I had no other choice. I had to get back home.)

How's your 30 for 30 going? Is there an exercise you've felt too self-conscious to ever try? You name it, and I'm sure I felt or feel the same way!

*I did walk around the lake on Day 3 during my lunch break, so the 30 minutes happened! I just didn't have time to blog about it, unfortunately. It wasn't too exciting anyways. Mostly, I kept notes on all the ducks and geese who do not give a single F about drivers and will galavant in the middle of the road at their leisure.

30 for 30 Day 2: POP Pilates & Other Musings

Day 2
Progress toward goal: -5 lbs*
Workout: Pilates

Today I got a late start on my 30 minutes of physical activity. So late that it came after a cocktail and three episodes of Bloodline that I watched in rapid succession with my boyfriend.

I almost didn't do it guys. Could you imagine - day 2 and I already gave up? What an anti-climactic fitness journey that would have been. It would be like not making it to the makeover episode of Biggest Loser. Like, what is even the point?!

Determined, I decided to replace the 30 minutes I would usually take in the evening to read the news and brush up on some literary canons (JK, I mean looking at cat memes and sending the funniest ones to my best friend and mom in a group chat) with pilates.

My experience with pilates is limited to the Autumn Calabrese 21 Day Fix version, which I do enjoy. Ironically enough though, I was too lazy to locate the dvd tonight so I ended up doing a workout by Blogilates.

If you've never watched Blogilates before, I recommend it. She creates super quick fitness videos that actually seem feasible. Five minutes for a better butt? Sure, why not!

Tonight I did her Slim n' Sculpt Beginner's POP Pilates video twice (it's 13-ish minutes of actually working out - I know, I know, I'm missing 4 minutes. However, I do walk to and from work so I figured it works out in the end).

The workout had a few moves I was used to doing from the 21 Day Fix videos, only there wasn't a slightly chubby, out-of-shape older woman doing modifications in the background like I'm accustomed to. So full disclosure, this was a pretty hard workout. Super fast, but sort of intense.

If you try it, I want you to know it's okay if you can't do everything she does. In fact, here's a list of how I handled the most challenging moves:

• Roll-ups - immediately I thought, "This isn't going to happen." Basically you lie flat on the floor and simply roll up into a sitting position. Instead of rolling up gracefully, I sort of rocked myself back to gain momentum and then launched myself upright. I did not feel bad about this.
• Bridge Single-Legged Leg Lift - These really hurt, but they hurt in that way you know it's working. Sort of that feeling you get after doing 5 crunches and your stomach just feels like a six pack has formed. I had to pause the video for a minute and I know for sure I did not come close to as many reps as she did.
• The "Elbows Together" move - the second time through I thought, this is it. I'm going to die. Again, I took a quick break. No shame.

So Day 2 is down. Tomorrow will be a challenge for me. I'm going to try and wake up early enough to go on a run/walk (mostly walk) before work. If I don't get the activity in early, it likely won't happen since I have plans tomorrow night. SO MUCH PRESSURE.

How was your first (or second) day doing 30 for 30?

 *I weighed myself today after not weighing myself in two weeks and, surprisingly, I am already 5 pounds down! Only 15 more to go! If you're interested, I've been using the My Fitness Pal app to track my calories. My username is hiamandarae if you'd like to be friends!

30 for 30 for 30

Happy June, everyone.

As Summer approaches, I'm sure, like me, you're hitting up Pinterest for all the arm exercises you'll do in between the fruity cocktails inspired by Disney princesses you'll be making. It's great how optimistic we are about things - like, sure, I'll make that chocolate-caramel-deep-fried cheesecake right before I go on that four-month juice cleanse so I'm bikini ready. Life is about balance after all.

Despite my best pinning efforts, the weight has not miraculously fallen off. Which is what I expected after I pinned that recipe for a green smoothie. But now I realize simply pinning recipes and workouts aren't working, so I'm actually trying to lose weight - not for summer, not for a bikini body (if you want to wear a bikini, just do it!) but for like, life. And I really want to meet my goal before my birthday.

My birthday.

My 30th birthday.

(I don't think there's a font menacing enough to really convey the sense of dread here. Maybe Chiller?)

It's not that I think I'll self destruct in late September, leaving behind only tears and my Pinterest board as a reminder of everything I didn't accomplish. (I mean, okay. In all honesty, those Buzzfeed lists that suggest things you need to do/read/eat/go before 30 freak me out. I can still go bungee jumping in Thailand while reading a Lauren Conrad novel and eating spicy food past 9 p.m. once I'm 30, OKAY. Get out of my life forever, lists promoting ageism!)

But rather, I just want to greet this milestone feeling my best. And to feel better, I sort of want to see this thing through. Because let's face it, I haven't seen much through lately. Blogging has been a nightmare, reading before bed has been replaced by me lazily scrolling through Instagram, and I've lowered my expectations of hitting 10,000 steps a day so much that I'm happy if I even stand up while at work. I have to do something and stick with it!

So, like any sane person, I took advice from a random user commenting on a Youtube video. Tamigotchi90sgrl* suggested that if you want to stick to anything, you should share your goal with others so they hold you accountable. To the three people who read my blog: I'm counting on you!

And like any other sane person, I got inspiration for my first little initiative while lazily scrolling through Instagram.

#30for30 (for 30).

Starting today, do 30 minutes of activity every day for the next 30 days (in preparation of your 30th birthday, if you're me). If you're totally happy not doing the physical activity thing, do something else. Read 30 minutes every day for 30 days. Write. Play music. Spend quality time with your family.

My #30for30 will include the physical activity and the blogging about it. I'm going to try and test out different workouts and report back. If you don't hear from me, it's very likely I've broken something.

Me. 

