For years, I heard tales. Every Tuesday - Friday, unless in court, my father left around 11:50 to meet his cronies. The location and number varied; they bounced around from Chardon establishment to Chardon establishment, spending an hour talking sports and politics, bantering and reminiscing. I went the day before Thanksgiving last year, but the crowd was slim, so you can imagine my excitement when, due to my completely open schedule, I was able to join the annual Festivus luncheon at BLT (Bass Lake Tavern), one of the finest restaurants in town. Indeed, the experience was all I hoped it would be.
Dad and I entered; he introduced me to Bill. I had met Ed at yesterday's lunch (I was trying to enjoy as many of these as possible). Both heartily welcomed me, and we took our seats to wait for Dave and Joe. They soon joined, and it was not long before someone brought up Oberlin. My dad had attended one of the most liberal colleges in America, and the school recently made headlines because its students protested supposed cultural culinary appropriation. The Banh Mi was apparently not up to Vietnamese standards. I wonder if the protesting students realized that the "American" hamburger at most college cafeterias is not up to standards either. Dad had no defense for his alma mater.
We perused the menu. The reuben was on special, likely $14, and probably worth the extra $3 on such a special occasion. Dave pointed out it didn't have Thousand Island dressing, but a unique sauce. Still pretty good - just not Thousand Island. Bill ordered the vegetable soup and fruit, and the table turned their heads. He immediately defended his selection: he had indulged the day prior and had a McDonald's McMuffin that morning. We spared his man card.
Marc came late, but immediately made his presence known. He referenced the accusations against Bill Cosby, and my dad steered the conversation in another direction, protecting my ears. "She chose to come," Dave pointed out. Indeed, I was more than satisfied to be a fly on the wall, wherever the conversation led.
Regardless, we turned to other news. A skier had died at a Jackson Hole resort. Only good skiers die, because they take risks. This one, however, may have hit a tree stump rather than a tree, which could make the resort liable. This became a short legal discussion on whether the resort would be exonerated from the death or deemed negligent. I think that was the gist, at least. The table consisted of four attorneys and two Chardon business owners, so the chance of legal jargon was pretty high. Of course, the attorneys all dabbled in "clean" law. Estates, trusts, wills and such. Not the messy stuff.
We talked about the family businesses - an auto dealership, owned by Ed, and a funeral home, owned by Marc. Both advertised locally.
Ed told the story of his 88 year-old father. He asked Ed why he always saw commercials for the funeral home but never for the auto dealership. Ed responded, "Looks like both our demographics are working." We laughed.
In this crowd, you had to be able to laugh at yourself, too. Dad brought up his diet, which is akin to the federal budget. He was supposed to gain eight pounds, he only gained five, so he lost three pounds.
The table shared the same high school alma mater, Chardon High. Since everyone played sports - some, "legends in their own mind" - the glory days emerged. In particular, while Dad was the only person to have scored two points for the opposing team, Marc was the only person to have been kicked off the basketball team twice. Marc did play his senior year, though, and the team was twice as good as Bill's senior year. They won two games instead of one.
High school athletics remained an integral part of life, and we talked about Kareem Hunt, the Willoughby South phenom who was excelling at Toledo University. Dave asked if anyone would see Concussion. No one really said one way or the other, though we did discuss the feasibility of concussion proof helmets being created, manufactured and bought at a high school level. If they worked, then yes, people will buy them, but kids won't stop playing football. Then there were the varsity jackets. Back in the day, if you were at the mall, and you had a Chardon varsity jacket, and a Mentor guy had a varsity jacket, you knew you both played sports. Not now. Anyone could buy a varsity jacket, and stitch any activity on it - equestrian, for example. This just didn't seem right. Those jackets were a symbol. They were earned.
Politics entered conversation once. We were discussing Ed's New Years Eve gala, and someone asked if they should bring anything, including their wives. Only joking, of course, and when I told him I would include it in my blog*, he asked me to spell his name correctly. This is why there are no last names - I have no idea how to spell them. Apparently, a local 70s politician also insisted the papers spell his name correctly. He was running for every position in the county, but he was a Democrat, so he barely stood a chance, no matter how many places his name was on the ballot. He didn't win.
I didn't want to leave the conversation for a second, but I had to excuse myself to use the restroom. When I returned, Marc was telling the story of his father surviving World War II. After being shot in the knee and shoulder, he dove behind a pile of horse manure, which shielded him from the bullets fired. The beam from the building collapsed and narrowly missed him. At that point, he knew he would survive. The doctors wanted to amputate his leg, but that was out of the question - he didn't care if it was dangling. He still played football when he returned.
I did join the conversation a couple of times. Bill asked about Jim Lyons, one of Dad's college roommates, because he was an attorney in the area. I told the story of Jim learning to juggle in college. He was so excited, until Dad walked in, grabbed a shoe, a banana, and some other random object and started juggling. "If you can't juggle, you aren't an athlete," Dad stated, matter-of-factly.
We talked about family. Ed's daughter graduating college, Bill's son joining his practice, Joe's granddaughter on the professional tennis circuit, Dave's family cramming into his home for the holiday. And Dad bragged about me. I liked that he was so proud, although I was not immune to ridicule. Dave held that even if I had a scholarship to Michigan, at the end of the day, it was still Michigan. I didn't mind. It seemed a rite of passage into the lunch club.
I don't know where life will lead me, but if I am in a place where, even after forty-some years, high school cronies share lunch like they're back in the cafeteria - well, I'd like that very much.
* I hope my recording of the events does not ban me from future lunches.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Thursday, December 24, 2015
12 Days of B-School Apps
Last year, I wrote of the woes and annoyances of adulthood. As I sit at my parents' kitchen table, post niece and nephew Christmas tree sleepover, eating peanut butter and jelly, I couldn't complain if I wanted. Not even the Browns' sad excuse for a football team phases me. Right now, life is easy, and my biggest concern is what television series to binge watch, what book to read, and what holiday treat to eat. To be fair, these decisions can be quite hard.
... I really just wanted to share this picture. So much fun!
Over the years, I have addressed my illustrious career in terms of obedience, loneliness, confusion, trust. I have walked in faith, not knowing where the path was leading. As I plot the winter/spring of Anna, I think it only fitting to address gratitude. This year, instead of 12 Days of Adulthood, 12 days of B-School Apps will give a glimpse of how the Lord used a sometimes unorthodox path to lead me to graduate school. As always, it follows the tune.
12 months applying. Last year, I looked at my life, and I wasn't satisfied. I don't normally toss around cliche quotes*, but my favorite from Mark Zuckerburg is: "Am I doing the most important thing I could be doing?" It is easy to be satisfied with "I'm doing well," but this goes further. It demands more.
Of course, the answer to the most important thing is unique to everyone, and the entrant of significant others, marriages, children, other relationships often change that answer. I was in a unique position to pursue the most important problem I could be solving in my career. So I stopped looking at my life, and I looked to God.
11 days of fasting. We began fasting as a family earlier this year because my sister was awaiting a decision on a career opportunity. She asked for prayer, and Mother, the prayer champ she is, suggested fasting. God closed that particular door, but He used it to strengthen our family's relationship with one another and with Him - as well as open many other doors. Sometimes, I made it all the way to five o'clock on a Thursday, and sometimes, I had to eat at three so I didn't attack a coworker, but each time we fasted, one of our prayers was for a clear next step in my career.
10 months of managing. I have a huge amount of respect for the leadership of RKG, but when I sat in a team leader meeting, I looked around the table at people my own age, with similar experiences and similar backgrounds. I wanted different.
9 months of music. MusicToday, that is, but MusicToday didn't fit with the jingle. An interesting stint, and one that helped me define myself outside of RKG, build valuable relationships, and work with an empowering manager. Though brief, I grew more there than I would have elsewhere.
8 essays written. Each with an immense amount of help from my resident editor, Lydia. So, a shout out to my muse - who I wish I could take with me to remind me to be concise and avoid cliches.
7 fifty GMAT. The score I worked for, prayed for, and received.
6 city visits. Marked off my bucket list. I prayed for something to look forward to in the midst of this process, and God used my role as conference coordinator at VividCortex. I traveled to San Francisco, Boston, Portland, Prague, Budapest, Dubrovnik, absorbing culture, indulging in food, and experiencing nature in all its glory.
5 job transitions. Certainly not the path I would have chosen. But each position built a different skill set, showed me what I do and do not want in a job. Each position exposed me to different industries, forced me out of my comfort zone, and revealed my strengths and weaknesses.
At the beginning of the year, I dreaded the thought of another transition, especially because Charlottesville had become comfortable. Now, I am pumped to tackle another transition and apply the plethora of lessons I have learned thus far.
4 years of serving. I was never big on volunteering, but my time working with young women was amazing. Without fail, each time I doubted my time in Charlottesville, I received a text from a girl in my youth group, thanking me for my friendship. I learned so much from them, and the experience helped shape goals for my future.
3 doors closed. Well, one door was cracked. Harvard and Stanford rejected me, and Northwestern put me on their waitlist.
2 months of waiting. Absolute waiting. A point where I said, "God, I did this in faith, it is yours, I trust you with it."* During this time, God asked, "How much do you trust me?" My job at VividCortex ran its course, leaving me gainfully unemployed and not certain of my future.
And a full ride to Michigan. When I began the application process, I prayed for clarity. Yes, a part of me wanted the answer to be in Charlottesville. A part of me wanted to get accepted to Harvard or Stanford, so I could say I got into Harvard or Stanford. Part of me wants to stay on the waitlist at Northwestern to see if I get accepted. But I didn't pray for that. I prayed for clarity, and this is crystal clear. I am so grateful and excited.
Sidenote: Countless - Number of times I failed and disappointed throughout this process.
To some, this may simply be an account of hard work or good fortune, and indeed, I worked very hard and am fortunate. But this is so much more.
My favorite Christmas hymn is O Holy Night, and my favorite lyrics are, "A thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices." Last year, I was weary, and I will certainly be weary again. But the birth of Jesus, His absolute perfect life, and His death on the cross and resurrection offer hope. Looking to the cross, rather than our circumstances, gives us access to a God "who is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that works in us." This is merely a small testament to that power.
Merry Christmas, all!
* Yes I do.
* /God, if I don't get into grad school, we are going to have some serious chats.
* A lot harder than I am currently working
Over the years, I have addressed my illustrious career in terms of obedience, loneliness, confusion, trust. I have walked in faith, not knowing where the path was leading. As I plot the winter/spring of Anna, I think it only fitting to address gratitude. This year, instead of 12 Days of Adulthood, 12 days of B-School Apps will give a glimpse of how the Lord used a sometimes unorthodox path to lead me to graduate school. As always, it follows the tune.
12 months applying. Last year, I looked at my life, and I wasn't satisfied. I don't normally toss around cliche quotes*, but my favorite from Mark Zuckerburg is: "Am I doing the most important thing I could be doing?" It is easy to be satisfied with "I'm doing well," but this goes further. It demands more.
Of course, the answer to the most important thing is unique to everyone, and the entrant of significant others, marriages, children, other relationships often change that answer. I was in a unique position to pursue the most important problem I could be solving in my career. So I stopped looking at my life, and I looked to God.
11 days of fasting. We began fasting as a family earlier this year because my sister was awaiting a decision on a career opportunity. She asked for prayer, and Mother, the prayer champ she is, suggested fasting. God closed that particular door, but He used it to strengthen our family's relationship with one another and with Him - as well as open many other doors. Sometimes, I made it all the way to five o'clock on a Thursday, and sometimes, I had to eat at three so I didn't attack a coworker, but each time we fasted, one of our prayers was for a clear next step in my career.
10 months of managing. I have a huge amount of respect for the leadership of RKG, but when I sat in a team leader meeting, I looked around the table at people my own age, with similar experiences and similar backgrounds. I wanted different.
9 months of music. MusicToday, that is, but MusicToday didn't fit with the jingle. An interesting stint, and one that helped me define myself outside of RKG, build valuable relationships, and work with an empowering manager. Though brief, I grew more there than I would have elsewhere.
8 essays written. Each with an immense amount of help from my resident editor, Lydia. So, a shout out to my muse - who I wish I could take with me to remind me to be concise and avoid cliches.
7 fifty GMAT. The score I worked for, prayed for, and received.
6 city visits. Marked off my bucket list. I prayed for something to look forward to in the midst of this process, and God used my role as conference coordinator at VividCortex. I traveled to San Francisco, Boston, Portland, Prague, Budapest, Dubrovnik, absorbing culture, indulging in food, and experiencing nature in all its glory.
5 job transitions. Certainly not the path I would have chosen. But each position built a different skill set, showed me what I do and do not want in a job. Each position exposed me to different industries, forced me out of my comfort zone, and revealed my strengths and weaknesses.
At the beginning of the year, I dreaded the thought of another transition, especially because Charlottesville had become comfortable. Now, I am pumped to tackle another transition and apply the plethora of lessons I have learned thus far.
4 years of serving. I was never big on volunteering, but my time working with young women was amazing. Without fail, each time I doubted my time in Charlottesville, I received a text from a girl in my youth group, thanking me for my friendship. I learned so much from them, and the experience helped shape goals for my future.
3 doors closed. Well, one door was cracked. Harvard and Stanford rejected me, and Northwestern put me on their waitlist.
2 months of waiting. Absolute waiting. A point where I said, "God, I did this in faith, it is yours, I trust you with it."* During this time, God asked, "How much do you trust me?" My job at VividCortex ran its course, leaving me gainfully unemployed and not certain of my future.
And a full ride to Michigan. When I began the application process, I prayed for clarity. Yes, a part of me wanted the answer to be in Charlottesville. A part of me wanted to get accepted to Harvard or Stanford, so I could say I got into Harvard or Stanford. Part of me wants to stay on the waitlist at Northwestern to see if I get accepted. But I didn't pray for that. I prayed for clarity, and this is crystal clear. I am so grateful and excited.
Sidenote: Countless - Number of times I failed and disappointed throughout this process.
To some, this may simply be an account of hard work or good fortune, and indeed, I worked very hard and am fortunate. But this is so much more.
My favorite Christmas hymn is O Holy Night, and my favorite lyrics are, "A thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices." Last year, I was weary, and I will certainly be weary again. But the birth of Jesus, His absolute perfect life, and His death on the cross and resurrection offer hope. Looking to the cross, rather than our circumstances, gives us access to a God "who is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that works in us." This is merely a small testament to that power.
Merry Christmas, all!
* Yes I do.
* /God, if I don't get into grad school, we are going to have some serious chats.
* A lot harder than I am currently working
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Killing Time
Kellogg releases their decisions today, which makes this the second longest eight hours of my life. The longest eight hours, for interested parties, was driving home from Chicago after celebrating an over the hill birthday until four in the morning, waking up to watch a marathon, and eating a loaded stack of pancakes. The interstate was infinitely more awfully boring than usual.
Kellogg doesn't tell you how the decision will be released, so I am spending the afternoon glued to my computer and phone. I get that there's a process, but I wish the decision would greet me in the morning so I could enjoy my day. Even better, I wish the decision came two days early. I think if I ever run admissions, I will do just that. Incidentally, should I ever get pregnant (don't worry, I will get a date first), I plan to tell my doctor to tell me a due date that is about two weeks late, so I am pleasantly surprised when the baby comes early. Waiting sucks.
Anyways, I have already browsed the interwebs, taken multiple Buzzfeed tests, and signed up for healthcare. Now, I come to you. My current train of thought is something like this: I haven't been rejected yet, so that's good. Be mentally prepared for rejection. Why wouldn't they want me? Maybe they are saving me for last because they loved me so much. Maybe I should have used a different three words to describe my leadership. This is in God's hands. I am sick to my stomach. What can I eat to distract myself? It's cool to be this invested in something. I say this to say, sorry if this is not the most eloquent of blog posts.
Regardless of the outcome this week, I have a lot of free time on my hands in the coming months. Currently, my routine is: wake up, have a cup of coffee in front of my Christmas tree, read a bit, watch SportsCenter, go to the gym, shower, take a nap, prepare dinner, do one productive thing, wind down with some Netflix. It's a seductive routine, and I cannot become captive to its ease. So, I am noodling on some alternative uses of my time.
1. Move to New Zealand - one of the Buzzfeed tests told me that country best fit my personality.
2. Discover a hidden talent. Maybe I am actually a gifted singer. Or really good at creating recipes. Or I am extremely double jointed and could be a backup dancer.
