My Favorite Christmas Traditions

Being an only child would have sucked. It's Christmas morning, and I'm the only one at my parents' house. It's eerily quiet. And my dad didn't build a fire, because it's not worth it for an audience of two, so there's no crackle. And I can't find the Bose speaker, so it's even more quiet.

Christmas as a child was magical. We spent Christmas Eve with Mom's side of the family. When we got home, we read the Christmas story, which I half listened to, but mostly wanted to go to bed so Christmas could come faster. I woke up around eight o'clock and walked down to see the glorious tree adorned with gifts. It was pointless to wake up early, because Julie and Gail were too-cool-teenagers, and we had to drag them out of bed at ten o'clock. Do you know how many seven year olds wait until ten o'clock to open presents? Not many. My mom made Christmas rolls, so Lydia, Philip, and I ate those as we waited. One year, she couldn't find the recipe and it was a near tragedy. Traditions were not meant to be broken.

We lined up for a picture - one normal, and one posing at the beginning of a race. Mom took the photo, and we were off to open our stockings. Stockings ended at age 25 or after your first year of marriage, whichever came first, much to the dismay of my eldest sister, Julie. Really, though, the stockings were great, full of essentials - socks, bras, underwear, makeup. I realized this year I may have to actually buy adult socks for myself, something I have never done. I don't even know where to begin. Where are socks sold?

Mom stalked us as we opened our gifts, collecting the wrapping paper and throwing it away before we were finished opening the present. She was not about to let the morning make her house a mess. Secretly, she was also itching to take down the Christmas tree as it was starting to shed needles at this point, but she allowed it to stay up through Christmas day. We thanked her then threw in a thank you to Dad, though he had no idea what we were getting. He asked to see our gifts, though, and at least feigned enthusiasm as we showed him our new sweater. I can't imagine he was very excited, but he certainly liked seeing us happy. Mom usually had one present tucked away - a little something extra she just couldn't resist in the generous spirit of the season. We gave Mom and Dad a gift, but it never compared to everything they gave us.

Before Grandpa got sick, he and Grandma came each year and spent some of the morning with us. They smiled and laughed as we showed them our favorite presents. We went to their house to have lunch (at one o'clock sharp - hurry up Julie and Gail) with the rest of the Navatsyk clan and get one last Christmas present from Grandma and Grandpa. They always gave us a card with a little bit of extra cash in it, too, which I thought was very generous because there were so many of us and their house was so small. Hearts and tummies full, we went home, and from a young age, I knew I was lucky to be able to enjoy the day with gifts and a family that was so loving.

We've broken many traditions this year in the absence of other siblings - thanks for getting married, everyone. No Christmas rolls. No picture. I didn't even open presents at my house. We went to Gail and Mitch's and enjoyed the mayhem that is four children on Christmas morning. The clan now has a small arsenal of Nerf guns, and their home is a veritable war zone waiting to happen which makes for endless entertainment as long as you stay out of the line of fire as Mitch learned.

But not every tradition was broken. Mother was still extremely generous, Father still feigned interest in my boots, and Grandma still hosted Christmas lunch. I still love seeing my family. And Christmas Eve, as we finished an episode of some Netflix original series about a sheriff in the Pacific Northwest, I requested Dad read the Christmas story, even if it was only to an audience of two.

We read from both Matthew and Luke 2, and this remains my favorite verse: "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; He is the Messiah, the Lord."* Now is the point where I add a small insightful comment that really humbles you. I don't have one. But I do love that verse, and I love that it hits me the same way every year. Simply, how blessed am I that in spite of all my faults, or because of them, God thought I was worth saving? And that my mom is such a good buyer of gifts.


Total side note, but as I was looking for a Christmas morning picture, my mom showed me this:

I mean, come on, that face screams conqueror of the world.

Merry Christmas, all!

909 Packard and My Favorite Funky Friday

It was the first day of Kindergarten. I was huddled by the big tree on the playground, scared to talk to anyone. Stephen came up to me and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Stephen." I looked up. "Hi, I'm Anna." "You want to be friends?" he asked. We've been friends for 23 years and counting.

Many times since, I've lamented it's not always that easy to make friends. Especially with guys, and especially as a single chica. Sure, it's easy at the beginning, but there's often underlying emotions, expectations. You ask how his day is, and he hears, "I want to jump on you." Or he asks how your day is, and you hear, "I want to take you to dinner. And buy you roses. And chocolates. And tell you you're beautiful.*" More or less. Point is - it can get complicated. But every once in awhile, people come along and remind me it can still be that easy.

It was the first Friday of school. Our section just finished last in the MBA games, but we dominated flag football, which I’m pretty sure is the lead indicator of athleticism. My personal fave of the highlight reel was Joe catching a pass, thinking he had scored, and celebrating as if he had just caught the winning TD against the Buckeyes. We all yelled at him to get to the line of scrimmage, as his flag had been yanked at the two yard line, and we had five seconds to score before halftime. But I also smiled, because his eyes had lit up like a boy at Christmas.