Day 1

Goal: lose 20 pounds

Progress toward goal: None, get off my back it's day 1

Workout today: Yoga

If you're playing along with #30for30, let me know what you're doing. Because, you know, I'm nosy like that.

*Name has been changed to protect the commenter.

Diary of a Three Day Stair Stepper

We stood silently in front of the yellow flyer that had been crudely taped to the elevator door. The corners had been ripped, evidence of the door’s frequent opening and closing.

“This is going to suck,” my neighbor finally said.

“Uh, yep.” I replied.

The elevator would be down for three days.

THREE.

DAYS.

As a resident of the seventh floor, this was life altering. Suddenly I found myself creating a list of all the things I couldn’t do over the next three days. This list was compiled much quicker than I anticipated, but consisted of: Laundry. A week’s worth of grocery shopping. Bringing items that required two hands to carry into my apartment.

It was unreasonable to be asked to give up that list of three things for three days.

But since I’ve been regularly attending spin class, naturally I felt the same level of physical confidence going into this week as someone who’s been intensely training for American Ninja Warrior. I could climb seven flights of stairs multiple times a day.

Day 1

Already I’m over the time it takes me to get downstairs.  I don’t go home on my lunch break so I’m saved the midday climb. However, trekking home from the end of a long day at work, I momentarily forget the elevator is down until I see the exasperated face of a dog-owning tenant. “This is harder than I thought,” he says as he passes by me.

I start the climb and pass another resident around the third floor. “Seven, right?” she says. We’ve apparently taken to referring to each other by floor levels, like we’re from respective districts in the Hunger Games.

I solemnly nod my head and she replies grimly, “I feel you girl. Eight.”

Around floor five it hits me I may just die in the stairwell. What’s even more horrifying than death though is someone passing me in this panting, vulnerable state so I soldier onward until I see the seven.  I swing open the door and pray I don’t run into anyone.

When my boyfriend comes over later, I once again find myself close to death on the fifth floor. “Can you just carry me,” he calls from behind me. I laugh, but it comes out as a gush of air from my lungs followed by a cough. Like pioneers clinging to life during the harsh winter, I feel like this challenge will only strengthen our love for one another.

Day 2

I leave for work and find someone resting in the lobby. “Taking a rest,” he says. I nod understandably and walk out into the morning fog. He looks out the window, surely thinking of fonder times when he didn’t have to take a rest in the lobby.  I imagine him writing a Civil War-style letter to the girl he had to leave behind upstairs.  

Dearest Gwendolyn,

I am afraid I have fallen under a terrible spell of lethargy and do not know if I have the strength to carry myself upstairs. I pray that someone stronger than myself will deliver these words to you.

With all my love,

Brad

Hard times have fallen upon us. These are dark days.

I go straight from work to school. When I come home (following some added challenges courtesy of my vehicle) I lead my friend to the staircase and he trips immediately as we begin our ascent. I keep going – “Be careful,” I call behind me. I’ve been hardened by my experiences. I’m like that old guy from every adventure movie who’s too calloused to react to others’ naivety. One thing I’ve learned is you just keep going.

Day 3

I find a hairnet between the fifth and fourth floor. I’m so overcome with curiosity that I trip and almost tumble forward down the stairs.  Like, where did it come from? Does someone moonlight as a lunch lady?

The day at work is long but unlike yesterday, I do not forget I have to climb the stairs when I come home. I’m actually already calculating the amount of times this will happen. Once when I first get home, then again after I get home from spin class, one more time after my boyfriend comes over and then shit, I remember we wanted to get takeout, so that’s a total of four trips up and down seven flights of stairs.

I’m mentally preparing myself for this harsh reality when I enter the lobby of my apartment building. And then I hear it – the distinct whooshing of elevator cables moving (I’m actually not sure if the cables are actually making that noise, but in my mind, that’s what is happening.)

There’s a fresh pink piece of paper taped to the door. Elevator is up and running.  I delightfully hit the up arrow and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And eventually give up because it takes too long and just take the damn stairs instead.

Obligatory New Year's Post

Hey guys.

I'm writing you from my couch as I, for whatever weird reason, have fallen victim to CMT's top 20 countdown. And, I don't even like this music. But what I do like are the music videos and how unapologetically terrible they are. Cue girl in white cotton dress wearing cowboy boots while this guy sings/stalks her from a tractor. Like, hey guy, you're weird. Get back to work. Why are you singing? Why's this girl frolicking in a field that's clearly about to be plowed? None of this makes sense--this is not real life.

Real life is sitting in front of your TV while your severely swollen ankle is on ice because you sprained it on New Year's Eve. Seriously. I had wonderful plans of going to spin class, you know, kicking the year off right and instead my foot looks like it belongs to the ugly step-sister who's trying to shove it into the dainty glass slipper.

Cute. Cankles are so cute, right? I hear they're trending for 2015.

Since I am currently in a position on my couch that can only be described with the hashtag #whateverwherearethecheetos, I figured I'd do something semi-productive like blog.

So, happy new year. 2015, where did you even come from? I mean, it's 10 years since I graduated high school. TEN YEARS.

TEN. YEARS.

How did that even happen? How did I become 28? Time is a strange thing. Especially this past year, with all the changes I've made and the ones that have made me, it seems like days, weeks, months are now defined by deadlines and meetings and plans I scribble down in planners because I actually need planners now. And then suddenly, it's 2015 and I need a new one.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy. Actually happier than I've been in a long time, but I really feel sad that things seem to be just a blur of happenings anymore. My mother warned me about this--the older you get, the quicker things pass you by.

And that terrifies me.

So, my resolution for this year is not going to be the usual (even though, once this fat-faced, ugly step sister cankle heals itself, I am at that spin class!), instead I'm opting for actually taking time to do things I want to do. Seriously. And I know that sounds cliche, but once you really sit down and think about everything we do on a daily basis, how much of it is exactly what you want?