3. Speaking of backup dancers... Become a groupie. I have always had a thing for guys with instruments.
4. Write a book. Couple of working titles: "Life According to Anna", "Dome Diaries", "The Pursuit" - there's no book titled this, which surprises me - "How to Navigate the Career and Relationship World from the Perspective of Someone Who Currently Has Neither."
5. Become a whiskey connoisseur. This has the two-fold benefit of giving me street cred and mystique.
6. Focus on my blogging. Step it up a notch. Be an opinion columnist. I have a lot of opinions.
7. Create new slang. I like adding "arino" to the end of words. Bloggerino, cheersarino, etc. Maybe I can make it stick.
8. Make money. Nah.
In all seriousness, I know what I want to do. I wasn't able to do it at my last job, and that is why I left. Easy decision. As for the next step, today will help shed some light on which way the door is swinging.
Kellogg doesn't tell you how the decision will be released, so I am spending the afternoon glued to my computer and phone. I get that there's a process, but I wish the decision would greet me in the morning so I could enjoy my day. Even better, I wish the decision came two days early. I think if I ever run admissions, I will do just that. Incidentally, should I ever get pregnant (don't worry, I will get a date first), I plan to tell my doctor to tell me a due date that is about two weeks late, so I am pleasantly surprised when the baby comes early. Waiting sucks.
Anyways, I have already browsed the interwebs, taken multiple Buzzfeed tests, and signed up for healthcare. Now, I come to you. My current train of thought is something like this: I haven't been rejected yet, so that's good. Be mentally prepared for rejection. Why wouldn't they want me? Maybe they are saving me for last because they loved me so much. Maybe I should have used a different three words to describe my leadership. This is in God's hands. I am sick to my stomach. What can I eat to distract myself? It's cool to be this invested in something. I say this to say, sorry if this is not the most eloquent of blog posts.
Regardless of the outcome this week, I have a lot of free time on my hands in the coming months. Currently, my routine is: wake up, have a cup of coffee in front of my Christmas tree, read a bit, watch SportsCenter, go to the gym, shower, take a nap, prepare dinner, do one productive thing, wind down with some Netflix. It's a seductive routine, and I cannot become captive to its ease. So, I am noodling on some alternative uses of my time.
1. Move to New Zealand - one of the Buzzfeed tests told me that country best fit my personality.
2. Discover a hidden talent. Maybe I am actually a gifted singer. Or really good at creating recipes. Or I am extremely double jointed and could be a backup dancer.
3. Speaking of backup dancers... Become a groupie. I have always had a thing for guys with instruments.
4. Write a book. Couple of working titles: "Life According to Anna", "Dome Diaries", "The Pursuit" - there's no book titled this, which surprises me - "How to Navigate the Career and Relationship World from the Perspective of Someone Who Currently Has Neither."
5. Become a whiskey connoisseur. This has the two-fold benefit of giving me street cred and mystique.
6. Focus on my blogging. Step it up a notch. Be an opinion columnist. I have a lot of opinions.
7. Create new slang. I like adding "arino" to the end of words. Bloggerino, cheersarino, etc. Maybe I can make it stick.
8. Make money. Nah.
In all seriousness, I know what I want to do. I wasn't able to do it at my last job, and that is why I left. Easy decision. As for the next step, today will help shed some light on which way the door is swinging.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
There Is No Fear in Love
I was seventeen and headed to college. Eager to decorate my new home, I crafted picture collages with inspirational quotes. I made one with my boyfriend; "There is no fear in love" was written in calligraphy in the center. I was really proud of the calligraphy, as well as the vulnerability the quote represented. My mother, however, saw it and gave me a similar warning to the one she gave when she discovered my ribcage read, "Pass boldly in the full glory of some passion."
"Anna," she cautioned, "sometimes fear is a good thing. And sometimes the answer is not to be bold, but to be still." Ahhh, my propensity to act meets maternal wisdom. Of course, she is right that both fear and stillness are, at times, the appropriate response. More on that later. But for now - love.
At the beginning of the year, I wrote about my desire for a husband (or at the very least, someone to buy me dinner and change my stupid light bulbs). I know, I know, twenty-seven year old men - run! I was upset, not about any guy in particular, but about my life. When I moved to Charlottesville, I came with the expectation that I would find a job I loved or a man I loved - because why else would God have called me to a random place?* It had been over five years, and neither of those had happened. I was tired and a bit confused.
But mostly, I was afraid. I was scared of what God would call me to do next. What if He wanted me to leave? What if He wanted to pluck me from my comfort zone yet again? What if I had to make another major life decision on my own?
The quote adorning my freshmen dorm is 1 John 4:18: "There is no fear in love," but in retrospect, my naive teenage self took it a bit out of context. The second half reads: "But perfect love drives out fear."
There's a lot to fear in this world. Just look at the Sunday paper, the Drudge report, or ESPN - whatever your news source. The future is uncertain and completely out of our control, and embracing that is terrifying. At the beginning of this year, I felt that terror. And then I remembered those so sweet words and their true meaning.
Perfect love is not of this world. I have yet to go on a date in 2015*, but I have felt the perfect love of God in a way that I had yet to experience in my twenty years as a Christian. That love has driven out the fear of an uncertain future. For that, I am extremely thankful.
*More on that later, too.
*Obviously, not because I couldn't get a date.
"Anna," she cautioned, "sometimes fear is a good thing. And sometimes the answer is not to be bold, but to be still." Ahhh, my propensity to act meets maternal wisdom. Of course, she is right that both fear and stillness are, at times, the appropriate response. More on that later. But for now - love.
At the beginning of the year, I wrote about my desire for a husband (or at the very least, someone to buy me dinner and change my stupid light bulbs). I know, I know, twenty-seven year old men - run! I was upset, not about any guy in particular, but about my life. When I moved to Charlottesville, I came with the expectation that I would find a job I loved or a man I loved - because why else would God have called me to a random place?* It had been over five years, and neither of those had happened. I was tired and a bit confused.
But mostly, I was afraid. I was scared of what God would call me to do next. What if He wanted me to leave? What if He wanted to pluck me from my comfort zone yet again? What if I had to make another major life decision on my own?
The quote adorning my freshmen dorm is 1 John 4:18: "There is no fear in love," but in retrospect, my naive teenage self took it a bit out of context. The second half reads: "But perfect love drives out fear."
There's a lot to fear in this world. Just look at the Sunday paper, the Drudge report, or ESPN - whatever your news source. The future is uncertain and completely out of our control, and embracing that is terrifying. At the beginning of this year, I felt that terror. And then I remembered those so sweet words and their true meaning.
Perfect love is not of this world. I have yet to go on a date in 2015*, but I have felt the perfect love of God in a way that I had yet to experience in my twenty years as a Christian. That love has driven out the fear of an uncertain future. For that, I am extremely thankful.
*More on that later, too.
*Obviously, not because I couldn't get a date.
Friday, November 13, 2015
The Origin of the Dome Selfie
"If an atomic bomb hit, it would bounce off your forehead and propel into space," an ignorant sixth grade boy told me years ago. I think it was an insult/method of flirting, but I really did not understand why he would mock such a glorious feature, so I gave him a high pitched laugh and proceeded to the bus.
You see, I have a large forehead. Over time, my head has grown into its size, but as a child, I was 80% dome. Even now, when isolated from the rest of my bobblehead, it still makes a statement.
Adolescent boys will find any reason to poke fun at girls. My nickname in sixth grade was Turtlewax, because the boys wondered if I waxed my forehead to make it shine. Of course, the majority of these boys had a crush on me at some point, and their mockery never phased me.
Besides, for each hater of the dome, there was a lover. My sister's friend made it known that if I were to die, she planned to bronze my forehead. Another sister's roommate was immediately taken; I believe she was the first to put her hand on my forehead and remark on the "power of the dome." This became somewhat of a ritual, and many-a palm caressed my forehead to feel its emanating strength.
My parents also adored the dome. My mother accentuated it with big bows in my early years, and my father still tells me how much he loves the exposed forehead. It is a sign of my Polish roots, and incidentally, also a perceived sign of wisdom, which I like to remind everyone.
Granted, this brief history may beg more questions than it answers, but the dome is my birthright, and I have chosen to embrace it.
Why selfies? I put selfies in the category of Snapchat, engagement photos, and BuzzFeed articles. I get why society has them, but I don't think they really add much. Don't worry, all who consistently snap shots of your adorable selves with a ducky face - I am not judging you. After all, some of us document 20% of our thoughts for the world to read. (The world could not handle more than 20% of my thoughts.) Anyways, I don't like them - selfies, that is. Sarcasm, I like. And what better way to document my travels than a sarcastic spin on the selfie, while also paying homage to my heritage?
So last year, when Julie suggested we take a selfie in front of some London building - maybe the palace or castle - the dome selfie was born. Our year together has been wonderful, and I look forward to what the future holds. Stay tuned for posts on 5 tips to the perfect dome selfie, and follow me on SnapChat for real time updates.
You see, I have a large forehead. Over time, my head has grown into its size, but as a child, I was 80% dome. Even now, when isolated from the rest of my bobblehead, it still makes a statement.
Adolescent boys will find any reason to poke fun at girls. My nickname in sixth grade was Turtlewax, because the boys wondered if I waxed my forehead to make it shine. Of course, the majority of these boys had a crush on me at some point, and their mockery never phased me.
Besides, for each hater of the dome, there was a lover. My sister's friend made it known that if I were to die, she planned to bronze my forehead. Another sister's roommate was immediately taken; I believe she was the first to put her hand on my forehead and remark on the "power of the dome." This became somewhat of a ritual, and many-a palm caressed my forehead to feel its emanating strength.
My parents also adored the dome. My mother accentuated it with big bows in my early years, and my father still tells me how much he loves the exposed forehead. It is a sign of my Polish roots, and incidentally, also a perceived sign of wisdom, which I like to remind everyone.
Granted, this brief history may beg more questions than it answers, but the dome is my birthright, and I have chosen to embrace it.
Why selfies? I put selfies in the category of Snapchat, engagement photos, and BuzzFeed articles. I get why society has them, but I don't think they really add much. Don't worry, all who consistently snap shots of your adorable selves with a ducky face - I am not judging you. After all, some of us document 20% of our thoughts for the world to read. (The world could not handle more than 20% of my thoughts.) Anyways, I don't like them - selfies, that is. Sarcasm, I like. And what better way to document my travels than a sarcastic spin on the selfie, while also paying homage to my heritage?
So last year, when Julie suggested we take a selfie in front of some London building - maybe the palace or castle - the dome selfie was born. Our year together has been wonderful, and I look forward to what the future holds. Stay tuned for posts on 5 tips to the perfect dome selfie, and follow me on SnapChat for real time updates.
Monday, November 2, 2015
I Am the Loudest Person in Eastern Europe... and Other Thoughts on Euroadtrip
Surprising, I know. My laugh echoes there, too.
I never know what to write when I travel. I want to talk about the beauty, the history, the best place to go for local grub and the corner pub we found. But everyone's already written something about it, and I have very little chance of adding to those conversations - especially when it comes to history, since the extent of my historical knowledge is Brno the hero, of the fourteenth century, that Philip and I referred to the entire trip. No, history buffs who momentarily questioned your prowess, Brno is not real.
So what original content do I have to offer? My thoughts, of course.
Visit in the fall. It's off season so nothing is crowded, the colors are beautiful, and Eastern Europe just feels more natural in the gray, eerie weather. Plus, you can wear super cute outfits. Unless you are Phil and wear the same two outfits the entire time. Probably good he is not obsessing over super cute outfits.
AirBnB, while reasonably priced and centrally located, is not as well marked, as, say, a Hilton. You may end up knocking on random Croatian doors before reaching your destination.
Tom Tom, or Tranny Tom, as Philip and I named it because its voice is female and name is male, is a terrible investment. If you are considering purchasing one - DON'T! The device was perfectly usable on the highway, but I don't need to be told I have 100 kilometers (roughly 500 miles) until the next exit. I need to be told how to navigate streets the size of grocery aisles with no perceivable road signs once I get off the exit. The worst part is, you want to believe it will work, because that would be so easy, but you reach a city, and without fail, it loses the GPS signal. Thanks to printed Google map instructions and innate sense of direction, we eventually found our way each time, but we felt like we were navigating in the dark ages.
Border patrol: really not a thing. So, when you read articles that dramatically proclaim Hungary has closed its borders to Croatia, it just means that they now actually have borders. Kind of. Our interaction with the Hungarian border patrol went something like this:
Hand passports to policeman.
Policia: Hungarian jibberish, even though, come on, you know English, and our passports are American.
Me: English?
Policia: 20 euro.
Me to Phil: I think this guy's trying to rip us off.
Policia, realizing we are not complete suckers: Ahh, Americanos.
Policia waves us away... without even stamping our passports. Real strict.
Unfortunate similarities between Eastern European cities and American cities: they, too, give parking tickets. I am not quite sure what will happen in a week when the ticket is not paid, but I imagine I will be extradited back to Hungary. Or receive a two hundred dollar fine from the car rental company.
European cultures America could adopt:
1) GUMMIES. It's Haribo heaven.
2) More doughy food lining the streets. I don't even buy the doughy food; I just feel comforted by the smells.
3) Fortified cities and cathedrals. The Googleplex would be a lot cooler as a fortified city, and I would love looking out a stained glass window.
4) Free food at restaurants. Nothing says I will see you next time like a "thank you" and a digestif.
5) WAFFLES. Frankly, I am disappointed these have not become a trend in the US yet. We call ourselves undisciplined and indulgent, yet we have yet to introduce this delicacy. I'm not talking brunch waffles. Dessert waffles. Nutella, frosting, peanut butter, whipped cream, hot fudge, sprinkles, ice scream sandwiches... This is the sweet spot. They can be the new cupcake. Mini waffles in lieu of wedding cake, birthday cake... lunch.
6) Their men.
Okay, so a lot of my cultural adaptations pertain to food. Here are some suggestions:
I would like every country to have a sign when you enter that says, welcome to "said country". Tip is included, or Tip is not included. As it is, I have no idea if I am a cheap foreigner for not tipping or a lavish foreigner for overtipping. I then err on the side of lavish foreigner, but I ain't rich yet, so I would like to know if this is necessary.
Pedestrian signage - I'm looking at you, Amsterdam. It's hard to pay attention to rogue bikers when I am salivating over the waffles.
This final one is specifically to GoPro: tap into the Asian market. I don't why you have not yet, but tourist groups are everywhere, and they definitely love documenting their every movement.
Speaking of tour groups, self-guided tours are the way to go, as you never know what you will find. For instance, you may find the Italian embassy has an oddly ideal location in central Budapest. You may then discover that it is actually the Budapest Royal Palace, and the two countries just have unoriginal, similar flags.
Bring a photographer. They make pictures fun.
Closing thought: Prague was cool, and the castle - or palace, I get the two confused - architecture was awesome. Budapest was great; the food and shopping excellent. Split was cute and cozy, and I would definitely return to Dubrovnik in the summer. But the Plitvice Lakes - they were unforgettable. You visit all these places, and you see the incredible things man can do. Then you see the beautiful intricacy of God, and nothing else comes close to comparing. Especially if you visit in the fall.
I never know what to write when I travel. I want to talk about the beauty, the history, the best place to go for local grub and the corner pub we found. But everyone's already written something about it, and I have very little chance of adding to those conversations - especially when it comes to history, since the extent of my historical knowledge is Brno the hero, of the fourteenth century, that Philip and I referred to the entire trip. No, history buffs who momentarily questioned your prowess, Brno is not real.
So what original content do I have to offer? My thoughts, of course.
Visit in the fall. It's off season so nothing is crowded, the colors are beautiful, and Eastern Europe just feels more natural in the gray, eerie weather. Plus, you can wear super cute outfits. Unless you are Phil and wear the same two outfits the entire time. Probably good he is not obsessing over super cute outfits.
AirBnB, while reasonably priced and centrally located, is not as well marked, as, say, a Hilton. You may end up knocking on random Croatian doors before reaching your destination.
Tom Tom, or Tranny Tom, as Philip and I named it because its voice is female and name is male, is a terrible investment. If you are considering purchasing one - DON'T! The device was perfectly usable on the highway, but I don't need to be told I have 100 kilometers (roughly 500 miles) until the next exit. I need to be told how to navigate streets the size of grocery aisles with no perceivable road signs once I get off the exit. The worst part is, you want to believe it will work, because that would be so easy, but you reach a city, and without fail, it loses the GPS signal. Thanks to printed Google map instructions and innate sense of direction, we eventually found our way each time, but we felt like we were navigating in the dark ages.