As I was leaving, I stopped to say goodbye to my teammates. Ryan told me they would be playing beer pong later, and while I’m terrible at the game, I thought that was nice and told myself I would go. I was determined to make friends at school, and tapping into my twenty-one year old self seemed an excellent avenue to do so.

Nine o'clock rolled around, and I walked over to 909 Packard for the second time. The first had been a welcome barbecue for our section, and I credit the house's extreme hospitality as one of the reasons our group of classmates is so close. I peeked in the front door, and it was not nearly as crowded as the barbecue. In fact, there were just five housemates eating dinner. I was nervous. What if they didn't want me there? I could just go back to my couch and binge watch Netflix. I told the butterflies in my stomach to fly away and knocked on the door, because I was going to make friends, darn it.*

They graciously invited me to pull up a chair and join their meal. No one else ever came, but we spent the evening reliving the nineties, belting out everything from Kelly Clarkson to Everclear. And leading the sing-a-longs was Joe.

Joe is captivating. He will regale an entire room with his opinions of Matthew McConaughey's unparalleled greatness, all the reasons the Dayton Flyers are a team worth rooting for, or a humiliating story from his past.* He's persuasive. He can convince a room of grown men to chug milk for good luck. And he's contagious. He loves life to the last drop and brings a smile to those around him, whether it's the hockey team he helped coach or a group of MBA students reliving their youth on a Saturday night at Circus. Like many at Ross, he's smart, driven, and humble. And he's an inspiring fantasy football coach who pushed his team to a victory against Sugga Momma Bears, a bet on which was the catalyst for this post.

But I would have written it, anyways, because most of all, he and his housemates made my transition to a new stage of life so very simple and entertaining. For that, I am extremely thankful. And I think we will still friends in 23 years.*

* Playing gender stereotypes, I know.
* Little did I know I would be spending many a funky Friday night there, and they continue to tolerate me - even when I request my favorite song fifteen times in a row.
* I think he may have a wider range of embarrassing stories than I, which is an impressive feat.
* Even if it's only him rubbing a Cleveland loss in my face.

Thank you, God. Love, a Cleveland Fan.

We were all exhausted, and we were too nervous to acknowledge it. Fourth quarter. Under two minutes remaining. In the back of our minds, there were two competing thoughts - "We're gonna win!" and "We're gonna blow it!" My mom took a sip of my beer. My mom never sips beer, especially Coors Light.

Game tied.

Shoot. It's a breakaway. Curry passes to Iguadola. Easy layup - Unless! James out of nowhere - like a radiant, massive gazelle. You gotta be kidding me! That's definitely going to be on sports science. No time to consider - we're still sick to our stomachs.

Kyrie at the top of the key. Him and Curry - mono a mono. He pulls up for the three. Swish!!! Holy cheese. Holy cheese. We're up by 3. Less than a minute. Okay. Keep it together. A lot could go wrong. Ball's in Curry's hands. Wow! Kevin Love playing D! Better late than never.

Curry with a ridiculous jump shot that has a miraculous 87% hit rate. Not this time!! Deep breath.

Twenty seconds and we're taking it up the floor. They have to foul James to get into the bonus. Cavs inbound. Kyrie dishes to James for the decisive dunk and - bahh no dice! But a foul. James lays on the floor with 10 seconds left. I think he was just soaking in the moment.

I double high five my sister. "Gail, I think we're gonna do this! This could really happen!" James misses the first. Makes the second. That's all we need. But four with 10 seconds isn't comfortable. They could hit a three, and we could foul. They could hit a layup, steal the inbound and score a tres for the win. Continue breathing.

Waariors inbound. Curry throws up a prayer. No foul! It misses!

BAHHHHHHH!!!! My niece and nephew jumped. Everyone hugged, high-fived, and said the words that none of us had been able to shout - "We're champions!"

This week, I sat on the couch watching game seven, extra innings. We were ahead in the series 3 - 1, and I ignored the pessimism. The map that showed every state but Ohio cheering for the Cubs; those who reminded me of irony and Cleveland's 1-3 comeback; those who touted the random statistic that the last time there were two NFL ties, the Indians lost the World Series in Game 7.* This was our year. Down two pitchers, down our best player, we were the real Cinderella story.

The runs on a passed ball, the two run homer, Lindor's third out in the ninth. It was destiny. Tying run is on second. Series ending run is at bat. Walk off homer. Right now.

And then, a groundout to third. Game over. Cubs win. Another game seven heartbreaker. People will tell me, "At least you lost to the Cubs,"* but that's not what brings me solace.

Twenty-eight-year-old was nearly as devastated as 9-year-old Anna, with one small exception. In the back of my mind, I remembered, "We are a city of champions."

I wrote you this prayer after the Cavs lost game four. I'm not sure how much of a role you played in the historic comeback, but for whatever role you did serve, thank you.