Here's to writing in fro-yo and Food Network Magazine time into your planner. Mini hikes so you can pretend you're as badass as Cheryl Strayed. Or even blogging, and not because your ankle is fat and misshapen, but because you actually make the time to do it.

Here's to 2015--make it your year, y'all! Even if it's just twenty minutes at a time.

Happy Friday from Wednesday

So, hey, it's been a while.

Let me just get that out there. After my several empty attempts at creating a writing schedule so I could stay consistent I, well, pretty much fell off the face of the earth.

Some of you may have been wondering if I reactivated my OK Cupid account and somehow fell victim to the pixelated charms of Sasquatch (you know, it's the classic Beauty and the Beast love story), leading to my doomed fate of dying alone in the forest at night with only the dim glow of Sasquatch's Nokia flip phone from 2003 illuminating my tragic surroundings as he takes a selfie, then filters it through Instagram with the hashtag #lovekills.

Thankfully, that didn't happen.

What has happened is I have a new job as a marketing coordinator (side note: when I first got this job, that's basically how I wanted to introduce myself until someone punched me in the face. Like, "Hi, my name is Amanda and I'm a marketing coordinator. Yes, I'll have a tall iced coffee, please.") and a new boyfriend who does not live in the forest or take unrecognizable selfies with an antiquated mobile device.

Shit's kind of together at the moment, which is weird for me. And this is why I feel like I haven't had much fuel for writing. As you know, most of my anecdotes are based on embarrassing social tragedies or how depressed I am at work. Not that the social tragedy thing doesn't happen any more (believe me, on the daily) but I'm sort of content.

And it's sad that I can't write when I'm happy. Yet another reason I believe I am truly like Wednesday Addams. I mean, right now I'm happy in life, but sad that I can't write when I'm happy. So technically, what's making me write even now is sadness.

What's wrong with me?

The point is, I was shopping on ModCloth. I know, you totally saw that sentence coming because it makes so much sense in the context of this post.

But seriously, that's what happened. I was shopping on ModCloth and I saw this book titled, "Do Something Every Day That Scares You." Of course at first I thought, pfft, ridiculous. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I am terrified of pretty much everything, so to do this wouldn't necessarily require me jumping out of airplanes or sword swallowing. I could, I don't know, go to a sit-down restaurant alone. Enroll in a class at the museum. Wear harem pants.

And then I realized I hadn't blogged in quite sometime. It was in this moment that a little wisp of sadness made its way from my heart and to my keyboard. I could write about doing something that scares me every day. (Okay, maybe not every day, but you get the point.)

So, that's where I'm at. I'm going to wear harem pants. And be really scared and sad. And then write about it.

Friday Night Writes & Other Things At 3 AM

So, it's 3 AM and yes, I realize I just started this blog post by unintentionally quoting a Matchbox Twenty song.

I've had issues sleeping pretty much all week, which is a terrible affliction to be plagued with when your job requires you to be awake for eight consecutive hours. Last night, for example, I had a nightmare that all my close friends finally got their dream occupations and I was still the one wandering around blindly, nurturing my sanity by doodling nonsensical things at my desk and filtering photos of my coffee through Instagram. Even mid-nightmare, I was in emotional duress because I wanted to be happy for my friends but at the same time, I wanted them to be unhappy with me.

It was horrifying. (And man was I glad when I woke up to realize we were all still miserable.)

It doesn't help that I've already failed to blog at least twice a month. I really wanted to use this platform as some sort of representation of what I'm capable of to potential employers, but, I mean, stream-of-conscious writing at 3 AM isn't too impressive.

So, I'm thinking about creating a writing schedule (this also has the potential to serve as a convenient excuse for getting out of social interactions I have no interest being a part of--sorry, it's "Friday Night Writes!" Gotta go home and write stuff by myself without you there!) Right now may be the prime time to do this because I seem to be creating more structure in my life. Like, I have that My Fitness Pal app and a workout schedule AND I purposely went up and down the stairs at work 10 times on my break (and it was only on the 10th time down that I encountered someone in the stairwell and really wanted to explain that I wasn't severely out of breath from only walking down two flights of stairs, but rather my inability to breathe and sweaty appearance was because I had been working out hard core on levels they wouldn't understand.)

We'll see. I have a planner and a calendar and a pen to write stuff on the pages. But, I also have a Pinterest account and apparently, insomnia. And on that note, here's a photo I found that made me laugh way too hard.

P.S. It's now 4 AM. Cool.

It's 2014 and I Need a Little Help from my Friends

Love this drawing. "Smart Girl" by Samantha Hahn

Each new year, I shoo away the idea of resolutions like I would the persistent nagging of a housefly that won’t stop buzzing in my ear. While there’s a part of me secretly feeling that same sense of renewal experienced by the masses when confetti pops at 12, there’s a larger, less whimsical part of me that thinks, “Well, every day is technically a new year--it’s exactly a year from this date last year” and suddenly the glitter of the confetti dulls and I’m back to shrugging my shoulders, drinking champagne because it’s Wednesday.

Which admittedly, is weird. I am a very whimsical girl who enjoys holidays and planning and list-making--but for some reason, New Year’s has never been something I looked at with a celebratory eye.

This year, however, I actually felt like maybe I could have a real, true, meaningful resolution. No, it’s not to renew my OK Cupid profile and be courted by that one guy who has the Nokia flip-phone and likely unreliable internet access in the murderous woods he resides--it was to blog at least twice a month. Or specifically, to create a blogging schedule.

The thing that you readers may or may not have noticed about my writing style is that, well, I have little-to-no direction. I write when I feel like it about what I feel like.

For example: this post came dangerously close to being a dramatic narrative of how I sprained my ankle this weekend on an acorn.