Border patrol: really not a thing. So, when you read articles that dramatically proclaim Hungary has closed its borders to Croatia, it just means that they now actually have borders. Kind of. Our interaction with the Hungarian border patrol went something like this:
Hand passports to policeman.
Policia: Hungarian jibberish, even though, come on, you know English, and our passports are American.
Me: English?
Policia: 20 euro.
Me to Phil: I think this guy's trying to rip us off.
Policia, realizing we are not complete suckers: Ahh, Americanos.
Policia waves us away... without even stamping our passports. Real strict.
Unfortunate similarities between Eastern European cities and American cities: they, too, give parking tickets. I am not quite sure what will happen in a week when the ticket is not paid, but I imagine I will be extradited back to Hungary. Or receive a two hundred dollar fine from the car rental company.
European cultures America could adopt:
1) GUMMIES. It's Haribo heaven.
2) More doughy food lining the streets. I don't even buy the doughy food; I just feel comforted by the smells.
3) Fortified cities and cathedrals. The Googleplex would be a lot cooler as a fortified city, and I would love looking out a stained glass window.
4) Free food at restaurants. Nothing says I will see you next time like a "thank you" and a digestif.
5) WAFFLES. Frankly, I am disappointed these have not become a trend in the US yet. We call ourselves undisciplined and indulgent, yet we have yet to introduce this delicacy. I'm not talking brunch waffles. Dessert waffles. Nutella, frosting, peanut butter, whipped cream, hot fudge, sprinkles, ice scream sandwiches... This is the sweet spot. They can be the new cupcake. Mini waffles in lieu of wedding cake, birthday cake... lunch.
6) Their men.
Okay, so a lot of my cultural adaptations pertain to food. Here are some suggestions:
I would like every country to have a sign when you enter that says, welcome to "said country". Tip is included, or Tip is not included. As it is, I have no idea if I am a cheap foreigner for not tipping or a lavish foreigner for overtipping. I then err on the side of lavish foreigner, but I ain't rich yet, so I would like to know if this is necessary.
Pedestrian signage - I'm looking at you, Amsterdam. It's hard to pay attention to rogue bikers when I am salivating over the waffles.
This final one is specifically to GoPro: tap into the Asian market. I don't why you have not yet, but tourist groups are everywhere, and they definitely love documenting their every movement.
Speaking of tour groups, self-guided tours are the way to go, as you never know what you will find. For instance, you may find the Italian embassy has an oddly ideal location in central Budapest. You may then discover that it is actually the Budapest Royal Palace, and the two countries just have unoriginal, similar flags.
Bring a photographer. They make pictures fun.
Closing thought: Prague was cool, and the castle - or palace, I get the two confused - architecture was awesome. Budapest was great; the food and shopping excellent. Split was cute and cozy, and I would definitely return to Dubrovnik in the summer. But the Plitvice Lakes - they were unforgettable. You visit all these places, and you see the incredible things man can do. Then you see the beautiful intricacy of God, and nothing else comes close to comparing. Especially if you visit in the fall.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Ooo Amsterdam… You Bring Back Memories
And not the memories one typically associates with Amsterdam. There was no revelry, debauchery, or insane amounts of delicious pancakes.
Jogging* leisurely this morning, I could not help but recall that the last time I ran in Amsterdam involved no leisure.
I was 21 and had just graduated college. The real world did not begin until August 17th, and what better way to spend my final weeks of freedom than coaching tennis in Europe.
The gig was pretty straight-forward. Another coach and I would lead a team of 16 US teenagers as they played in various tournaments throughout Europe - Barcelona, Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Trier, and finally, sightseeing in Paris. There would, of course, be challenges. The kids had parents who were able to afford a $10,000 summer trip, and sometimes, their attitudes strongly reflected that. Their suitcases did as well, and the son of the Yale (or was it Princeton?) President had luggage totaling 60 pounds.* I was put on the most competitive of the six teams, so many of the boys were better than I.* I would have to drive stick – and not just stick in the two-door coupe I had learned weeks before leaving. I had to drive stick in a 9-passenger rental van with eight teenagers and their luggage. The whole operation, needless to say, works a bit differently. Plus, there was the whole, “You’re 21 and chaperoning a bunch of 16-18 year olds through Europe."
But the other coach was apparently one of the top pros in Australia, had been with the program for years, and it was a free trip to Europe. I was stoked.
There are a lot of stories that came from this trip, and frankly, I am surprised it has taken so long to enter this blog. Since I am in Amsterdam, though, I will stick to that week. It was, after all, the turning point.
We arrived in Amsterdam for the second of four tournaments. The first week had gone by relatively smoothly. I only stalled about 25 times, and a couple of our kids made the tournament finals. The other coach, who we shall call Stefan, because it sounds cool and foreign, despite his occasional patronizing comments and one freak out* on laundry day, was generally jovial. Although he warned me profusely not to befriend the kids, as they may take advantage of me, I had a good rapport with all of them. They had yet to stretch the rules, and until they did, they had my trust. They were sweet, good kids, who actually at this point are probably old enough to buy me a drink… and possibly fund my travel itch with their trust funds.
Besides the point... Back to the story. To recap the full tale would be quite laborious, so we will enter on the fateful night. I was sleeping, snoring away. Tennis tournaments in Amsterdam go until quite late, and Stefan had graciously taken the night shift. He returned around 12:30, and a few kids who had not been playing were still awake, sitting on the second story roof. He was very unhappy about them being on the roof,* but even more irate about the brown bag they had in their hands. He accused them of buying weed and made them reveal the contents. Gummies – which, incidentally, can have similar soothing affects as weed and similar addicting affects as cocaine, possibly explaining the eight pounds I gained during the trip. However, not against the rules.
I woke up the next morning, ready to tackle another day of coaching. I packed my book bag with the tournament fees (totalling around $6000 euro, which at the time, before Greece so graciously devalued the Euro, was about $10,000 USD), my wallet, a whole lot of paperwork, and money for laundry. At least this time, though, the kids were joining us for the laundry excursion.
It was at some point during this process the evening's bizarre events were recounted to me, and I heard the news – Stefan was quitting. What?!? Yes, the program had been sending 5 – 8 teams to Europe for thirty years, and no coach had ever quit. And yes, Stefan was quitting, leaving me to coach and chaperone sixteen teenagers for three more weeks.
Processing this turn of events, I grabbed my laundry bag and joined everyone, including Stefan, for our twenty-minute walk to the Laundromat, conveniently located next to a shoe store. I don’t spend much time at laundromats, but this was definitely the most awkward of my minimal experiences. I lightened the atmosphere when I could, and Stefan made sure to throw in a couple jabs about how the incident the night prior was my fault. I told him nowhere in my contract did it say the kids could not eat gummies and thought about those fantastic green boots in the window next door. Deciding it would be inappropriate to buy boots at a time like this, I resisted my urge and endured the laundromat for two hours.
When it was time to go, we gathered our belongings and set off on the 1.5 kilometer* journey to our hotel. About 1 kilometer into that journey, I realized I had left my book bag at the laundromat. I screamed "fudge," or something along those lines, gave my laundry bag to a player, and sprinted like I was chasing $10,000, my dignity, identity, and sanity. Because I was.
Heaving my way into the laundromat, I was relieved to find the book bag had not moved. All contents were in their places, and I began my return. As I looked to the left, those green boots called my name – it had to be my name - and “retail therapy.” I rushed into the store, tried one shoe on, threw some euros at the cashier, and was on my way. With a lighter heart and my new boots.
At this point, the head honchos had joined and were devising contingency plans. Since they had no backup coaches for such circumstances, I would be mostly on my own. They reminded me repeatedly how I could not let the kids take advantage of me, and I gently reminded them that I was the coach who did not quit.
The rest of the trip was exhausting, but there were definitely some highlights. The kids told me how much they respected me and that they would do everything they could to make the trip as easy as possible. And they were a pleasure. We watched the Netherlands win the world cup semifinal in Museum Square. We had a tournament winner. I coached a girl through her mental weaknesses to victory. I drank wine beneath the Eiffel Tower. I also learned by way of the coaching grapevine, that Stefan partied often with his players in previous years, and the year prior, one girl had been rushed to the hospital to get her stomach pumped. This explained his intense warnings to me, but what he should have said was, "If you do not feed the teenagers liquor, they are less likely to drink it." Revolutionary, I know.
Finally, I learned a valuable lesson: God will give you challenges, sometimes seemingly ridiculous challenges, but accompanying those challenges, there will be green boots.
It’s funny how experiences prepare you, and you can look back and appreciate them. Still, I am glad this trip is a bit less stressful. Of course, it is only Monday.
* I believe the Deutsch pronounce it "yogging." Silent y. I also believe people in the Netherlands speak Deutsch.
* That's 80 kilos, right?
* Possibly some of the girls, but I hold I would have novocained them all.
* His uncle had died at the age of 89, so his freak out was partly due to that. Plus, imagine lugging sixteen kids’ laundry bags around the city. Not fun. Still, no need to project onto me, who is also dealing with sixteen kids’ laundry bags.
* Another story...
* Speaking in kilometers feels right.
Jogging* leisurely this morning, I could not help but recall that the last time I ran in Amsterdam involved no leisure.
I was 21 and had just graduated college. The real world did not begin until August 17th, and what better way to spend my final weeks of freedom than coaching tennis in Europe.
The gig was pretty straight-forward. Another coach and I would lead a team of 16 US teenagers as they played in various tournaments throughout Europe - Barcelona, Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Trier, and finally, sightseeing in Paris. There would, of course, be challenges. The kids had parents who were able to afford a $10,000 summer trip, and sometimes, their attitudes strongly reflected that. Their suitcases did as well, and the son of the Yale (or was it Princeton?) President had luggage totaling 60 pounds.* I was put on the most competitive of the six teams, so many of the boys were better than I.* I would have to drive stick – and not just stick in the two-door coupe I had learned weeks before leaving. I had to drive stick in a 9-passenger rental van with eight teenagers and their luggage. The whole operation, needless to say, works a bit differently. Plus, there was the whole, “You’re 21 and chaperoning a bunch of 16-18 year olds through Europe."
But the other coach was apparently one of the top pros in Australia, had been with the program for years, and it was a free trip to Europe. I was stoked.
There are a lot of stories that came from this trip, and frankly, I am surprised it has taken so long to enter this blog. Since I am in Amsterdam, though, I will stick to that week. It was, after all, the turning point.
We arrived in Amsterdam for the second of four tournaments. The first week had gone by relatively smoothly. I only stalled about 25 times, and a couple of our kids made the tournament finals. The other coach, who we shall call Stefan, because it sounds cool and foreign, despite his occasional patronizing comments and one freak out* on laundry day, was generally jovial. Although he warned me profusely not to befriend the kids, as they may take advantage of me, I had a good rapport with all of them. They had yet to stretch the rules, and until they did, they had my trust. They were sweet, good kids, who actually at this point are probably old enough to buy me a drink… and possibly fund my travel itch with their trust funds.
Besides the point... Back to the story. To recap the full tale would be quite laborious, so we will enter on the fateful night. I was sleeping, snoring away. Tennis tournaments in Amsterdam go until quite late, and Stefan had graciously taken the night shift. He returned around 12:30, and a few kids who had not been playing were still awake, sitting on the second story roof. He was very unhappy about them being on the roof,* but even more irate about the brown bag they had in their hands. He accused them of buying weed and made them reveal the contents. Gummies – which, incidentally, can have similar soothing affects as weed and similar addicting affects as cocaine, possibly explaining the eight pounds I gained during the trip. However, not against the rules.
I woke up the next morning, ready to tackle another day of coaching. I packed my book bag with the tournament fees (totalling around $6000 euro, which at the time, before Greece so graciously devalued the Euro, was about $10,000 USD), my wallet, a whole lot of paperwork, and money for laundry. At least this time, though, the kids were joining us for the laundry excursion.
It was at some point during this process the evening's bizarre events were recounted to me, and I heard the news – Stefan was quitting. What?!? Yes, the program had been sending 5 – 8 teams to Europe for thirty years, and no coach had ever quit. And yes, Stefan was quitting, leaving me to coach and chaperone sixteen teenagers for three more weeks.
Processing this turn of events, I grabbed my laundry bag and joined everyone, including Stefan, for our twenty-minute walk to the Laundromat, conveniently located next to a shoe store. I don’t spend much time at laundromats, but this was definitely the most awkward of my minimal experiences. I lightened the atmosphere when I could, and Stefan made sure to throw in a couple jabs about how the incident the night prior was my fault. I told him nowhere in my contract did it say the kids could not eat gummies and thought about those fantastic green boots in the window next door. Deciding it would be inappropriate to buy boots at a time like this, I resisted my urge and endured the laundromat for two hours.
When it was time to go, we gathered our belongings and set off on the 1.5 kilometer* journey to our hotel. About 1 kilometer into that journey, I realized I had left my book bag at the laundromat. I screamed "fudge," or something along those lines, gave my laundry bag to a player, and sprinted like I was chasing $10,000, my dignity, identity, and sanity. Because I was.
Heaving my way into the laundromat, I was relieved to find the book bag had not moved. All contents were in their places, and I began my return. As I looked to the left, those green boots called my name – it had to be my name - and “retail therapy.” I rushed into the store, tried one shoe on, threw some euros at the cashier, and was on my way. With a lighter heart and my new boots.
At this point, the head honchos had joined and were devising contingency plans. Since they had no backup coaches for such circumstances, I would be mostly on my own. They reminded me repeatedly how I could not let the kids take advantage of me, and I gently reminded them that I was the coach who did not quit.
The rest of the trip was exhausting, but there were definitely some highlights. The kids told me how much they respected me and that they would do everything they could to make the trip as easy as possible. And they were a pleasure. We watched the Netherlands win the world cup semifinal in Museum Square. We had a tournament winner. I coached a girl through her mental weaknesses to victory. I drank wine beneath the Eiffel Tower. I also learned by way of the coaching grapevine, that Stefan partied often with his players in previous years, and the year prior, one girl had been rushed to the hospital to get her stomach pumped. This explained his intense warnings to me, but what he should have said was, "If you do not feed the teenagers liquor, they are less likely to drink it." Revolutionary, I know.
Finally, I learned a valuable lesson: God will give you challenges, sometimes seemingly ridiculous challenges, but accompanying those challenges, there will be green boots.
It’s funny how experiences prepare you, and you can look back and appreciate them. Still, I am glad this trip is a bit less stressful. Of course, it is only Monday.
* I believe the Deutsch pronounce it "yogging." Silent y. I also believe people in the Netherlands speak Deutsch.
* That's 80 kilos, right?
* Possibly some of the girls, but I hold I would have novocained them all.
* His uncle had died at the age of 89, so his freak out was partly due to that. Plus, imagine lugging sixteen kids’ laundry bags around the city. Not fun. Still, no need to project onto me, who is also dealing with sixteen kids’ laundry bags.
* Another story...
* Speaking in kilometers feels right.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
I Teach Myself Rugby
I made it to Prague! I am happy to say there was hardly a hiccup, and I arrived promptly at 5:50 at the Airbnb down-alley. The woman spoke no English, so I lapsed into broken Spanish. There are two possible subconscious reasons for this. 1) I think there are only two languages in the world - English and everything else. 2) I think that if I try to speak Spanish, I am at least exerting an effort to do something more difficult than speak my native tongue. I prefer to think my subconscious thinks the latter. Regardless, after a lot of grunting and awkward laughing, she deemed me legit and gave me the keys. I hocked a loogie and assumed that meant thank you.
It was Saturday night, and that meant one thing - the Michigan/Michigan State game. I soaked in a little Old Town Prague and made my way to an Irish sports bar, thinking perhaps they would show American football. Believe it or not, the Czechs are not interested in MidWestern collegiate athletics. Alas. There was a rather boisterous crowd watching the World Cup of Rugby - apparently more relevant than the Big Ten matchup - and I decided that would satiate my sports craving. Sidenote: the ending of this game was definitely not as interesting as the ending of the Michigan/MSU game.
I took my spot against a railing, and, as the scent of smoke and BO filled my nostrils, I decided to teach myself the game. Here's what I got:
Holy quads. Seriously. Huge. I used to argue tennis pros had the best bodies as a whole, because the variation with football players' body types was so great. But I don't think these men have an ounce of flab. And they have a bit more girth. I may have to rethink my position, but that is for a later date. Focus.
Alright, they're all in a circle, arms linked. This reminds me of those half globe contraptions that I climbed on the playground as a child. As they sway back and forth, I imagine they are chanting Mulan's "Be a Men," psyching each other for the competition to come. I want to climb on top of them and balance on their heads.