I have lots of interests, though. I obsess over record collecting, piecing together outfits and decorating my tiny apartment with thrift store finds. I’d like to avoid being pigeon-holed into a theme, but part of me wonders if I’d be more diligent with my writing if I had a clear direction each time I sat down.

I know a lot of you do enjoy my little amusing stories about the misfortunes I come across during day-to-day living, breathing, walking, dating--but what else would you like to see from me? Decorating? Style? Cooking? Knife Throwing?

What’s the other blog post going to be about each month?

Ribbons & Glitter & Writing Through Insecurities

Such a relief, right?

After wrapping three gifts and feeling completely exhausted with the Christmas spirit, I decided to take a break and do something I haven’t done for some time—write a blog post.

So while my tiny living room sits littered with glittery ribbons and wrapping paper pieces that will inevitably drift under my couch, not to be discovered until I get that random excess of energy to actually move the couch when cleaning, I lie on the floor of my apartment, staring at a blinking cursor, thinking about how I could have done 30 minutes of cardio by now. I know—the scene is so literary that I’m basically Jane Austen.

It’s strange because unlike this time last year, when I was blogging the most, a lot has happened within the last few months that I could have written pages about. The problem is, I’ve struggled with how candid I want to be on here.

For example, should I talk about that guy I went out with who blew my phone up and seemed really into me and then oddly disappeared? This clearly vulnerable moment is easy (alright, not really easy, but tolerably okay) for me to laugh about now, but right after I realized he didn’t like me (which was basically an hour after he didn’t respond to my text. I refuse to be that delusional girl making excuses for why a guy won’t text her back. Seriously girls, I know it sucks, but let’s be honest with ourselves—he has service, he isn’t busy, and he didn’t go on a camping trip where he fumbled his phone into the river) I went through that awful checklist that we all neurotically analyze following rejection: Everything That’s Wrong With Me That Guys See And Hate (this was also what I planned on titling my memoir in my darkest moments.)

I mean, some of these dating experiences would probably be humorous and healing to write through, but at the same time, it’s my life. Which is, you know, my actual life and not the plot the heroine in a romantic comedy is seeing to fruition. I am also one of those girls who, despite the incredible pace of my mind, will meet any guy’s flippancy or aloofness with an equal amount of indifference. Yet another reason I can’t risk blogging an experience that I’m trying to give the impression I care nothing about.

So, even though I probably won’t be blogging about my unfortunate dates or guys who move way too fast and cause me nightmares about being tricked into marrying them (this nightmare did happen), I’m going to make a habit of blogging again.

Not sure if anyone’s interested in my little voice on this little platform, but I’m here to Live, Cry, Laugh, Cry, Love, Cry, Laugh-So-Hard-You-Cry**, with you.

**I wish home interior signs or “about me” sections just told the truth. Let’s face it—there’s a lot of crying in life and during sentimental holiday commercials.

Online Dating, Jerky Guys & Me

Alright.

So tonight, following a vulnerable afternoon and a vow to never allow myself to be attracted to jerky guys who toy with my emotions ever again (as if that’s something I can truly control without, I don’t know, therapy) I decided to entertain the idea of online dating.

This lasted about five minutes.

My fear of online dating has a lot to do with the fact I’m afraid of everything. I’m wildly insecure (while simultaneously thinking I’m better than everyone else—cute, right?) and basically assume strangers are all psychopaths hell-bent on murdering me. This paranoia is courtesy of my mother, who has consistently reinforced her personal theory that strangers are all psychopaths hell-bent on murdering me. So, it should be no surprise that the idea of meeting someone off a website is terrifying.

During dinner with my dear friend, Kacie, she tempted me to sign up for OK Cupid with the one thing she knew I’d fall for—a personality quiz a la Seventeen magazine.

Uh, duh. I have to know if I’m the “Girl Next Door” or the “Classic Romantic.” These things are important.

Whether this suggestion was a result of me ranting about jerky guys and their emotionally confusing signs for the millionth time or if it had more to do with my admission of becoming teary-eyed during that “Every Dog’s A Champion” commercial for Pedigree dog food (I’m sure as a friend, this concerned her), I still took it to heart considering my other dear friend, Jen, had just suggested the same dating alternative earlier.

It was a sign.

So once I got home, I hit the site up.

It was somewhat smooth sailing until I was almost done with the quiz and OK Cupid decided to show me a possible 90% love connection in my area.

This would have been great and totally normal for a dating site had my match been maybe, I don't know, a normal photo of a normal looking guy and not what can only be described as a blurry action shot of Sasquatch in the woods taken on someone’s Nokia flip-phone in 2004.

I mean, what? Come on, Ok Cupid.

It’s great that my match is showing me where he’ll drag me when I get murdered, but the pixilation and weird dimness is really getting in the way of identifying him to police.

So, in world-record time I’m sure, I disabled my Ok Cupid account. And when asked for a reason by the site, I selected, “Met someone!”

I mean, I will eventually, right?

**And I think the fact I didn’t delete the account (deleting is permanent, so says OK Cupid) is a step toward “getting myself out there.” So, if it doesn’t work out with this guy I told OK Cupid I was leaving them for, I can come back any time and pick things back up with Sasquatch. 

When Life Gives You Lemons, Sometimes You Cry in the Lemonade While You're Making It

So, today sucked.

There’s really no other way to adequately articulate that. I woke up at 5 a.m. with a splitting headache that I’ve battled all day, I was given some disappointing professional news and the maintenance guy in my building saw me crying on the elevator.

And I really didn’t want to establish such an intimate relationship with the maintenance guy.

After burying myself under piles of blankets and self-pity for the majority of the morning, I waded through my migraine and eventually pulled myself to an upright position.

I know before long this disappointing day will just be a blip on my timeline, but it’s always difficult dealing with disappointment—and I always seem to struggle with how to react.