New Zealand has possession. For the most part it seems similar to football. But they can kick the ball whenever they want - or maybe it is only from the backfield. I am sure there is some halo rule, because you would not want those men kicking the ball in each other's faces.
I am also not positive how anyone's drive ends other than a turnover. What makes them kick a field goal? Maybe if the ball goes out of bounds, because it seems the ball is always popping out when a player is down - which reminds me of a pool game I played as a child. You try to sit on a ball in the water, and then say, "Momma had a baby and it's head popped off," as the ball pops out of the water. Weird game. Same idea.
It's all pretty entertaining, and you can see the players faces - a bonus most of the time, except in the case of the toothless guy from the Blacks who looks a little like the hulk. I would definitely draft him for my fantasy team. Business opportunity: fantasy rugby.
I think rugby could make a stronger move to the US. If nothing else, I could watch those quads in high def all day.
Alright, I think I got the gist of it. New Zealand is crushing France - exciting - and there are no middle aged men with whom I can argue which is the strongest DI conference, so it's probably time to go. Cricket's on tomorrow - perhaps I will tackle mastery of that sport next.
It was Saturday night, and that meant one thing - the Michigan/Michigan State game. I soaked in a little Old Town Prague and made my way to an Irish sports bar, thinking perhaps they would show American football. Believe it or not, the Czechs are not interested in MidWestern collegiate athletics. Alas. There was a rather boisterous crowd watching the World Cup of Rugby - apparently more relevant than the Big Ten matchup - and I decided that would satiate my sports craving. Sidenote: the ending of this game was definitely not as interesting as the ending of the Michigan/MSU game.
I took my spot against a railing, and, as the scent of smoke and BO filled my nostrils, I decided to teach myself the game. Here's what I got:
Holy quads. Seriously. Huge. I used to argue tennis pros had the best bodies as a whole, because the variation with football players' body types was so great. But I don't think these men have an ounce of flab. And they have a bit more girth. I may have to rethink my position, but that is for a later date. Focus.
Alright, they're all in a circle, arms linked. This reminds me of those half globe contraptions that I climbed on the playground as a child. As they sway back and forth, I imagine they are chanting Mulan's "Be a Men," psyching each other for the competition to come. I want to climb on top of them and balance on their heads.
New Zealand has possession. For the most part it seems similar to football. But they can kick the ball whenever they want - or maybe it is only from the backfield. I am sure there is some halo rule, because you would not want those men kicking the ball in each other's faces.
I am also not positive how anyone's drive ends other than a turnover. What makes them kick a field goal? Maybe if the ball goes out of bounds, because it seems the ball is always popping out when a player is down - which reminds me of a pool game I played as a child. You try to sit on a ball in the water, and then say, "Momma had a baby and it's head popped off," as the ball pops out of the water. Weird game. Same idea.
It's all pretty entertaining, and you can see the players faces - a bonus most of the time, except in the case of the toothless guy from the Blacks who looks a little like the hulk. I would definitely draft him for my fantasy team. Business opportunity: fantasy rugby.
I think rugby could make a stronger move to the US. If nothing else, I could watch those quads in high def all day.
Alright, I think I got the gist of it. New Zealand is crushing France - exciting - and there are no middle aged men with whom I can argue which is the strongest DI conference, so it's probably time to go. Cricket's on tomorrow - perhaps I will tackle mastery of that sport next.
Friday, October 16, 2015
Dear Bank of America. I Hate You. And I Love You.
I am traveling to Prague today, and anyone who knows my history with traveling, knows that past adventures have at times followed Anna's Law - even if you don't think it can go wrong, it just might. And after spending an amount of money that makes you physically ill, all will be well.
I am very prepared for this trip. I packed everything from a European adaptor to a Tom-Tom, got my international driver's license, and packed for all types of weather. When I left today, I had to make one last stop - the ATM.
Although many places take credit cards, it is always wise to carry local currency. I entered my card, typed my pin, and requested fast cash. Rejected. Twice.
I haven't used my debit card in approximately two months, so I really had no idea why it was rejected, but since the bank had already closed, my only recourse was to call Bank of America.
I let it go for the first thirty minutes of my drive to Dulles airport because I dreaded the operating system. I always end up yelling at them and imagine someone on the recording gets a kick out of my unacknowledged fury.
Plus, chances were, I would not need cash in the 12 hours I was not with my brother. I was going to pay for the rental car with a credit card, and this is 2015, after all. But who knows what 2015 means in Prague. What if there are tolls? And I get a ticket because I do not pay? Then, when crossing the border to Hungary, the car gets flagged, and I get temporarily imprisoned. Or, the paid lot insists I pay cash up front, and makes me perform some form of weird entertainment in lieu of payment.
I had to call. After a lot of yelling at the operator to give me a human because the monotone voice could not answer my query and twenty minutes on hold, during which I heard the merits of applying for a loan, I reached a human. He could not tell me why my card had been cancelled - only that they had sent me a new card in the mail at some point. My current card expires in 2018, and it had never been flagged for fraud. Apparently, Bank of America also expects that I open every one of their precious mailings. I don't.
Not only that, they could not reinstate my current card, even though the only reason it was blocked was because they had sent me a superfluous card that I never activated. The associate was surprisingly unsympathetic. And unhelpful. Didn't he realize the sacrifices I was going to have to make just to park in Prague? I gave him a small piece of mind, hung up, and began crafting contingency plans.
I needed cash. But how to attain it with no debit card? I could plead with people at the airport to exchange cash for a check. I could offer to buy people's dinner with my credit card and take their cash. I could sell my sweater to the highest bidder. It's chic.
As I was considering my options, I saw a Bank of America building that was lit. Hallelujah!
I ran a red light to get there before the lights turned off. I had no idea why they were still open on a Friday night, but I had to take advantage. I rushed in, full of hope, and was crushed when all I saw was an ATM.
And then... I realized it was a live electronic teller ATM. I had no idea these existed! But I talked to her, told her my dilemma, showed her my ID, and indeed, I was able to acquire all the cash I needed.
I am now in Dulles airport, drinking a glass of wine, anticipating a good night's sleep on the upcoming flight. Euroadtrip, here I come! With cash.
I am very prepared for this trip. I packed everything from a European adaptor to a Tom-Tom, got my international driver's license, and packed for all types of weather. When I left today, I had to make one last stop - the ATM.
Although many places take credit cards, it is always wise to carry local currency. I entered my card, typed my pin, and requested fast cash. Rejected. Twice.
I haven't used my debit card in approximately two months, so I really had no idea why it was rejected, but since the bank had already closed, my only recourse was to call Bank of America.
I let it go for the first thirty minutes of my drive to Dulles airport because I dreaded the operating system. I always end up yelling at them and imagine someone on the recording gets a kick out of my unacknowledged fury.
Plus, chances were, I would not need cash in the 12 hours I was not with my brother. I was going to pay for the rental car with a credit card, and this is 2015, after all. But who knows what 2015 means in Prague. What if there are tolls? And I get a ticket because I do not pay? Then, when crossing the border to Hungary, the car gets flagged, and I get temporarily imprisoned. Or, the paid lot insists I pay cash up front, and makes me perform some form of weird entertainment in lieu of payment.
I had to call. After a lot of yelling at the operator to give me a human because the monotone voice could not answer my query and twenty minutes on hold, during which I heard the merits of applying for a loan, I reached a human. He could not tell me why my card had been cancelled - only that they had sent me a new card in the mail at some point. My current card expires in 2018, and it had never been flagged for fraud. Apparently, Bank of America also expects that I open every one of their precious mailings. I don't.
Not only that, they could not reinstate my current card, even though the only reason it was blocked was because they had sent me a superfluous card that I never activated. The associate was surprisingly unsympathetic. And unhelpful. Didn't he realize the sacrifices I was going to have to make just to park in Prague? I gave him a small piece of mind, hung up, and began crafting contingency plans.
I needed cash. But how to attain it with no debit card? I could plead with people at the airport to exchange cash for a check. I could offer to buy people's dinner with my credit card and take their cash. I could sell my sweater to the highest bidder. It's chic.
As I was considering my options, I saw a Bank of America building that was lit. Hallelujah!
I ran a red light to get there before the lights turned off. I had no idea why they were still open on a Friday night, but I had to take advantage. I rushed in, full of hope, and was crushed when all I saw was an ATM.
And then... I realized it was a live electronic teller ATM. I had no idea these existed! But I talked to her, told her my dilemma, showed her my ID, and indeed, I was able to acquire all the cash I needed.
I am now in Dulles airport, drinking a glass of wine, anticipating a good night's sleep on the upcoming flight. Euroadtrip, here I come! With cash.
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
On Waiting
I avoided writing tonight by marathoning HIMYM, both indulging in and rolling my eyes at Ted Mosby's hopelessly romantic, sometimes moronic behavior. After seven episodes, I turned in for the evening. Perhaps it was because my fan is broken, and I am sleeping in a silent room for the first time in many years, but my mind was racing. It compelled me to write.
I turned in my graduate school applications. Hours of writing and editing, and a lot of Benjamins later, I have shipped off a $250 Anna package to four schools. That package contains me and a vision for my future that has grown stronger through this process- one I believe is from the Lord. And now comes my least favorite part. Waiting.
Harvard released the first batch of interviews at noon today. They release a second batch on Thursday, and on October 14th, they release the final batch. I wish I did not know this. I sat at my desk, counting down the minutes until noon (while doing work of course), and opened my email at 12:03, just to give the email time to travel through space. It wasn't there.
I kind of knew it wouldn't be. You see, I have been reading this devotional my mom gave me nearly every day for four years. I love it. First of all, there are eloquent quotes, and I love a good quote. Second, each year when I read it, different portions ring truer to me. This year has been about waiting, and this morning, the verse read, "Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him." David commands himself to rest and wait. It's not natural. But God wants us to find rest in Him, and I think sometimes He puts us in situations where we have no choice but to rest in Him. If I had received an email that I was chosen for an interview, my mind would have been racing with answers. Instead, I had a nice chatsky with God in my fire escape this evening. And watched HIMYM.
The supporting quote in today's devotional from Anthony Thorold is, "God will always find us a work to do, a niche to fill, a place to serve, no, even a soul to save, when it is His will, and not ours, that we desire to do; and if it should please Him that we should sit still for the rest of our lives, doing nothing else but waiting on Him, and waiting for Him, why should we complain? This is the patience of the saints."
It is not my place to worry about my future. It's not in my hands. So I will wait. For two days, two months, or longer. And I think it is most valuable to say that during the process, rather than retrospectively, which is why I am writing past my bedtime.
I turned in my graduate school applications. Hours of writing and editing, and a lot of Benjamins later, I have shipped off a $250 Anna package to four schools. That package contains me and a vision for my future that has grown stronger through this process- one I believe is from the Lord. And now comes my least favorite part. Waiting.
Harvard released the first batch of interviews at noon today. They release a second batch on Thursday, and on October 14th, they release the final batch. I wish I did not know this. I sat at my desk, counting down the minutes until noon (while doing work of course), and opened my email at 12:03, just to give the email time to travel through space. It wasn't there.
I kind of knew it wouldn't be. You see, I have been reading this devotional my mom gave me nearly every day for four years. I love it. First of all, there are eloquent quotes, and I love a good quote. Second, each year when I read it, different portions ring truer to me. This year has been about waiting, and this morning, the verse read, "Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him." David commands himself to rest and wait. It's not natural. But God wants us to find rest in Him, and I think sometimes He puts us in situations where we have no choice but to rest in Him. If I had received an email that I was chosen for an interview, my mind would have been racing with answers. Instead, I had a nice chatsky with God in my fire escape this evening. And watched HIMYM.
The supporting quote in today's devotional from Anthony Thorold is, "God will always find us a work to do, a niche to fill, a place to serve, no, even a soul to save, when it is His will, and not ours, that we desire to do; and if it should please Him that we should sit still for the rest of our lives, doing nothing else but waiting on Him, and waiting for Him, why should we complain? This is the patience of the saints."
It is not my place to worry about my future. It's not in my hands. So I will wait. For two days, two months, or longer. And I think it is most valuable to say that during the process, rather than retrospectively, which is why I am writing past my bedtime.
Friday, September 25, 2015
My Case for Best Man
I was going to give twenty-four reasons in honor of your twenty-fourth birthday, but decided to stick to the classic SportsCenter top ten countdown.
10. The elements. Likely, the two of you will take your first communion together as part of the ceremony. And when the pastor brings forth the bread and wine, who is going to be there to declare their presence, Neo Cortex style?
Now that I have lost 98% of the readership, I will continue...
9. Why were you able to land a broad? It could be your killer wit, cool cowlick and MC skills. But more than likely, it's because you had to listen to me pontificate over men for so many years as I provided you with invaluable insight into the female psyche. Not to mention, I pushed you out of your seventh grade punk phase. Lord know where you would be if you had lingered there.
8. Where did you get your baseball skills? Possibly father. Possibly practice. Or... hours of playing catch with me and having to field my terrible throws.
7. Who introduced the peanut butter Oreo shake, which became your staple snack for four solid years, into the Navatsyk household? That was me. I took the Oreo shake to a new level. You're welcome.
6. We make a solid team. Tomb Raider, Crash Bandicoot, PacMan. Just a few of our conquered exploits. Countless snow forts. Epic forts in the woodlands. The first of many hip hop jingles, "We Low. On Oil." Honestly, we need a better name for that song. I was trying to think of one and kept coming up dry.
5. Let's be honest, none of your friends is as good looking as I.*
4. We have the same value system. Would you really want Steelers fans on either side of you? Or someone who did not respect Ohio State, Lebron, and the plight of Cleveland?
3. You and I both know I'm a phenomenal speaker. I mean, the only person who could possibly compete is you, and you couldn't give your own best man speech... or could you?
2. I brought country music into your life.
And, the number one reason I should be your best man:
1. You need someone next to you quoting Wedding Crashers and Old School as Courtny walks down the aisle. And Mulan. Maybe Emperor's New Groove. I don't know. I don't know if we'll have enough time...
I recognize there is an insurmountable logistical issue with me being best man, so I will not be offended if I do not win the role. We all know it should be me, and I can be satisfied with that. I will settle for one last single-Navatsyk-sibling hoorah - Euroadtrip. #TheBachelorPartyWillHaveNothingOnThis #ButNotInAWeirdWay #TaylorSwiftAllDay.
*That sentence was grammatically tricky.
10. The elements. Likely, the two of you will take your first communion together as part of the ceremony. And when the pastor brings forth the bread and wine, who is going to be there to declare their presence, Neo Cortex style?
Now that I have lost 98% of the readership, I will continue...
9. Why were you able to land a broad? It could be your killer wit, cool cowlick and MC skills. But more than likely, it's because you had to listen to me pontificate over men for so many years as I provided you with invaluable insight into the female psyche. Not to mention, I pushed you out of your seventh grade punk phase. Lord know where you would be if you had lingered there.
8. Where did you get your baseball skills? Possibly father. Possibly practice. Or... hours of playing catch with me and having to field my terrible throws.
7. Who introduced the peanut butter Oreo shake, which became your staple snack for four solid years, into the Navatsyk household? That was me. I took the Oreo shake to a new level. You're welcome.
6. We make a solid team. Tomb Raider, Crash Bandicoot, PacMan. Just a few of our conquered exploits. Countless snow forts. Epic forts in the woodlands. The first of many hip hop jingles, "We Low. On Oil." Honestly, we need a better name for that song. I was trying to think of one and kept coming up dry.
5. Let's be honest, none of your friends is as good looking as I.*
4. We have the same value system. Would you really want Steelers fans on either side of you? Or someone who did not respect Ohio State, Lebron, and the plight of Cleveland?
3. You and I both know I'm a phenomenal speaker. I mean, the only person who could possibly compete is you, and you couldn't give your own best man speech... or could you?
2. I brought country music into your life.
And, the number one reason I should be your best man:
1. You need someone next to you quoting Wedding Crashers and Old School as Courtny walks down the aisle. And Mulan. Maybe Emperor's New Groove. I don't know. I don't know if we'll have enough time...
I recognize there is an insurmountable logistical issue with me being best man, so I will not be offended if I do not win the role. We all know it should be me, and I can be satisfied with that. I will settle for one last single-Navatsyk-sibling hoorah - Euroadtrip. #TheBachelorPartyWillHaveNothingOnThis #ButNotInAWeirdWay #TaylorSwiftAllDay.
*That sentence was grammatically tricky.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
27 Things
For my twenty-seventh birthday.
I waited on a table at Commonwealth the other night, and per usual, I was a hit with the middle-aged men. When asked why I was in Charlottesville, I gave my usual schpeel, "I moved down to Charlottesville for a job in online marketing, quit after two years, worked here full-time, yada yada... I am currently running the marketing department of a tech startup, applying to grad school, and serving you fine people."
He responded, "You have a lot going on up there." It's true. As you read these 27 thoughts, recognize this is how my mind operates most of the time. It's a wild wilderness up there.
1. I read somewhere that you could store red wine in the freezer and it would stay for 3-4 months. I think that's a lie, because the wine freezes. And I just let it thaw and poured myself a glass. Not tasty. Don't worry, though, I had a bottle of Prosecco on deck.
2. I don't understand why people lock their doors when they leave but not when they are home. I would much rather an intruder come when I am gone then when I am home.
3. Sometimes, I wonder if I could pull off an Audrey Hepburn persona. Then I belch.
4. The Prosecco made me burp. Which tasted like whipped cream. Which reminded me of the wonderful breakfast this morning. My dear friend, Jess, made me the most exquisite meal of homemade deliciousness. It was my favorite birthday breakfast, and the company was fabulous.
5. Kirk Herbstreit looks really good in blue. I think a lot about Kirk this time of year.
6. Three years ago, my mother got me a tennis racket necklace that I wore every day. I lost it seven months ago, and have spend many days hoping it would reappear. I didn't want to tell my mother, but my niece decided to tell her for me. Today, a tennis racket necklace was sent to me. I am thankful for my gracious mother. And my sweet niece who is unable to keep a secret.
7. My nails are chipping. Do I remove all the nail polish? Do I continue chipping them? Do I moan about the fact that they are chipping after just three days?
8. You should always write thank you notes. No one gets a thank you note, and says, "Man, if I get another thank you note, I'm going to punch a baby."
9. Along those lines, I also like getting unrelated cards for occasions. For instance, a birthday card for a thank you, a congrats card for a birthday. Probably should never randomly get someone a congrats on your baby card.
10. Another card thing... I bought cards last year that have "H" on the front of them. That way, recipients will wonder, "Wait, is her name really Hannah, and I've had it wrong all this time?" Still cracks me up.
11. I reminisce about food a lot. A couple weeks ago, I was in Boston, and a local bartender gave me intel on the best bakeries in Little Italy. A true Italian cannoli is really something for the tastebuds to behold.
12. I have a Vanity Fair magazine on my coffee table with Channing Tatum on the cover. I won't read it, but I also can't put it away because I really like looking at him.
13. I have been thinking my new high five is going to be jumping and briefly linking arms at the elbows. I tried to find a picture but couldn't. All the cool college kids have been doing it this football season, though.
14. Sometimes I also think about looking more mysterious. For instance, not smiling in photos but instead staring seductively at the camera. I can't do it. I just smile obnoxiously in every picture. And blog my every thought.
15. My dad sent me a birthday message and called me Cakes, his childhood nickname for me. It made me feel young.
16. My sister sent me a birthday message and called me woman. It made me feel mature.
17. I think I am both. You know that feeling you got in high school when you pictured all the great and scary things your life still had waiting for you? I haven't lost that feeling, and I think that's cool.
18. Why is the hair of UVA guys generally 1/2 inch higher than the collegiate average?
19. I have turned in 3 of the 4 grad school applications. Every time I remember that, I sigh a sigh of relief.
20. Because I have turned in 3 of the 4 grad school applications and dropped roughly a grand, the $20 I am about to spend on Pitch Perfect 2 seems like a drop in the bucket.
21. I was just informed by an anonymous source that my name one letter up in the alphabet is "boob". If you know me, this is appropriate.
22. I've decided to just chip at my nails.
23. Only 50% of the lightbulbs in my apartment work.
24. If the light bulb doesn't work but the light switch is on, am I using electricity? Does the surge reach the light bulb, get rejected, then get super annoyed with me, actually costing me more than if the lightbulb worked?
25. I trapped a stink bug in between my screen and window. How will it die? Not of suffocation. I think it just dies from banging its head against the window and going insane. Seems inhumane.
26. A friend, Ina, gave me such a hearty and warm birthday hug. It made me full of good feelings.
27. I have a good feeling about 27.
I waited on a table at Commonwealth the other night, and per usual, I was a hit with the middle-aged men. When asked why I was in Charlottesville, I gave my usual schpeel, "I moved down to Charlottesville for a job in online marketing, quit after two years, worked here full-time, yada yada... I am currently running the marketing department of a tech startup, applying to grad school, and serving you fine people."
He responded, "You have a lot going on up there." It's true. As you read these 27 thoughts, recognize this is how my mind operates most of the time. It's a wild wilderness up there.
1. I read somewhere that you could store red wine in the freezer and it would stay for 3-4 months. I think that's a lie, because the wine freezes. And I just let it thaw and poured myself a glass. Not tasty. Don't worry, though, I had a bottle of Prosecco on deck.
2. I don't understand why people lock their doors when they leave but not when they are home. I would much rather an intruder come when I am gone then when I am home.
3. Sometimes, I wonder if I could pull off an Audrey Hepburn persona. Then I belch.
4. The Prosecco made me burp. Which tasted like whipped cream. Which reminded me of the wonderful breakfast this morning. My dear friend, Jess, made me the most exquisite meal of homemade deliciousness. It was my favorite birthday breakfast, and the company was fabulous.
5. Kirk Herbstreit looks really good in blue. I think a lot about Kirk this time of year.
6. Three years ago, my mother got me a tennis racket necklace that I wore every day. I lost it seven months ago, and have spend many days hoping it would reappear. I didn't want to tell my mother, but my niece decided to tell her for me. Today, a tennis racket necklace was sent to me. I am thankful for my gracious mother. And my sweet niece who is unable to keep a secret.
7. My nails are chipping. Do I remove all the nail polish? Do I continue chipping them? Do I moan about the fact that they are chipping after just three days?
8. You should always write thank you notes. No one gets a thank you note, and says, "Man, if I get another thank you note, I'm going to punch a baby."
9. Along those lines, I also like getting unrelated cards for occasions. For instance, a birthday card for a thank you, a congrats card for a birthday. Probably should never randomly get someone a congrats on your baby card.
10. Another card thing... I bought cards last year that have "H" on the front of them. That way, recipients will wonder, "Wait, is her name really Hannah, and I've had it wrong all this time?" Still cracks me up.
11. I reminisce about food a lot. A couple weeks ago, I was in Boston, and a local bartender gave me intel on the best bakeries in Little Italy. A true Italian cannoli is really something for the tastebuds to behold.
12. I have a Vanity Fair magazine on my coffee table with Channing Tatum on the cover. I won't read it, but I also can't put it away because I really like looking at him.
13. I have been thinking my new high five is going to be jumping and briefly linking arms at the elbows. I tried to find a picture but couldn't. All the cool college kids have been doing it this football season, though.
14. Sometimes I also think about looking more mysterious. For instance, not smiling in photos but instead staring seductively at the camera. I can't do it. I just smile obnoxiously in every picture. And blog my every thought.
15. My dad sent me a birthday message and called me Cakes, his childhood nickname for me. It made me feel young.
16. My sister sent me a birthday message and called me woman. It made me feel mature.
17. I think I am both. You know that feeling you got in high school when you pictured all the great and scary things your life still had waiting for you? I haven't lost that feeling, and I think that's cool.
18. Why is the hair of UVA guys generally 1/2 inch higher than the collegiate average?
19. I have turned in 3 of the 4 grad school applications. Every time I remember that, I sigh a sigh of relief.
20. Because I have turned in 3 of the 4 grad school applications and dropped roughly a grand, the $20 I am about to spend on Pitch Perfect 2 seems like a drop in the bucket.
21. I was just informed by an anonymous source that my name one letter up in the alphabet is "boob". If you know me, this is appropriate.
22. I've decided to just chip at my nails.
23. Only 50% of the lightbulbs in my apartment work.
24. If the light bulb doesn't work but the light switch is on, am I using electricity? Does the surge reach the light bulb, get rejected, then get super annoyed with me, actually costing me more than if the lightbulb worked?
25. I trapped a stink bug in between my screen and window. How will it die? Not of suffocation. I think it just dies from banging its head against the window and going insane. Seems inhumane.
26. A friend, Ina, gave me such a hearty and warm birthday hug. It made me full of good feelings.
27. I have a good feeling about 27.
Friday, September 11, 2015
How Should the Privileged Address Racism?
First, stop using the term privileged.
This post began as a rant. I then erased the rant, let my thoughts marinate, and prayed that from them, something constructive would come. So here goes.
I was reading the book Quiet the other week. And by reading, I mean listening to the audio version. The author delves into the merits of being introverted, and to a certain audience, these points could be convicting, invigorating, or validating. It certainly contains truths. But it bothered me - and not because I am an extrovert. It bothered me because the purpose of the book was to remove the stigma associated with being introverted, but in the process, it stigmatized extroverts.
It used to be that I was a white female relating to a black male. And that could be hard. Now, I'm a privileged, extroverted, white female relating to an underprivileged, introverted, black male. I'm single. He's married. I'm Christian. He's atheist. I'm a Cleveland* fan. He's a Boston fan. The list goes on... Not only is that harder - it seems like a giant step backwards.
It's not courageous to say, "I’m privileged, I can’t relate, but man, someone else needs to do something about it." And, quite often, when we say someone else, we mean institutions. We mean the government.
But discrimination is institutionalized. Forget the matter of responsibility. How ignorant are we to assume the institution is capable of solving discrimination when that's where it was created?
So who solves it? I've spent the last year at a tech startup, and the idea of DevOps is permeating the community. Essentially, DevOps is implemented through removing silos and having the various IT segments communicate with one another,* often beginning as a grass roots movement. The macro-level change begins with micro-level change.
Grass roots is not a foreign concept, but if the change is supposed to start at the bottom - with us - how does that look?
First, we remove the stigmas in our own lives. We can not control how others perceive us, but we completely control how we perceive ourselves. We will be able to help others so much more if we know who we are - our strengths, weaknesses, insecurities, motivators, desires.
Then, we shift our focus. The problem with statements such as, "I am privileged," is that they keep the focus on ourselves. Instead of settling for statements that are ultimately divisive, we need to work to understand and love others. Not the easy love, but the love that invests. The love that encourages, supports and empathizes, but also recognizes right and wrong, and pushes others to own their future.
Throughout building these relationships, it is important to recognize commonalities. There are so many people in my life of all races who have fought battles that I pray I never face. But we are not competing to determine who has the hardest life. We are fighting together to live this life the best way we can, striving to make an impact in some way. At times, that gets really messy, but we are fighting. And that's worth something.
Some reading this may understandably assume: this is easy for you to say - you’re privileged, extroverted, and white. You've always been confident and smart, and if there was a competition for hardest life, you would definitely be losing. It's exactly because of that this is hard to say. And it's scary. It's scary because people will judge it. And some may agree, but it will suck when others don't. Most of all, it's scary because I care so much about this, I may some day be called to do something scarier than write a blog post that twenty people will read.
Speaking of quiet, it is times like this, at four o'clock in the morning when I can't sleep and my heart is pounding, that I wish I would just shut up. Instead, here I am, speaking.
What am I saying? Stop creating stigmas. Remove them instead. Actively fight the tendency to judge others, but also, don't assume they are judging you. Be open to the possibility that people you would never expect are able to relate to you.
Engage in a meaningful way. It is good to want change and engage, but if the extent of that engagement is throwing around buzz words and jumping on the latest hashtag bandwagon, you are not part of the solution. Because as powerful as social mediums are, change still happens on a personal level. So this is me, making it personal.
* Admittedly, there are times I believe no one understands the plight of the Cleveland sports fan.
* I know - shocking that software engineers took so long to see the value in communication.
This post began as a rant. I then erased the rant, let my thoughts marinate, and prayed that from them, something constructive would come. So here goes.
I was reading the book Quiet the other week. And by reading, I mean listening to the audio version. The author delves into the merits of being introverted, and to a certain audience, these points could be convicting, invigorating, or validating. It certainly contains truths. But it bothered me - and not because I am an extrovert. It bothered me because the purpose of the book was to remove the stigma associated with being introverted, but in the process, it stigmatized extroverts.
It used to be that I was a white female relating to a black male. And that could be hard. Now, I'm a privileged, extroverted, white female relating to an underprivileged, introverted, black male. I'm single. He's married. I'm Christian. He's atheist. I'm a Cleveland* fan. He's a Boston fan. The list goes on... Not only is that harder - it seems like a giant step backwards.
It's not courageous to say, "I’m privileged, I can’t relate, but man, someone else needs to do something about it." And, quite often, when we say someone else, we mean institutions. We mean the government.
But discrimination is institutionalized. Forget the matter of responsibility. How ignorant are we to assume the institution is capable of solving discrimination when that's where it was created?
So who solves it? I've spent the last year at a tech startup, and the idea of DevOps is permeating the community. Essentially, DevOps is implemented through removing silos and having the various IT segments communicate with one another,* often beginning as a grass roots movement. The macro-level change begins with micro-level change.
Grass roots is not a foreign concept, but if the change is supposed to start at the bottom - with us - how does that look?
First, we remove the stigmas in our own lives. We can not control how others perceive us, but we completely control how we perceive ourselves. We will be able to help others so much more if we know who we are - our strengths, weaknesses, insecurities, motivators, desires.
Then, we shift our focus. The problem with statements such as, "I am privileged," is that they keep the focus on ourselves. Instead of settling for statements that are ultimately divisive, we need to work to understand and love others. Not the easy love, but the love that invests. The love that encourages, supports and empathizes, but also recognizes right and wrong, and pushes others to own their future.
Throughout building these relationships, it is important to recognize commonalities. There are so many people in my life of all races who have fought battles that I pray I never face. But we are not competing to determine who has the hardest life. We are fighting together to live this life the best way we can, striving to make an impact in some way. At times, that gets really messy, but we are fighting. And that's worth something.
Some reading this may understandably assume: this is easy for you to say - you’re privileged, extroverted, and white. You've always been confident and smart, and if there was a competition for hardest life, you would definitely be losing. It's exactly because of that this is hard to say. And it's scary. It's scary because people will judge it. And some may agree, but it will suck when others don't. Most of all, it's scary because I care so much about this, I may some day be called to do something scarier than write a blog post that twenty people will read.
Speaking of quiet, it is times like this, at four o'clock in the morning when I can't sleep and my heart is pounding, that I wish I would just shut up. Instead, here I am, speaking.
What am I saying? Stop creating stigmas. Remove them instead. Actively fight the tendency to judge others, but also, don't assume they are judging you. Be open to the possibility that people you would never expect are able to relate to you.
Engage in a meaningful way. It is good to want change and engage, but if the extent of that engagement is throwing around buzz words and jumping on the latest hashtag bandwagon, you are not part of the solution. Because as powerful as social mediums are, change still happens on a personal level. So this is me, making it personal.
* Admittedly, there are times I believe no one understands the plight of the Cleveland sports fan.
* I know - shocking that software engineers took so long to see the value in communication.
Monday, August 3, 2015
Dear Crossfit - Welcome to Professional Sports
It’s not about being the fittest person on earth. It’s about money. And, sure - maybe a little about being fit. But mostly, it's about the money.
My medical knowledge extends to the BandAids and knock-off Neosporin I have in my bathroom cabinet, so I will not claim to have any understanding of the programming of Crossfit games.
But I do know pro sports.
Why do NFL players suffer concussions? Because these guys, coming in at roughly 6'5'' 250, are paid to lay them out. Again. And again. And again.
Why does the NBA have forty days of playoffs after an 82 game season and before the finals?
Why does MLB have 162 games - no one knows, that's ridiculous. I do know why this year's home run derby was more scintillating than years passed, though. Rather than watching ball after ball sail over home plate, players had four minutes to hit as many home runs as possible. It was intense. It was exciting. Did it accurately crown the major league's best homerun hitter? Maybe, maybe not. But it was the first time in ten years I watched the whole thing.
ESPN is not just catering to a particular sport’s aficionados; it's catering to casual sports enthusiasts who will change the channel if it is not entertaining.
Did anyone watch the NBA Finals? The Cavs were dropping like flies. Kyrie Irving breaks his knee because his body was so banged up. He’s not calling the commish, crying that the season is too long. He's recovering so he can play next season.
And why do the players keep playing, through nagging injuries at risk of more severe ones? Because they want to win. Because they’re competitors. And because they're getting paid.
It’s a two way street, and Crossfit athletes are not complaining about the improved ratings and increased volume of the prize pool or sponsorships.