This harkens back to the fact I’m severely self-aware, so it’s no surprise I’m always afraid that if I show my true blue, pouting sadness to the outside world, I’ll be quickly discredited as an emotionally immature brat who can’t handle adulthood.

So that’s why I retreat and internalize things for fear of coming off as petty and juvenile. Or I laugh away the sincerity of my hurt because I know there are way bigger issues out there than what I’m dealing with today.

But the truth is, it sucks when things don’t work out the way you thought they would. Whether it’s job promotions, relationships, or realizing a day too late that your Kohl’s cash has expired, disappointment is disappointment—I don’t think it’s awful to admit that you’re momentarily overcome with pout face.

I think what does matter is how you recoup, though. I mean, as temporarily healing as it may be to eat Nutella straight out of the jar while watching reruns of Bridezillas, it’s likely not the best first step to pulling yourself together.

I instead opted for my tried and true method of revealing too much about my emotional complicacies on my blog. And I’m already feeling a little better.

Stories from the Self-Aware

Being self-aware means you live your life as both an active and inactive participant. Like, you could be sitting with a group of people trying to engage or connect in any way you can, while there’s another part of you sitting at another table alone, watching how uncomfortable you look--cringing at how many times you shift awkwardly in your seat just so you have something to do other than vacantly staring off into space.
 

It’s weird.
 

And as a result, most self-aware people are pretty weird, too.
 

Sometimes I like being self-aware because I’m the first one to admit when I’m being awkward. Listen, I know it. But another part of me wishes I could just relax and embrace my awkwardness and make it endearing like in rom-coms starring Reese Witherspoon.
 

But then I remember my life is not a romantic comedy and scripted awkwardness is way cuter than my reality. So I'm back to fidgeting with my hair and scanning the room for the 100th time as though I'm conducting a thorough inventory of every wall ornament in the place.
 

This is mostly why I refrain from social situations that don’t involve people I’ve known for a minimum of 10 years. I feel like my entire tone is somewhat apologetic while I’m out. Like, “Sorry guys, I don’t know how to behave when I’m around people! Sorry I can’t participate in this conversation because I’m sheltered and have no idea what you’re talking about! Sorry I keep bringing up how awkward I seem because I need everyone to know that I’m aware of it, too! Sorry I just did that weird thing with my arms that was supposed to be dancing!”
 

See, to most people, none of this ever even crosses their minds. At all. And if it did, they’d likely not admit it for fear of seeming neurotic or socially inept. But, I’m a writer. While all this is happening, I’m thinking of ways to translate it to paper so I can in some way transform my social tragedies into something productive.
 

And in that, is the good thing about being self-aware; you're also hyper aware of those around you. I feel like I have a really good sense of people that developed from years of being the wallflower. It’s probably why I’ve been writing stories since I learned how to write my name—my characterizations are based on what I observe from people around me.
 

So, I pretty much know when someone else feels awkward, too. Or when they’re trying too hard. Or when they’re bullshitting me.
 

The thing is, I never call them out on it. (I mean, why would I? That would be awful.) So, I write about myself. And I take these attributions I observe in others and assign them to various characters in various novels I write at various times of the night when I can’t sleep.
 

I’m sure I'm probably way too candid about these things on my blog, but it’s all in hopes that maybe someone, somewhere can silently relate in some way.
 

And if not, well, then I guess this is all really embarrassing and a complete waste of time and made everyone who I know in real life kind of uncomfortable.
 

At least I’m aware enough to realize it though, right?

Listening to The Smiths & Thinking Morrissey Is Your Boyfriend

I knew this girl in college who was a friend of a kind-of friend, who claimed to be completely obsessed with The Smiths.

I didn’t realize this was a thing until college. Girls being into The Smiths. Not that it should be uncommon—The Smiths are great and gender shouldn’t define a person’s interests—it’s just I questioned the sincerity of certain girls’ infatuation with this band.

See, this girl was really peppy and into anime and stuffed animals with big doll eyes—all things that terrified me during my late teens and early twenties. It didn’t make sense—how could she possibly relate to Morrissey? I was quiet and soft-spoken and a smidge broody. I was the one who decorated her dorm room with things like Miles Davis posters and wrote melodramatic sayings like “Teenage Wasteland” on the tongue of her converse sneaker. Morrissey was singing to me, clearly.

The point is, this girl made me dislike The Smiths for a while. In my mind, all these freshmen girls who had just discovered Urban Outfitters and coffee houses and boys with black-framed glasses, were tainting the band (not to mention stealing the cute boys wearing black-framed glasses. I'm looking directly at you, blonde guitar player in my Economics class. I will never forgive you for persuading that bespectacled, dark-haired classmate with the right amount of facial hair to sit near the front of the class when for so long he sat near me at the back of the class.) I felt like if I said, “Yeah,  ‘I Know It’s Over’ is one of my favorite songs” real music enthusiasts would smile blankly and turn the other way, rolling their eyes like John Cusack in “High Fidelity.”

And having John Cusack circa “High Fidelity” not take me seriously was too much to bear.

But, a funny thing happened when I grew up—I realized I was an idiot. Once something becomes popular, it doesn’t mean it’s complete garbage that everyone should shun. It makes me embarrassed to think there was a time in my life when I allowed my elitism to shut out The Smiths. Today, I came across them in my library and decided to have a listen again.

And I realized their melodies and melodrama will always have a place in my heart, even if the majority of their fan base is now a result of “500 Days of Summer.” That movie was awesome, anyways.

Things That Worry Me About Having My Picture Taken

Posed photo shoots terrify me. It's not like the photos I have full control of on my Facebook page. It's not like I can filter the shots through a Nashville haze on Instagram, then blur out the background and darken the edges so all that's shining through is an outline of my eye. I mean, the photographer may actually get a full shot of my face when it's not tilted slightly to the left--a pose I rely heavily on in every photograph I've ever taken ever.

See, in my mind, posed photo shoots are like when you went to the Sears Portrait Studio in 7th grade to get BFF portraits done with your bestie (wearing matching overalls with one of the straps undone to make you look extra cool.) It's like your Senior yearbook picture--you know, the one where you're holding a rose in front of crushed velvet draping because that says elegance and maturity.

I realize my fears are completely stupid and outdated and based largely on traumatizing pictures from years gone by, but an impending, legitimate photo shoot I'm participating in (combined with my natural inclination to panic over anything that may draw attention to me via a median I have no control over) has pushed me to blog.

Things That Worry Me About Having My Picture Taken:

What do I do with my hands? Will someone give me direction or will I have to improvise? If left to my own devices, I'm likely to forget how I normally stand and will instead opt for a completely unnatural look of discomfort.

Will my smile be weird? I mean, how will I know for sure if I'm smiling like a normal person if the photograph isn't being taken on my Macbook?

Will they have me do something corny like put my hand under my chin while I lean on a Roman-esque podium? I think this has a lot to do with the trauma endured from my Senior portraits.

Will people be looking at me while I get my photo taken? That's out of the question. Even the photographer needs to look the other way.

Will I look like a chubby amoeba monster? This is a fictional, amoeba-shaped monster I just created that is every woman's nightmare in every picture she will ever take. This is also what they see staring back at them in that horrible yet inevitable photo their friend will tag them in on Facebook without their permission.

Even despite my list of fears, I have to admit I'm a smidge excited. I mean, it's mostly fear and anxiety, but somewhere deep down there's a hopefulness that I will not look like an idiot. Maybe the photographer can capture that somehow?

Writing Samples and Mosaic Ideas

"If she was being honest with herself, she wanted to punch him right in the face. It was petty and unwarranted and she knew he wasn't even close to being hers, but she still felt incredibly hurt. She wanted to punch him, then immediately nurse his wounds. She wondered why a combination of violent hysteria and wild mood swings couldn't be a desirable quality in women.

She thinks about him at the end of the day as she nods robotically to motion some sort of consciousness in a conversation she won't remember later. She wishes she could offer up generic responses, but she can't make her mouth form the words so she remains unspeaking and tries to tune out the sound of nothing being loudly discussed ."

So, that's a tiny snippet of what I've been working on lately. I have this really horrible habit of just jotting down small thoughts or scenes or blips of dialogue randomly, without any idea of where it will find itself in the grand scheme of this novel.

I've been toying with the idea of doing something really out there with this piece, but I can't seem to reign myself in enough to focus on how to approach it. If any of you are familiar with mosaic writing, that's what I'm thinking about.

Completely random bits of a novel coming together to create one cohesive story. Like a mosaic.

But, I can't seem to even find where to begin. How do all these writers do it? How do they have the endurance, the focus and the time to write something amazing? I just hope one day, it all comes together for me.

What do you think of my mosaic idea, reader? Does the snippet I offered even mildly entice you into reading more?

Adventures in Rooftop Writing

Whoa! That's the most radical place ever, right?!

The building I live in has this rooftop terrace that overlooks downtown. You’d think that as I resident I’d take full advantage of this really wonderful commodity, but nope. I typically only visit the rooftop in the following situations:

1. If there’s fireworks. I mean, let’s face it—there’s no cooler place to be during a fireworks show than on a rooftop somewhere.

2. If it’s the first time someone’s been to my apartment. Admittedly, I become a stiff tour guide with first-time visitors so I feel it’s my duty to take them up there. (Which, I’m now realizing I handle that moment really awkwardly, too. Instead of grabbing a glass of wine and saying, “Hey, you guys wanna hang out on the rooftop?” I opt for the weird apartment stand-around where everyone stands around while I motion to different things and say the obvious, “Yep, there’s my stove and there’s my couch.” Then I abruptly turn back toward the door and say, “Well, let me show you the rooftop terrace.” You know, not like I’m talking to friends but rather to complete strangers who I’m obligated to show the most attractive parts of the building to in hopes they’d want to sign a lease.)

3. There is no third situation, but having a list of only two things seemed weird so here’s something to make it even weirder.

Today, however, in my romantic writer’s whimsy, I thought, “I’m gonna go write up there. Here’s to being adventurous!” Because adventure is going to the rooftop of the building you live in on a Wednesday afternoon to listen to Buddy Holly while you agonize over sentence structure.

I tuck my laptop under my arm and head toward the elevator, feeling totally outrageous.

I see a neighbor (a “down the hall” neighbor, so I shouldn’t feel so bad about not remembering his name) and his dog (whose name I have managed to remember but will not say in my irrational fear that my down-the-hall neighbor will somehow stumble upon my blog and tell all the other neighbors whose names I can’t remember that I can’t be trusted with the seventh floor secrets due to this salacious blog he found.)

“Hey!” I say enthusiastically—I’m really fake like that in socially awkward situations—then I motion to the dog and with much more sincerity say, “Hello little miss (insert cute name here like in a game of Madlibs).”

“Oh hey, how’s the apartment?” says dog’s owner.

“Awesome—it’s really quiet, I like it,” I say.

I realize in that moment, this is the only conversation we ever seem to have. Whenever I see him, I say “Hey!” and then motion to the dog and then he asks me how the apartment is and I answer, “Awesome—it’s really quiet, I like it.”

We have a Groundhog’s Day relationship.

We hit a tiny rough patch when we realize we’re headed in different elevator directions—who goes first and who waits? How does this work? Will it take a long time to find elevator etiquette results via a Google search?

Luckily, because I’m only going up two floors, dog’s owner bids me farewell and I get on the elevator first.

Once I’m on the rooftop, I find a nice little table to sit at and open up my computer. I wait a minute, you know, so I can bask in the artisness of the moment. I am a writer about to write something way awesome while a breeze blows in from the lake and birds flutter around me.