The distinction lies here: This is not a local gym. This is not a regional Crossfit competition. This is professional. It involves money, and money changes everything.
Crossfit gyms are not programming their classes as if the students were elite athletes, and as a Crossfit athlete, I do not treat these classes as if I were elite. I have never puked during a workout, and I have never pushed myself to the point of injury. I take an extra second to breathe when I need one and drop the weight when I am not feeling strong. The risk is just not worth it. I hear my body say, “hey Anna, not a good idea,” and I listen. If 275 grand were on the line, I might tell my body to shut up, but that is my choice.
Sports like football and even baseball have been determining the balance between the sport and player safety for nearly a century, so I sense this discussion will not go away anytime soon, and I believe it is a good one to have.
It will be interesting to see how Crossfit handles the balance of money, entertainment, and the sanctity of a sport that is still, in many ways, defining itself. Perhaps the powers that be will figure out that perfect programming to effectively judge performance, provide entertainment and generate revenue, and keep the athlete free of injury.
Until then though, to casual viewers: just like following an NFL workout regiment is not the NFL, a Crossfit gym does not mirror elite Crossfit competition. Most gym trainers genuinely want you to improve and better your life through smart fitness and community.
To the professionals: I respect you for choosing to compete - you are beasts - but I will not pity you for that choice.
My medical knowledge extends to the BandAids and knock-off Neosporin I have in my bathroom cabinet, so I will not claim to have any understanding of the programming of Crossfit games.
But I do know pro sports.
Why do NFL players suffer concussions? Because these guys, coming in at roughly 6'5'' 250, are paid to lay them out. Again. And again. And again.
Why does the NBA have forty days of playoffs after an 82 game season and before the finals?
Why does MLB have 162 games - no one knows, that's ridiculous. I do know why this year's home run derby was more scintillating than years passed, though. Rather than watching ball after ball sail over home plate, players had four minutes to hit as many home runs as possible. It was intense. It was exciting. Did it accurately crown the major league's best homerun hitter? Maybe, maybe not. But it was the first time in ten years I watched the whole thing.
ESPN is not just catering to a particular sport’s aficionados; it's catering to casual sports enthusiasts who will change the channel if it is not entertaining.
Did anyone watch the NBA Finals? The Cavs were dropping like flies. Kyrie Irving breaks his knee because his body was so banged up. He’s not calling the commish, crying that the season is too long. He's recovering so he can play next season.
And why do the players keep playing, through nagging injuries at risk of more severe ones? Because they want to win. Because they’re competitors. And because they're getting paid.
It’s a two way street, and Crossfit athletes are not complaining about the improved ratings and increased volume of the prize pool or sponsorships.
The distinction lies here: This is not a local gym. This is not a regional Crossfit competition. This is professional. It involves money, and money changes everything.
Crossfit gyms are not programming their classes as if the students were elite athletes, and as a Crossfit athlete, I do not treat these classes as if I were elite. I have never puked during a workout, and I have never pushed myself to the point of injury. I take an extra second to breathe when I need one and drop the weight when I am not feeling strong. The risk is just not worth it. I hear my body say, “hey Anna, not a good idea,” and I listen. If 275 grand were on the line, I might tell my body to shut up, but that is my choice.
Sports like football and even baseball have been determining the balance between the sport and player safety for nearly a century, so I sense this discussion will not go away anytime soon, and I believe it is a good one to have.
It will be interesting to see how Crossfit handles the balance of money, entertainment, and the sanctity of a sport that is still, in many ways, defining itself. Perhaps the powers that be will figure out that perfect programming to effectively judge performance, provide entertainment and generate revenue, and keep the athlete free of injury.
Until then though, to casual viewers: just like following an NFL workout regiment is not the NFL, a Crossfit gym does not mirror elite Crossfit competition. Most gym trainers genuinely want you to improve and better your life through smart fitness and community.
To the professionals: I respect you for choosing to compete - you are beasts - but I will not pity you for that choice.
Monday, July 20, 2015
Family Dinners in Charlottesville
I am currently sitting at the Nostrana bar in Portland, sipping a glass of Pinot Noir Brut Rose and eating a Caesar salad. Caesar salads have always been an oxymoron to me because in theory they are healthy, but in reality, they are simply cheese, croutons and cream based dressing disguised as healthy by a few pieces of lettuce. Fret not, my main course of wood grilled pizza is not even disguising itself as healthy.
I was convicted the other day. My blog often becomes a means to reflect on the goodness of family and channel my longing for home. I do not, however, often thank the people in Charlottesville for enriching my life so deeply. Perhaps that is because if I were to go through that list, it would take an immensely long time, whereas my family is limited. Still large, but limited. Regardless, this is no excuse. Since I am dining at the moment, I think it only appropriate to begin with family dinners.
I met Armin the day I moved into my Park Street apartment. More appropriately, my mother met Armin. Of course, she quickly discovered his country of origin, occupation, length of stay in Charlottesville, and even acquiesced his help in moving some furniture into the apartment. I remained skeptical. After all, he was a man, and in my limited experience, males in their mid-twenties are rarely looking for female comrades unless they are bringing something else to the table. Over time and as the smells of his cooking prowess wafted into my apartment from a couple doors down, I began to trust him.* Then, he introduced me to the family.
We played charades at my first family dinner, and though I was with strangers, I felt comfortable. That’s the thing about the family – newcomers are always welcome. There are no airs or pretentions - just a hodge-podge group, wanting to rock life and have a good time while doing so. They are honest, real, and at times, a bit crazy.
I met them at a time when I desperately needed close friends. I was working through career and other relationship questions, blatantly wondering why I was in Charlottesville. And they were there.
Years later, they still are. The women are strong and supportive, driving me to push myself in my career and never settle when it comes to men. I respect each of them for their personal drive and consistent effort to build and maintain relationships with others. I am blessed to have been a recipient. They are constant voices of sarcasm, reason, encouragement and humor. Plus, they love wine and dancing.
The men - they are ridiculous. But they are always there, whether it is a night out, a home cooked meal, or carrying your mattress up six flights of stairs.
As I finish my meal with a sophisticated spot of cheese and half glass of Prosecco, I am thankful that when I return to Charlottesville, they will be there. Though we shall not scour the downtown mall as we did during days of old, they will always be at my C-ville core. They brought an entirely refreshing and joyful light to my life away from family, enabling me to make Charlottesville a home. For that, I am incredibly grateful.
*Let’s be honest, the way to all hearts is through the stomach.
I was convicted the other day. My blog often becomes a means to reflect on the goodness of family and channel my longing for home. I do not, however, often thank the people in Charlottesville for enriching my life so deeply. Perhaps that is because if I were to go through that list, it would take an immensely long time, whereas my family is limited. Still large, but limited. Regardless, this is no excuse. Since I am dining at the moment, I think it only appropriate to begin with family dinners.
I met Armin the day I moved into my Park Street apartment. More appropriately, my mother met Armin. Of course, she quickly discovered his country of origin, occupation, length of stay in Charlottesville, and even acquiesced his help in moving some furniture into the apartment. I remained skeptical. After all, he was a man, and in my limited experience, males in their mid-twenties are rarely looking for female comrades unless they are bringing something else to the table. Over time and as the smells of his cooking prowess wafted into my apartment from a couple doors down, I began to trust him.* Then, he introduced me to the family.
We played charades at my first family dinner, and though I was with strangers, I felt comfortable. That’s the thing about the family – newcomers are always welcome. There are no airs or pretentions - just a hodge-podge group, wanting to rock life and have a good time while doing so. They are honest, real, and at times, a bit crazy.
I met them at a time when I desperately needed close friends. I was working through career and other relationship questions, blatantly wondering why I was in Charlottesville. And they were there.
Years later, they still are. The women are strong and supportive, driving me to push myself in my career and never settle when it comes to men. I respect each of them for their personal drive and consistent effort to build and maintain relationships with others. I am blessed to have been a recipient. They are constant voices of sarcasm, reason, encouragement and humor. Plus, they love wine and dancing.
The men - they are ridiculous. But they are always there, whether it is a night out, a home cooked meal, or carrying your mattress up six flights of stairs.
As I finish my meal with a sophisticated spot of cheese and half glass of Prosecco, I am thankful that when I return to Charlottesville, they will be there. Though we shall not scour the downtown mall as we did during days of old, they will always be at my C-ville core. They brought an entirely refreshing and joyful light to my life away from family, enabling me to make Charlottesville a home. For that, I am incredibly grateful.
*Let’s be honest, the way to all hearts is through the stomach.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
On Being an Individual
I was twelve years old, that highly volatile age when middle school girls are mean, boys are awkward, and every pimple seems to be the end of the world. In all honesty, I did not experience much of an awkward phase. My sisters claim I just never grew out of it, which is entirely possible. There was this one time, though...
I had a friend spend the night. She was a friend I thought was a little cooler than I, and some small part felt honored that she was spending time with me. After staying up late, we were both a bit sluggish in the morning. I slouched at the kitchen table as I ate the waffles Mom had made us. But I never slouched, and Mom noticed.
She pulled me aside later that day and voiced her concern. "Anna, I felt like you changed your behavior because of her. I do not want you to ever change who you are because of other people." Of course, I denied any such thing, but to this day, those words stick.
My oldest sister got married a couple months ago, and I was able to spend a week with my family, the people who bring me the most joy. As we sat at the kitchen table, entertained by my nieces and nephews, laughing at one another's stories and chatting about life, my mom was buzzing around as she did when we were younger.
Mom stayed at home for thirty-six years. She had to discipline, encourage and love five very unique children, and she was our champion. She still remembers that one time my fourth grade teacher was mean. She was at every tennis match with a cooler, a bag of gummies and an extra Gatorade. She was the one I called the morning I quit my first job out of college to wait tables, encouraging me to take a step of faith.
She also gracefully reminds me where my priorities should lie, when I should adjust my expectations, when I should act, and when I should trust.
My parents raised five fiercely independent individuals with five starkly different personalities. We have walked very different paths, and they have been the greatest support for each of us. They have never tried to mold us, but instead have been there as we work, and sometimes struggle, to create our own mold, loving us throughout the process.
I do not think parenting gets easier as children get older. It may even get more intense. As we have all become adults, our parents continue to lead our family by example, demonstrating what it means to live a life of faith and pushing us to be stronger. Hundreds of miles away, they remain my greatest support.
It is hard to be an individual. To be yourself when others mock or question you. To speak when you would rather be silent. To remain true to your convictions, and to make those bold decisions that make you a leader and not a follower. When I look around the kitchen table, there is one character trait the Navatsyk children share: we know who we are, and we are not ashamed. I thank my parents for instilling that in us.
Photo Cred
I had a friend spend the night. She was a friend I thought was a little cooler than I, and some small part felt honored that she was spending time with me. After staying up late, we were both a bit sluggish in the morning. I slouched at the kitchen table as I ate the waffles Mom had made us. But I never slouched, and Mom noticed.
She pulled me aside later that day and voiced her concern. "Anna, I felt like you changed your behavior because of her. I do not want you to ever change who you are because of other people." Of course, I denied any such thing, but to this day, those words stick.
My oldest sister got married a couple months ago, and I was able to spend a week with my family, the people who bring me the most joy. As we sat at the kitchen table, entertained by my nieces and nephews, laughing at one another's stories and chatting about life, my mom was buzzing around as she did when we were younger.
Mom stayed at home for thirty-six years. She had to discipline, encourage and love five very unique children, and she was our champion. She still remembers that one time my fourth grade teacher was mean. She was at every tennis match with a cooler, a bag of gummies and an extra Gatorade. She was the one I called the morning I quit my first job out of college to wait tables, encouraging me to take a step of faith.
She also gracefully reminds me where my priorities should lie, when I should adjust my expectations, when I should act, and when I should trust.
My parents raised five fiercely independent individuals with five starkly different personalities. We have walked very different paths, and they have been the greatest support for each of us. They have never tried to mold us, but instead have been there as we work, and sometimes struggle, to create our own mold, loving us throughout the process.
I do not think parenting gets easier as children get older. It may even get more intense. As we have all become adults, our parents continue to lead our family by example, demonstrating what it means to live a life of faith and pushing us to be stronger. Hundreds of miles away, they remain my greatest support.
It is hard to be an individual. To be yourself when others mock or question you. To speak when you would rather be silent. To remain true to your convictions, and to make those bold decisions that make you a leader and not a follower. When I look around the kitchen table, there is one character trait the Navatsyk children share: we know who we are, and we are not ashamed. I thank my parents for instilling that in us.
Photo Cred
Saturday, July 4, 2015
A Peak Inside My Head
Hi friend. I am writing to you from my fire escape, and I have just watered the plants lining the small fence. It's quite New York of me, I know, though my view is of mountains rather than skyscrapers, and I have no idea what the plants actually are. Speaking of plants, I am considering using flowers as insults and compliments - adjectives in general. I was walking through botanical gardens the other weekend, and some seem quite apt. For instance, that dude is a total brodiaea or you are being a real campsis radican today. Clearly, I don't have much cohesive to say, but I think it appropriate to exercise my free speech on such a day.
Since we last spoke, I have decided my dreams are not prophetic. I was clinging to the hope they were because I dreamt the Cavs won a championship. Then they lost, and I had a dream I had cancer, a friend died, and a woman I know was killed. So I'm going to let that idea go - but maybe the Cavs will still win a championship. I was also thinking perhaps the success of my dating life will correlate with the success of Cleveland sports. My mother told me I probably should not proclaim that.
There's this Seinfeld episode where George stops having sex and becomes a genius because the portion of his brain dedicated to sex is now free to exercise its power elsewhere. I think this theory affects females in a slightly different way in that we have this portion of the brain that can be consumed with the idea of a guy. Anyways, with that portion of my brain free from any sort of preoccupation, I have been quite productive lately, cranking out killer grad school essays. Turns out, I like writing about myself. Who knew.
Charlottesville added a superfluous traffic light on my ten minute commute. It's now twelve minutes, and I must control my indignation each extra minute. I think they made some adjustments, because the first day, there was literally a point where no cars were able to go. Just when I thought Charlottesville was understanding traffic flow, they do something like this and totally lose my trust.
We have this sales tool at work that allows you to see when people open emails. The idea is you call someone when they have your email open, they think it's fate and subsequently purchase your product. Something like that. Anyways, it works with my personal email, too, so I know when people open my emails and are not responding. Creepy.
I've also been thinking about freedom lately - freedom of choice in particular. On one end of the spectrum, there is paralysis of choice, where an individual gets overwhelmed with choice and does not act. For instance, in the chocolate aisle at the store, when you cannot decide whether you want Godiva, Dove, or Reese's, so you simply leave without chocolate.
I do not struggle with that. I just buy all three. My struggle lately has been with obsession over choice. What if I get accepted to grad school? What if I get accepted to multiple? What if VividCortex raises funding? What if my job continues to get more interesting and I am growing there? What if I leave Charlottesville? What if I have a reason to stay? It is a futile spiral, though, as those decisions are not yet upon me, and dwelling on an unknown future keeps me from contributing in the present. It is far more beneficial to rest in the present and trust that when the time comes to make decisions, I will know the decision I need to make.
So thank you, America, for giving me so many choices. I will never take that for granted. For now, though, I am going to enjoy a day by the pool.
Happy Fourth of July, all!
Since we last spoke, I have decided my dreams are not prophetic. I was clinging to the hope they were because I dreamt the Cavs won a championship. Then they lost, and I had a dream I had cancer, a friend died, and a woman I know was killed. So I'm going to let that idea go - but maybe the Cavs will still win a championship. I was also thinking perhaps the success of my dating life will correlate with the success of Cleveland sports. My mother told me I probably should not proclaim that.
There's this Seinfeld episode where George stops having sex and becomes a genius because the portion of his brain dedicated to sex is now free to exercise its power elsewhere. I think this theory affects females in a slightly different way in that we have this portion of the brain that can be consumed with the idea of a guy. Anyways, with that portion of my brain free from any sort of preoccupation, I have been quite productive lately, cranking out killer grad school essays. Turns out, I like writing about myself. Who knew.
Charlottesville added a superfluous traffic light on my ten minute commute. It's now twelve minutes, and I must control my indignation each extra minute. I think they made some adjustments, because the first day, there was literally a point where no cars were able to go. Just when I thought Charlottesville was understanding traffic flow, they do something like this and totally lose my trust.
We have this sales tool at work that allows you to see when people open emails. The idea is you call someone when they have your email open, they think it's fate and subsequently purchase your product. Something like that. Anyways, it works with my personal email, too, so I know when people open my emails and are not responding. Creepy.