But, it’s really hot and I’ve made the terrible decision to wear a sweater material. Now all I can think about is how hot I am and if I should load my stuff up and go back downstairs and change.

Before I can decide, the terrace door opens and out walks a small group of friends—now, of course, I start to feel even more uncomfortable and fussy.

Like, how dare they. How dare they ruin my writer’s afternoon of solace on the rooftop? Despite being completely annoyed by their existence and loud laughing (which is not acceptable unless I’m a part of it because otherwise I will assume I am the one being laughed at; I can’t get past my “life imitates 90s teen movies” holdup, I guess) I remain seated and smile warmly at them as they walk past me.

I am wearing Ray-Ban Wayfarers; I am the cool girl writing at a table alone, not the weirdo lurking in the corner.

But, it’s really hot. Why didn’t I grab water? I am so unprepared for this, emotionally and otherwise. But I feel like if I get up now, it will be obvious it’s because of them. It’s like casually trying to lock your door at a red light when there’s a questionable person outside your car. It’s difficult to pull off the, “Oh, well, what do you know, I just happened to realize right when this slightly terrifying person was standing nearby that I forgot to lock my door! And I just always have my door locked, so it’s in no way because of you, scary gentleman who may or may not try to jack my car” logic.

So, I stay. Not writing, not thinking of things to write, just feeling out when it would be a good time to get up.

Eventually, after I checked Facebook and Pinterest and downloaded this new app on my phone that lets me add cute doodles to photographs, I close my laptop and head back to my apartment.

And that's where you would've found me this afternoon—sitting Indian style on my bed listening to an Aretha Franklin record, finally writing.

An Exercise In Writing

A twenty-something girl sits cross-legged on a couch that she's decorated with too many pillows. The excessive accessories look great in photographs she posts on Instagram, but are completely impractical when she eventually puts her iPhone away and wants to sit down. So, she throws almost all of them on the floor and assumes her evening position in front of a TV that's likely beaming out images of a show she'll claim she's too intellectual to get into. Her laptop is perched on the edge of a coffee table cluttered with magazines she still hasn't read, but will thumb through from time to time for outfit inspiration. She feels guilty knowing she's a "writer" (she's not confident enough to call herself a writer without using air quotes) and yet she doesn't actively read the writing of others.

Maybe that's her problem. She's already ignoring rule one of every writing workshop ever: you need to be a reader to be a writer.

She stops the train her mind is on before it reaches that place where she tears up over things like her Feature Writing professor saying as long as she's writing, she'll make something out of herself. But then again, she tears up at pretty much anything (including but not excluded to manly men crying or sad looking animals.)

See, right now, she's not writing. She can't write. It's like the universe is preventing her fingers from pressing the keys to form the words that she can kind of hazily see in her mind. And the universe has been a total bitch to her lately, so she feels okay using it as a scapegoat for her creative mind block. Just last week she tried to “get out there” and “do different things” which for her was doing something really normal and not at all crazy like going to a new bar with co-workers. And what happened? The universe was like, “Calm down crazy. Here’s a splitting headache that will make you go home at eight.”

And so is how her life usually goes.

She takes a sip (gulp, really, but sip sounds so much more delicate and lady like) of wine before grabbing her laptop with determination.

She will write something--anything--tonight.

But first she should probably find the appropriate album to write to. She mutes the TV (but will leave it on, for really no reason at all) and places her laptop back on the coffee table, probably too close to that Bath and Body Works candle she leaves burning for hours.

She goes to her record collection and starts flipping through the albums. She feels like the image of her sitting in front of her record player is very “indie movie” and wishes someone was there to photograph it, then filter it through Instagram and tag her in it on Facebook. It would make a really artsy profile pic and some cute, quirky guy who looks like Justin Timberlake when he hosts SNL (you know, when he wears eyeglasses) would be into it.

Finally, she decides that Carly Simon’s “Boys In The Trees” is the ticket to unleashing her creative genius. So she places the needle on the groove and once again, reaches for her laptop.

She stares at the blinking cursor for a little bit before deciding she should work on a project she’s already started. Her novel. Or short story, as it stands now since it’s about seven pages long.

She opens it up and realizes it hasn’t been formatted for her Mac. That’s how long it’s been since she’s accessed it. She heaves a dramatic sigh as if she’s some kind of elderly man at a bar recalling his younger days with wisdom and regret, and tries to figure out how to open the document.

Nothing makes sense.

She just starts double-clicking things until some kind of hieroglyphic text opens in front her. Among the “National Treasure” looking inscriptions, bits and pieces of the original text is there but it’s completely out of order.

It’s too much work. And besides, that novel/short story was awful anyways.

She goes back to the blank page and blinking cursor.

She has nothing. Absolutely nothing. She looks around the room and sees her pillows thrown on the floor.

As an exercise, she starts writing about a “writer” who excessively accessorizes her couch

A Bird Flew Into My Window Today

So, a bird just flew into my window.

The scene of the incident.

It was one of those moments that if you’re alone, you just sit and look around the room doing that “Did anyone else just see that?!” thing,  then immediately feel unsatisfied because the inanimate objects you’re looking to for confirmation aren’t responding.

So, I had to blog about how a bird just flew into my window.

I was writing a really profound piece of literature while simultaneously learning how to play the violin—you know, really productive stuff that’s not at all just sitting on the couch watching re-runs of The Office—when out of my peripheral vision I saw dark feathers ruffle past the window. As soon as I turned, I heard a thump, and then the bird was gone.

I live on the seventh floor which means my exterior windows are like, never washed, so the fact that a bird accidentally flew into it sort of astonishes me. I had that stunned, delayed, and illogical reaction that caused me to get up minutes after it happened and look out the window. As if the bird would be hanging onto my ledge by its wing, hiding.