I've also been thinking about freedom lately - freedom of choice in particular. On one end of the spectrum, there is paralysis of choice, where an individual gets overwhelmed with choice and does not act. For instance, in the chocolate aisle at the store, when you cannot decide whether you want Godiva, Dove, or Reese's, so you simply leave without chocolate.
I do not struggle with that. I just buy all three. My struggle lately has been with obsession over choice. What if I get accepted to grad school? What if I get accepted to multiple? What if VividCortex raises funding? What if my job continues to get more interesting and I am growing there? What if I leave Charlottesville? What if I have a reason to stay? It is a futile spiral, though, as those decisions are not yet upon me, and dwelling on an unknown future keeps me from contributing in the present. It is far more beneficial to rest in the present and trust that when the time comes to make decisions, I will know the decision I need to make.
So thank you, America, for giving me so many choices. I will never take that for granted. For now, though, I am going to enjoy a day by the pool.
Happy Fourth of July, all!
Friday, June 5, 2015
Confessions of a Rabid Anti-Dentite
I had too.
First confession: I fell on my face the other day. How does that relate? Follow me, friend.
Perhaps you were one of the privileged youth who went to a dentist with cartoons, ice cream flavored fluoride, and a massage chair. I was not. My first memory of the dentist was at age six, listening to him yell at my mother and me as if I was drinking bottles of tequila instead of juice boxes because I had a couple cavities. I dreaded the bi-annual visit. We entered the sterile building that smelled of old women bathed in Robitussin. After thirty minutes of waiting, during which I piously considered how many dental emergencies made the complete disregard of my schedule acceptable, I heard my name.
I took my place beneath the light and closed my eyes indicating that I had no desire to communicate. Instead of receiving the hint, the assistant asked how is your day, how is school, are you even in school right now? I hate small talk. But I especially hate small talk when someone is picking at my teeth's crevices. If I were administering the cleaning, I think I would fill the time by telling the client my general thoughts on life. There's a captive audience if there ever was one. Obviously, this scenario is a win-win.
Instead, though, I grunted what answers I could, feeling as though I had digressed to the evolutionary state of a cavewoman. This was only perpetuated when the hand was removed and a stream of drool flowed from my mouth. I must admit, though, I like the suction utensil they use to gather said drool, and I often wish I had a pocket-sized one for those times when I over-salivate. As you know, I have over productive facial fluids.
Back to my rant. I am not really an anti-dentite. If my tooth is in extreme pain, I am immensely appreciative of administered care. I am a grown woman, though, and do not need to visit every six months to make sure all is well. Because let's be honest, the whole ritual is a nuisance stemming from a false sense of necessity imposed by an entity with an inferiority complex.
Since when did six months become the standard? I have not been to the physician in seven years, and I think my vitals are more important than my teeth. I probably have a lot of weird things accumulating throughout my body, yet it is absolutely imperative that I get them removed from my teeth. What if plaque is actually your teeth's natural sealant, protecting them from the really harmful stuff? Maybe I like the plaque build up.
So when I tell someone I have not been to the dentist in five years, they are appalled, looking at me like a deviant as they gasp in dismay and question the very morals on which I base my existence. Really? I'm supposed to be okay with the fact that you have not done a single activity to benefit your body's well being the past ten years as you shove another fast food burger in your mouth, but you're aghast that I have not been to the dentist in a little while. I am still enforcing the daily habits that lead to dental health. I am simply not spending a precious half hour with someone's fist halfway down my throat. And fifty dollars.
Why don't I buy dental insurance and save myself money? Good question. Because between the deductible and the monthly payments, my teeth would have to be dropping like flies to make it worth it.
This year, I decided to go to the dentist, because five years seems like a reasonable amount of time. My appointment was this past Monday. Because it was my first time, I obviously had to pay $200 for an x-ray. After awkwardly biting a contraption for a couple minutes, I lay down, mentally preparing for the torture that lay before me.
I was pleasantly surprised when the dental assistant told me she would not be able to clean my teeth. Why? Because I had fallen on my face and my lip was too fat. The following fifteen minutes was spent in robust, human conversation as we waited for the dentist. He stopped by, looked at my teeth, examined the x-rays, told me I had a beautiful, healthy mouth, and I was on my way. It was my favorite trip to the dentist ever. I'll go back in five years. Maybe ten.
First confession: I fell on my face the other day. How does that relate? Follow me, friend.
Perhaps you were one of the privileged youth who went to a dentist with cartoons, ice cream flavored fluoride, and a massage chair. I was not. My first memory of the dentist was at age six, listening to him yell at my mother and me as if I was drinking bottles of tequila instead of juice boxes because I had a couple cavities. I dreaded the bi-annual visit. We entered the sterile building that smelled of old women bathed in Robitussin. After thirty minutes of waiting, during which I piously considered how many dental emergencies made the complete disregard of my schedule acceptable, I heard my name.
I took my place beneath the light and closed my eyes indicating that I had no desire to communicate. Instead of receiving the hint, the assistant asked how is your day, how is school, are you even in school right now? I hate small talk. But I especially hate small talk when someone is picking at my teeth's crevices. If I were administering the cleaning, I think I would fill the time by telling the client my general thoughts on life. There's a captive audience if there ever was one. Obviously, this scenario is a win-win.
Instead, though, I grunted what answers I could, feeling as though I had digressed to the evolutionary state of a cavewoman. This was only perpetuated when the hand was removed and a stream of drool flowed from my mouth. I must admit, though, I like the suction utensil they use to gather said drool, and I often wish I had a pocket-sized one for those times when I over-salivate. As you know, I have over productive facial fluids.
Back to my rant. I am not really an anti-dentite. If my tooth is in extreme pain, I am immensely appreciative of administered care. I am a grown woman, though, and do not need to visit every six months to make sure all is well. Because let's be honest, the whole ritual is a nuisance stemming from a false sense of necessity imposed by an entity with an inferiority complex.
Since when did six months become the standard? I have not been to the physician in seven years, and I think my vitals are more important than my teeth. I probably have a lot of weird things accumulating throughout my body, yet it is absolutely imperative that I get them removed from my teeth. What if plaque is actually your teeth's natural sealant, protecting them from the really harmful stuff? Maybe I like the plaque build up.
So when I tell someone I have not been to the dentist in five years, they are appalled, looking at me like a deviant as they gasp in dismay and question the very morals on which I base my existence. Really? I'm supposed to be okay with the fact that you have not done a single activity to benefit your body's well being the past ten years as you shove another fast food burger in your mouth, but you're aghast that I have not been to the dentist in a little while. I am still enforcing the daily habits that lead to dental health. I am simply not spending a precious half hour with someone's fist halfway down my throat. And fifty dollars.
Why don't I buy dental insurance and save myself money? Good question. Because between the deductible and the monthly payments, my teeth would have to be dropping like flies to make it worth it.
This year, I decided to go to the dentist, because five years seems like a reasonable amount of time. My appointment was this past Monday. Because it was my first time, I obviously had to pay $200 for an x-ray. After awkwardly biting a contraption for a couple minutes, I lay down, mentally preparing for the torture that lay before me.
I was pleasantly surprised when the dental assistant told me she would not be able to clean my teeth. Why? Because I had fallen on my face and my lip was too fat. The following fifteen minutes was spent in robust, human conversation as we waited for the dentist. He stopped by, looked at my teeth, examined the x-rays, told me I had a beautiful, healthy mouth, and I was on my way. It was my favorite trip to the dentist ever. I'll go back in five years. Maybe ten.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
We Are the Israelites
... Metaphorically speaking. Kind of.
Whole Foods sells Passover Matza when seasonally appropriate. It is covered with dark chocolate, almonds, glutinous sucrose - I don't even know what that means - and sea salt. Sixteen dollars a pound. I think Whole Foods gets the spirit of the season.
Today is my one year anniversary at VividCortex. I thought it appropriate to reflect. I have done some big things the last year including establishing myself as the best looking woman in the office and the smartest person in the marketing department, learning the difference between front end developers and backend developers and increasing my love for bacon.
Honestly, it's been hard.* Learning a new role in a new industry came with challenges. Being the only female and the only person dedicated to marketing proved more isolating than I anticipated. Who do I talk to when someone ticks me off? Or when I want to admire Apple's or Gatorade's marketing approach? Or when I can't decide what color to paint my toenails? The answer has become everyone - much to their dismay at times, I am sure.
More than that, though, this job was the latest in a seemingly endless transition in Charlottesville, during which I sometimes feel as though I am swimming through tar to make life work. So this post will be a reflection on that rather than the steps taken in my illustrious career. Rest easy, though, I can assure you I am closer to taking over the world than I was a year ago.
Earlier this year, I revisited the Old Testament for the first time since 3rd grade Sunday school with Mr. Pitrone - a class in which I learned more about Greek roots than I would my entire life. Twenty years later, I find the story of the Israelites' exodus from Egypt and journey to the Promised land less abstract and more relatable. The story is incredible and the lessons abound, but I will keep my extraction relatively brief.
We will join the Israelites immediately after Pharaoh releases them from captivity, and they begin to wander the desert. As a sidenote, I thought it fascinating that it is not until after God parts the Red Sea and destroys Pharaoh's army that the Israelites put their trust in Him. Really, dudes? The gnats and the frogs and the hail and the firstborn dying were not enough? Then again, how often is God so clearly working in front of us, but we are too stubborn to recognize His power? Okay... To the desert.
The thing is, they weren't really wandering. They were deliberately traveling, and God was leading the entire time. "Neither the pillar of cloud by day nor the pillar of fire by night left its place in front of the people." Beyond that, though, there was a reason God was taking His time. In Exodus 23, God spoke to Moses, "See. I am sending an angel ahead of you to guard you along the way and to bring you to the place I have prepared... to drive the Hivites, Canaanites and Hittites out of your way. But I will not drive them out in a single year, because the land would become desolate and the wild animals too numerous for you. Little by little I will drive them out before you, until you have increased enough to take possession of the land."
In a world of instant gratification and entitlement, this is both convicting and comforting. I often envision myself as a little girl, tugging on the robe of God - velvet, with gold and silver bling - crying, "I'm ready for this. You promised this, and I'm ready for it." Whatever this may be. He graciously answers, "you think you are ready, but if I gave it to you now, you would be overcome. Let's continue our deliberate traveling as I lead you.*" My response can either be: "Alright, Lord. Let's roll," or "I kind of feel like going back to Egypt. Slavery wasn't so bad.*"
It is easy to become disgruntled in the desert, and easier still to forget God's faithfulness in the past. But if we are open to His calling, know that He is leading us, and further recognize that we are not ultimately living for an earthly kingdom, the journey becomes more peaceful and fulfilling, even if it is still hard.
There is one other aspect of the Exodus I really enjoyed this time around, and that was the specifications of the tabernacle. Though admittedly, I still found the nearly six chapter explanation a bit excessive, I had a fresh appreciation for God's attention to detail. God cares deeply about the intricacies of our craft, as well as the intricacies our life.
Maybe Charlottesville is my desert. Maybe it will also be my Promised land, or maybe that will lie elsewhere. I do believe, though, that retrospectively, my time here will be part of a detailed picture of God's goodness. And at least in my desert, there is chocolate covered Matza and Sportscenter.
* I know, I know, I think a lot of things are hard.
* Doo-doo doo-doooo. That's my deliberate traveling tune.
* No, Anna, don't be an idiot. Disobedience often leaves you chilling in the desert longer.
Whole Foods sells Passover Matza when seasonally appropriate. It is covered with dark chocolate, almonds, glutinous sucrose - I don't even know what that means - and sea salt. Sixteen dollars a pound. I think Whole Foods gets the spirit of the season.
Today is my one year anniversary at VividCortex. I thought it appropriate to reflect. I have done some big things the last year including establishing myself as the best looking woman in the office and the smartest person in the marketing department, learning the difference between front end developers and backend developers and increasing my love for bacon.
Honestly, it's been hard.* Learning a new role in a new industry came with challenges. Being the only female and the only person dedicated to marketing proved more isolating than I anticipated. Who do I talk to when someone ticks me off? Or when I want to admire Apple's or Gatorade's marketing approach? Or when I can't decide what color to paint my toenails? The answer has become everyone - much to their dismay at times, I am sure.
More than that, though, this job was the latest in a seemingly endless transition in Charlottesville, during which I sometimes feel as though I am swimming through tar to make life work. So this post will be a reflection on that rather than the steps taken in my illustrious career. Rest easy, though, I can assure you I am closer to taking over the world than I was a year ago.
Earlier this year, I revisited the Old Testament for the first time since 3rd grade Sunday school with Mr. Pitrone - a class in which I learned more about Greek roots than I would my entire life. Twenty years later, I find the story of the Israelites' exodus from Egypt and journey to the Promised land less abstract and more relatable. The story is incredible and the lessons abound, but I will keep my extraction relatively brief.
We will join the Israelites immediately after Pharaoh releases them from captivity, and they begin to wander the desert. As a sidenote, I thought it fascinating that it is not until after God parts the Red Sea and destroys Pharaoh's army that the Israelites put their trust in Him. Really, dudes? The gnats and the frogs and the hail and the firstborn dying were not enough? Then again, how often is God so clearly working in front of us, but we are too stubborn to recognize His power? Okay... To the desert.
The thing is, they weren't really wandering. They were deliberately traveling, and God was leading the entire time. "Neither the pillar of cloud by day nor the pillar of fire by night left its place in front of the people." Beyond that, though, there was a reason God was taking His time. In Exodus 23, God spoke to Moses, "See. I am sending an angel ahead of you to guard you along the way and to bring you to the place I have prepared... to drive the Hivites, Canaanites and Hittites out of your way. But I will not drive them out in a single year, because the land would become desolate and the wild animals too numerous for you. Little by little I will drive them out before you, until you have increased enough to take possession of the land."
In a world of instant gratification and entitlement, this is both convicting and comforting. I often envision myself as a little girl, tugging on the robe of God - velvet, with gold and silver bling - crying, "I'm ready for this. You promised this, and I'm ready for it." Whatever this may be. He graciously answers, "you think you are ready, but if I gave it to you now, you would be overcome. Let's continue our deliberate traveling as I lead you.*" My response can either be: "Alright, Lord. Let's roll," or "I kind of feel like going back to Egypt. Slavery wasn't so bad.*"
It is easy to become disgruntled in the desert, and easier still to forget God's faithfulness in the past. But if we are open to His calling, know that He is leading us, and further recognize that we are not ultimately living for an earthly kingdom, the journey becomes more peaceful and fulfilling, even if it is still hard.
There is one other aspect of the Exodus I really enjoyed this time around, and that was the specifications of the tabernacle. Though admittedly, I still found the nearly six chapter explanation a bit excessive, I had a fresh appreciation for God's attention to detail. God cares deeply about the intricacies of our craft, as well as the intricacies our life.
Maybe Charlottesville is my desert. Maybe it will also be my Promised land, or maybe that will lie elsewhere. I do believe, though, that retrospectively, my time here will be part of a detailed picture of God's goodness. And at least in my desert, there is chocolate covered Matza and Sportscenter.
* I know, I know, I think a lot of things are hard.
* Doo-doo doo-doooo. That's my deliberate traveling tune.
* No, Anna, don't be an idiot. Disobedience often leaves you chilling in the desert longer.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
How I Rocked the GMAT
I couldn't help myself. But for real now...
Hebrews 11:6 "But without faith it is impossible to please Him, for he who comes to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of those who diligently seek Him." When I was a ten year old zealot, I resolved to put a different Bible verse on a note card every month and memorize a multitude of Scripture. I would be a regular concordance. This verse was my first and last note card, and I have seen it in my mirror every day since. Better than nothing, I suppose.
I have been wanting to write this for awhile, but alas, the months have been moving at a seemingly reckless pace. After taking the GMAT, I spent a couple weeks traveling with the youth group and work. More to be written about those later, but for now - the GMAT. I am done. No more studying. No more waking up at five o'clock in the morning. I no longer live in a sea of books, and my Saturdays are open to do with as I please.
I began studying because I believed God told me to do so, and I asked that He would bless it. In January, I looked at what lay before me between studying, work and life in general, and I could not overcome my exhaustion. I questioned how I was going to have the strength and discipline to dedicate myself to studying, and my answer was, per usual, found in Him.
"Be anxious for nothing, but in all things, through prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God... And your God will supply all your needs." I saw that provision in different ways, from new friendships to encouragement and support from steady friendships to a community group that has been challenging and uplifting. These were not necessarily the provisions I would have chosen, but in retrospect, they were exactly what I needed.