But, nope. It was gone. And all I could think about is what if the window had been open and the bird flew into my apartment? Would I have died? Would the newspaper headline try to cleverly reference Hitchcock’s “The Birds”? Or would the bird have become a fun pet that ties ribbons in my hair and listens to me sing Huey Lewis and The News songs to myself when no one’s around?

Guess we’ll never know. 

Lists & Catfish

Note: I actually wrote this post a while ago, posted it, re-read it and wanted to edit it, reverted it back to a draft, and then likely fell asleep and never came back to it. After sitting in front of a blank document for about 20 minutes tonight, I decided to just tweak this entry and post it. Here's to blogging again! I promise I'm trying, so just stay with me here.

I haven’t really been inspired to write, which is the worst feeling ever. So I thought to trigger something, or at the very least, keep me writing, I’m going to start posting about things I’m into right now. Sort of like an ongoing list because list making is my favorite and my self-indulgence tells me everyone would love to know what I’m interested in.

So, here goes.

Catfish: The TV Show

I wasn't really watching MTV anymore. And when I say wasn't really, I mean never. I’m not even mildly interested in their television programming, which is saying a lot because I watch some seriously stupid stuff sometimes. But this show, (which, thanks, Kacie for introducing me to it!) is so addictive. If you don’t know, it’s based off of a documentary by the same name.

Breakdown “Catfish” the cute, sweet guy Nev was the subject of a documentary by the same name a few years ago. He fell for some girl online who happened to be absolutely not who she said she was. It's a really good movie--go watch it. But now Nev is helping other people meet their online loves to see if they’re legit. ~~SpOiLeR AlErT~~ (I think it’s a requirement that you write it like that) they’re almost never legit. I don’t understand this.

Maybe I’m just super paranoid (I know I possess this really cute personality quirk that makes me assume everyone is guilty until proven innocent) but I would never trust some random person in Nebraska who adds me on Facebook. No matter if this guy is like a Ryan Gosling with a Joseph Gordon Levitt charm and a Caleb Followill sense of style kind of guy who somehow became a millionaire by saving stray animals. In fact, I’d be DOUBLY suspicious then. Like, um, why are you messaging me, of all people?  I’m just some girl who lives in some town that has to be identified by the cities it’s sandwiched between. Not to knock myself, but I know Dexter Banks, the model/jetsetter/millionaire who lives in Nebraska and has no access to a webchat device (but he’s a millionaire) probably wouldn’t be into me.

Why do none of these people see this? And I know I’m sounding really cynical and harsh, but understand that while I’m watching these shows, I’m like, actually into it. Not even in an ironic way. I’m invested in these people and I always want Banks the business mogul with a six-pack, to be the real deal.

I mean, thanks to “Catfish,” I pretty much think anyone I don’t know on the Internet is the exact opposite of the image they’re putting out there of themselves. And we all know a heightened sense of paranoia is great addition to anyone’s TV lineup. Can't wait for season 2.

I Can't Believe I'm Awake Right Now

There’s this really disturbing alley/club thing that I don’t totally understand within earshot of my apartment building. Every Friday and Saturday night, this phantom club that pops up on weekends yet is completely invisible during the day (seriously, I always look for it, but I’m met with a suspiciously small, literal gross alley way with the club’s name above it) plays aggressively loud music in between muffled sounds of a DJ shouting random things at club goers.  (Which, by the way, no thanks. I’m not a club person, but I can’t imagine that someone telling you to “Hype up the party!” actually energizes you into having a great time.) A few minutes ago, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” was blaring through the streets, up seven flights of stairs, and into my little living room.

For some reason, I felt the need to go look out my window. I mean, what I was looking at, I’m not sure (sounds can’t really be seen) but it didn’t stop me from prying the blinds apart long enough to peek in the direction of Journey (maybe the music was coming from John Cusack’s boom box in a sweet attempt to motivate me?), then realize how creepy peeking through blinds is. (It’s super creepy. There’s nothing wrong with looking out an open window—it’s so artsy and transcendent—but when you add closed blinds, you take a turn for the weirdo.)

So, I decided to sit down and write. About nothing, as usual.

This week has been pretty uneventful. I felt a blur of days that I couldn’t completely differentiate swirl past me and suddenly, it was Friday and the week was over. I really hate when that happens. I’m not one of those awful “Seize the day!” people who make you feel incredibly insignificant in comparison to all these awesome things they’re constantly doing (think of that friend you have on Facebook who you don’t even really know that well outside of that one class you took freshman year. Why’s that jerk always rock climbing or canoeing or landing great jobs that are not even really jobs, but legit careers?) but I’m also not one to be content to have not done anything slightly productive over the extent of  several days.

The only thing I did that was at all impressive (and by impressive I mean I wasn’t watching Seinfeld re-runs while simultaneously watching Youtube videos) was that I went running (okay, briskly walking/kind of feigning a jog) last night around a lake I thought would’ve had much more lighting than I was actually met with. I blame the creepy, murderously dim areas of the trail for why I couldn’t really run much. I can’t risk tripping in the darkness and making things easier on the psychopaths who just love attacking young women jogging (okay, briskly walking).

Despite my dramatic assumption that I was uncomfortably close to becoming the topic of a Lifetime movie, my walk made me feel accomplished. And not even because I somehow benefitted physically from it, but just being outside made me feel better. That's a weirdly simple realization to make, but it's true. I forgot how much I enjoy breezes and water and nature and not being inside getting untanned by fluorescent office lighting. I really, really hope it starts getting lighter out sooner--I want to actually start running and it not be because I’m afraid some shadow creep is chasing me.

And on that note, the alley club is playing “Super Freak” and it’s really super loud. Like, it’s really loud.  For real, you guys. No one should have to endure this.