A month before the exam, my family began emailing our prayer requests to one another. I have come to very much enjoy this habit, as it is a great way to keep up with the goings-on of family members around the globe. Plus, any time Don and Nance are praying, I believe the odds of answers are greater. I responded to the chain and began submitting the request that I would get over a 700, because 1) that score would likely get me into a solid program 2) I knew I was capable of that and 3) if I asked for something higher and did not achieve it, that meant disappointment and failure.
As I was typing, I heard a small voice of conviction say, "Don't limit Me based on your skills and comfort level. Don't ask for something you know you can achieve on your own. That is not faith. That is weak. Ultimately, this is not about you. It is about Me and what I choose to do through you. Trust that. Ask for something you know you cannot achieve without Me, and allow Me to be glorified through you when you achieve it."
That was the gist of it, at least. I hit backspace a couple times and changed my sentence: I would like a 750. I told my family and my church, and I prayed for that.
The more I grow, the more I encounter the cyclical nature of a relationship with God. Depending on the day and my mood, this can be encouraging, frustrating or both. It seems to be a cycle of obeying, asking, giving and trusting. Obeying his call. Asking for what you know is only possible through Him. Giving those desires to Him. And trusting that He will do what is best for you and for the advancement of His kingdom.
There are plenty of areas still progressing through this cycle, but the GMAT cycle has closed. When I finished the test, hit submit, held my breath, and saw 750 on the screen, I gasped. I knew only one thing. That score was not mine. That was God's.
The funny thing is, I do not know what He is going to do with the GMAT, but the least I can do is encourage anyone who will read my ramblings that He will do more with your desires than you will. For me, this was a good reminder that God is real. He is faithful. And He rewards those who diligently seek Him.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Why I Love March Madness
I was eleven years old, and my sister and I were having one of those little/big sister moments that she probably forgot the next day, but being the little sister, I remembered*. She was advising me on my upcoming adolescence and emphasized the flirtatious advantage of taking interest in sports, March Madness in particular. It seemed to work for her, and growing up under my father, I was no stranger to the competitive field. I was glued to the couch that March, watching Mateen Cleaves lead Tom Izzo's Spartans to a national title, arguing with the seventh grade boys as to why Izzo was a better coach than Krzyzewski and why my bracket was technically superior.
Here I am, fifteen years later, alone on my couch, staying up past my bedtime to see if Xavier will pull off the upset against Arizona. Though it began as a means to complement my extreme baseball knowledge and make me more appealing to the middle school jocks, the tourney continues to define each March, and I still argue Izzo* is a better coach than Krzyzewski. Though this has yet to land a guy, the sport does provide a lot of scrumptious eye candy, especially on the latest addition to my pad, a 55 inch HD Samsung. I believe I am at the ideal age to justify an admiration of both the athletes and the coaches without feeling inappropriate - except for Kentucky, because I know every player is eighteen. And Rick Pitino, because HD is not doing his complexion any favors.
From sneaking to catch the final seconds of a 5-12 upset in our math teacher's office to skipping college coursework to taking particularly long lunches and working from a sports bar, those clutch hours revolve around the next key matchup for the basketball faithful*. Why is that?
Of course it's about money. That's why the Big East has shriveled to a memory of its former glory, I see Reese's logos everywhere on the screen - which could explain why I am currently eating chocolate - and the days of the live look-in are a thing of the past. But for the players, it's not about the money. No contracts are on the line. It's about the dance.
It's bodies on the floor. Athletes throwing themselves with reckless abandon, seizing the hope of one more victory, one more game. It's disregard for fear and denial of doubt. Raw, unadulterated passion. And yes, the chiseled biceps.
It's linked arms lining the bench. They're playing for each other, and for most, this will be the greatest stage.
The floor is unforgiving, though, and ultimately, 98.3% of those young men will lose. Yet on selection Sunday, teams don't shrivel when they are announced an opportunity to win. These guys believe they can win, become the Cinderella team, have the undefeated season, make history. They play with that belief, and in the hundreds of games I have watched, I have yet to see a team go down without a fight.
When they do go down, the agony of defeat is all to real, from the weeping players to the stoic coaches to the fan resorting to the fetal position. I wager if you ask any of those athletes if they would rather have been watching on a 55 inch HD Samsung, each would say no.
As a fan, the spirit of March Madness represents an attitude you want to see in the world, in others, in yourself. A desire to commit to a goal, work tirelessly for it, be willing to dive for it, recognize failure as finite and experience as eternal, and walk away from the floor knowing you were part of the dance.
* Older sisters: your little sisters take everything you say as gold for a certain period. Do with that what you will.
* I mean, come on, every one of the man's graduating seniors has been to a Final Four.
* As a side note, as one of my Presidential campaign points, I would propose we take away Martin Luther King Day and President's Day as government holidays and instead, give workers the first two days of the tourney as holiday. After all, we can remember these fine gentlemen and their contributions any day, but you can only see Duke lose to Lehigh live once. Plus, I am quite sure productivity on those days is below average. Don't worry, those of you unaware of the tournament's greatness, this will 1) give you a chance to become aware and 2) give you two days off in March, which is great because the drought of government holidays between February and May is harsh. Everyone wins. You're welcome.
Here I am, fifteen years later, alone on my couch, staying up past my bedtime to see if Xavier will pull off the upset against Arizona. Though it began as a means to complement my extreme baseball knowledge and make me more appealing to the middle school jocks, the tourney continues to define each March, and I still argue Izzo* is a better coach than Krzyzewski. Though this has yet to land a guy, the sport does provide a lot of scrumptious eye candy, especially on the latest addition to my pad, a 55 inch HD Samsung. I believe I am at the ideal age to justify an admiration of both the athletes and the coaches without feeling inappropriate - except for Kentucky, because I know every player is eighteen. And Rick Pitino, because HD is not doing his complexion any favors.
From sneaking to catch the final seconds of a 5-12 upset in our math teacher's office to skipping college coursework to taking particularly long lunches and working from a sports bar, those clutch hours revolve around the next key matchup for the basketball faithful*. Why is that?
Of course it's about money. That's why the Big East has shriveled to a memory of its former glory, I see Reese's logos everywhere on the screen - which could explain why I am currently eating chocolate - and the days of the live look-in are a thing of the past. But for the players, it's not about the money. No contracts are on the line. It's about the dance.
It's bodies on the floor. Athletes throwing themselves with reckless abandon, seizing the hope of one more victory, one more game. It's disregard for fear and denial of doubt. Raw, unadulterated passion. And yes, the chiseled biceps.
It's linked arms lining the bench. They're playing for each other, and for most, this will be the greatest stage.
The floor is unforgiving, though, and ultimately, 98.3% of those young men will lose. Yet on selection Sunday, teams don't shrivel when they are announced an opportunity to win. These guys believe they can win, become the Cinderella team, have the undefeated season, make history. They play with that belief, and in the hundreds of games I have watched, I have yet to see a team go down without a fight.
When they do go down, the agony of defeat is all to real, from the weeping players to the stoic coaches to the fan resorting to the fetal position. I wager if you ask any of those athletes if they would rather have been watching on a 55 inch HD Samsung, each would say no.
As a fan, the spirit of March Madness represents an attitude you want to see in the world, in others, in yourself. A desire to commit to a goal, work tirelessly for it, be willing to dive for it, recognize failure as finite and experience as eternal, and walk away from the floor knowing you were part of the dance.
* Older sisters: your little sisters take everything you say as gold for a certain period. Do with that what you will.
* I mean, come on, every one of the man's graduating seniors has been to a Final Four.
* As a side note, as one of my Presidential campaign points, I would propose we take away Martin Luther King Day and President's Day as government holidays and instead, give workers the first two days of the tourney as holiday. After all, we can remember these fine gentlemen and their contributions any day, but you can only see Duke lose to Lehigh live once. Plus, I am quite sure productivity on those days is below average. Don't worry, those of you unaware of the tournament's greatness, this will 1) give you a chance to become aware and 2) give you two days off in March, which is great because the drought of government holidays between February and May is harsh. Everyone wins. You're welcome.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
That Time I Clogged the Public Pool....
I drank coffee at hour 1600 yesterday. I was cold, and it sounded cozy. After three sips, I deemed it unwise to continue, as caffeine in the late afternoon tends to rouse me quite early. I come to you at the ungodly hour of 0500, chipper as a foxhound on a summer's eve.* As is normally the case after a particularly personal post, I will make myself chuckle. When we first met, I promised humorous anecdotes of my ridiculously awkward life, even if that meant retreating to the archives. Let's dive into the deep end...
As with most of my mortifying experiences, we can trace this to a few root causes:
1) The back of the bus
2) A slightly extreme level of youthful curiosity
3) A childhood ailment
1) Sitting in the back of the bus always gave us elementary schoolers a sense of maturity. During one such ride, a classmate demonstrated this as she regaled us with stories of skinny-dipping in her parents' pond.
2) In the days prior to children's total inundation with technology, you had to create your own, unique experiences. That often included activities stemming from thoughts such as, "I wonder how the dog's electric fence collar feels on my neck at full voltage. For five seconds. How about on my tongue?"*
3) Self-diagnosis: I have over productive facial fluids. Though this may not sound scientific, it explains constant sniffling, occasional drooling, and most pertinent to this story, ear wax accumulation. I was twelve the first time I experienced this inconvenient phenomenon, and when the doctor shined the flashlight into my canal, he gasped at the yellow blockade. It was too intense to irrigate at the moment*, so I was instructed to dissolve the malady with a daily dose of warm water and baking soda. Each night, I lay with one side of my head on the table while the little bubbles went to work, breaking down months of build up. Sadly, this is not the most humiliating aspect of this story.
Only days later, with my head half clogged, I traveled with my sisters and mother to visit my oldest sister, Julie. A recent college graduate, she was enjoying the small luxuries of adulthood, one of which was an apartment complex pool, soon to become infamous in my life annals.
In between shopping and eating copious amounts of ice cream, we spent an afternoon poolside. I had not yet reached the point of adolescence where I could bask for hours, so after a short while, I turned off my walkman and ventured into the hot tub, located in a small area on the way to the locker rooms. It was not entirely public, but it was certainly not private.
And so we reach the point of factor convergence. My mind wandered to the conversation on the bus, and as I sat alone, curiosity led me down the path: "I wonder how skinny dipping feels." My mental faculties may not have been functioning at a balanced level, i.e., the common sense neurons were flailing in an attempt to swim through wax. Instead of firing and telling me this was a terrible idea, I heard, "You should try it. Five seconds." I listened. Five seconds later, and not a millisecond more, I reached for my bathing suit top, but it was nowhere to be found. Mind you, the bubbles were not even running, so the absolute disappearance of the top was quite improbable. Yet, I turned and turned only to grasp at water.
So there I was. Aghast. Dumbfounded. Topless. And although I was quite young and mostly undeveloped, I could not meander to the outdoor pool to gather my clothes or towel. People would notice. A few people passed the hot tub area, and I held my breath, thanking all of the things that they did not enter. When traffic broke, I scurried to the women's locker room, curled up in a shower, and sat.
After what seemed like an eternity, Julie came to ask if I was alright. I quickly requested she bring my clothes and promised myself to never speak of the incident.* Hours later, however, I weighed the pros and cons, and decided I increased the odds of solving the lost bathing suit top mystery by employing their aid. After all, it was a super cute tankini from Venus, and I had spent hard earned money to buy it. Swallowing my dignity, I confessed. After a couple blank stares and some confused laughs, my mother was on the case. The following morning, she stopped by the pool desk to ask if they happened upon a rogue bathing suit top. The attendant confirmed that indeed, they had. It had been suctioned into the filter, causing it to clog and the entire pool to overflow. Apparently, they had been dealing with the issue since five o'clock in the morning. After returning the garment, he told my mother that "her daughter had some explaining to do."
Here it is. Fifteen years later, a robust explanation. It was the first and last time I went skinny dipping, and I think it is best that age has severely curbed my extreme sense of curiosity. As with all my stories, there is a lesson to be learned. Apart from the obvious, make sure you put your bathing suit top outside the hot tub if you decide to take it off*, it reinforces one of my favorite lessons: if you can't laugh at yourself, life is going to be a whole lot longer than you'd like. I hope it made you laugh as well.
* I've decided to create my own idiomatic expressions.
* That game may have had a greater lasting affect than I credit it.
* For those of you unfamiliar with this, irrigation is the process of flushing out the wax via an industrial grade syringe.
* We all know that wasn't going to happen.
* Or maybe don't take it off in the first place.
As with most of my mortifying experiences, we can trace this to a few root causes:
1) The back of the bus
2) A slightly extreme level of youthful curiosity
3) A childhood ailment
1) Sitting in the back of the bus always gave us elementary schoolers a sense of maturity. During one such ride, a classmate demonstrated this as she regaled us with stories of skinny-dipping in her parents' pond.
2) In the days prior to children's total inundation with technology, you had to create your own, unique experiences. That often included activities stemming from thoughts such as, "I wonder how the dog's electric fence collar feels on my neck at full voltage. For five seconds. How about on my tongue?"*
3) Self-diagnosis: I have over productive facial fluids. Though this may not sound scientific, it explains constant sniffling, occasional drooling, and most pertinent to this story, ear wax accumulation. I was twelve the first time I experienced this inconvenient phenomenon, and when the doctor shined the flashlight into my canal, he gasped at the yellow blockade. It was too intense to irrigate at the moment*, so I was instructed to dissolve the malady with a daily dose of warm water and baking soda. Each night, I lay with one side of my head on the table while the little bubbles went to work, breaking down months of build up. Sadly, this is not the most humiliating aspect of this story.
Only days later, with my head half clogged, I traveled with my sisters and mother to visit my oldest sister, Julie. A recent college graduate, she was enjoying the small luxuries of adulthood, one of which was an apartment complex pool, soon to become infamous in my life annals.
In between shopping and eating copious amounts of ice cream, we spent an afternoon poolside. I had not yet reached the point of adolescence where I could bask for hours, so after a short while, I turned off my walkman and ventured into the hot tub, located in a small area on the way to the locker rooms. It was not entirely public, but it was certainly not private.
And so we reach the point of factor convergence. My mind wandered to the conversation on the bus, and as I sat alone, curiosity led me down the path: "I wonder how skinny dipping feels." My mental faculties may not have been functioning at a balanced level, i.e., the common sense neurons were flailing in an attempt to swim through wax. Instead of firing and telling me this was a terrible idea, I heard, "You should try it. Five seconds." I listened. Five seconds later, and not a millisecond more, I reached for my bathing suit top, but it was nowhere to be found. Mind you, the bubbles were not even running, so the absolute disappearance of the top was quite improbable. Yet, I turned and turned only to grasp at water.
So there I was. Aghast. Dumbfounded. Topless. And although I was quite young and mostly undeveloped, I could not meander to the outdoor pool to gather my clothes or towel. People would notice. A few people passed the hot tub area, and I held my breath, thanking all of the things that they did not enter. When traffic broke, I scurried to the women's locker room, curled up in a shower, and sat.
After what seemed like an eternity, Julie came to ask if I was alright. I quickly requested she bring my clothes and promised myself to never speak of the incident.* Hours later, however, I weighed the pros and cons, and decided I increased the odds of solving the lost bathing suit top mystery by employing their aid. After all, it was a super cute tankini from Venus, and I had spent hard earned money to buy it. Swallowing my dignity, I confessed. After a couple blank stares and some confused laughs, my mother was on the case. The following morning, she stopped by the pool desk to ask if they happened upon a rogue bathing suit top. The attendant confirmed that indeed, they had. It had been suctioned into the filter, causing it to clog and the entire pool to overflow. Apparently, they had been dealing with the issue since five o'clock in the morning. After returning the garment, he told my mother that "her daughter had some explaining to do."
Here it is. Fifteen years later, a robust explanation. It was the first and last time I went skinny dipping, and I think it is best that age has severely curbed my extreme sense of curiosity. As with all my stories, there is a lesson to be learned. Apart from the obvious, make sure you put your bathing suit top outside the hot tub if you decide to take it off*, it reinforces one of my favorite lessons: if you can't laugh at yourself, life is going to be a whole lot longer than you'd like. I hope it made you laugh as well.
* I've decided to create my own idiomatic expressions.
* That game may have had a greater lasting affect than I credit it.
* For those of you unfamiliar with this, irrigation is the process of flushing out the wax via an industrial grade syringe.
* We all know that wasn't going to happen.
* Or maybe don't take it off in the first place.
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