I'm currently taking a Management Organization course (the first class I missed because I was attending game six of the World Series), and a recent article discussed misaligned incentives. It provided many examples of areas in business and life where we ask for one thing and reward another, and As it relates to sports, the article claimed that while we promote team performance, we ultimately reward individual performance with scholarships, MVP accolades and the like.

I disagree. And I get it. There's are selfish, arrogant athletes who are only focused on themselves. But those exceptions aside, the ultimate reward, the prize that every athlete desires, more than individual prowess, is a championship. I imagine Lindor would give up his gold glove prospects for one more shot at the Cubbies.

My brother-in-law and dad coach the local high school football team that recently capped an undefeated season. They had the number one scoring offense in the state of Ohio, led by quarterback Benanati. When interviewed after the game, the quarterback did not speak to his individual performance, but humbly deferred credit. “If you saw the gaps, the holes that were open. I think they were 10 feet wide. It was just the blocking. Anyone could have done what I did tonight.” More than that, he's not satisfied with his stats - he, and everyone on the team - wants more.

Maybe that's what is so impressive - sports have figured out what businesses grapple with every day: how to award individual behavior while truly uniting everyone under the goal of a championship.

When the Cavs won, James didn't say, "This one's for me." He said, "This is for Cleveland." So thank you. For the excitement, the spirit, and the one thing that has eluded the Cleveland faithful for decades - a championship.*

* Seriously random statistic.
* How is that supposed to be comforting? We lost to a fan base from a city with three Stanley Cups and six NBA championships within the past 25 years that insists on crying about their one sports team suffering from title depravation.
* And then for reminding us we're still Cleveland with a game 7 loss.

That Time I Got Picked up in NYC

Don’t worry. He didn’t actually pick me up.

I spent the last few days in New York, the concrete jungle where dreams are made, inspired by the lights. Last night, I met a friend of a friend with some potential career connections at the Honky Tonk.* Networking and such – you know, being a professional. Our time had come to an end, but Game 2* was live and my AirBnB did not have cable, so I opted to stay at our high top to watch.

I noticed a couple men eying the table, so being the generous person I am, I offered to switch places with them. They were standing by a single bar stool. “Well, actually, we were just going to come sit with you,” they laughed, and I allowed it. They would ask me later if that was the response I secretly wanted to elicit. I told them, no, I was perfectly content watching the game in silence. You're men in suits, and this is the World Series.

They both worked in the fintech world. While I have a limited concept of finance, I actually grasp fintech, so I managed to sound reasonably intelligent. I was my usual charming, witty self, oozing class, yelling at the TV.

Politics was mentioned once. Ughhh. I can’t wait until the elections are over. One was an avid supporter of Hilary and one was a hesitant supporter of Trump. I took a neutral, silent stance to avoid arguments, as I find them quite unproductive.* When one insisted that any Trump supporter was crazy, I was compelled to say, “I understand why reasonable people are voting for him,” mostly because I don’t like sweeping generalizations. He kept going; I let him speak his mind. My energies were focused on the game.

The better looking one was married, but, of course, he still managed to get in a few light arm touches and leg grazes to boost his ego while he acted as wingman. Eventually, though, his role played, his time had come, and he bid the two of us farewell.

Ahh the game as old as time. There we were, talking about the butt loads of money he had made, Indians still stinking up the joint, and me planning my escape. I don’t mean to sell the man short. He seemed very intelligent and quite kind to this point. Nor am I getting on a moral high ground. If he had looked a little more like Ryan Reynolds or Kyrie Irving, this story may have ended quite differently, with me planning my life in New York instead of regaling you with this riveting tale.

As it was, he didn’t, but unfortunately, the game compelled me to stay a bit longer. There’s no clock in baseball, and I wasn’t about to miss a rally. His phone rang and he ignored it. It was Lydia, a broad of interest* I imagine, a quality backup. I wanted to tell him he was wasting his time and should probably answer it, but I was distracted by the plate of nachos that were placed before me. They looked super tasty.

I decided my move was to text a friend to join our conversation, effectively relaying the hint while still being able to indulge and watch the game. I took a nacho, tickled with my genius.

Then my suitor called me a racist. I was pretty focused on the food, so I’m not positive the context, but I believe he was alluding to my previous comment regarding reasonable people supporting Trump. Slightly taken aback, I calmly told him I was not a racist.

He repeated himself. I went into more detail, elaborating on the various reasons I am not a racist.

Then he insisted. And then, fist deep in nachos, I went white girl crazy. If you were wondering, my white girl crazy includes words like: “extrapolated, non-sequitur, presumptuous, ignorant, disgusting,” with a couple more forceful ones for emphasis. Three minutes and ten nachos later, it’s safe to say he will be very hesitant before casually tossing around the word racist like it’s a term of endearment.

Shortly thereafter, Lydia called again.* This time, he answered. I texted my friend. His services were no longer required. The Indians lost. The nachos were gone – incidentally, my aggressive consumption of said nachos may have been another catalyst for his departure.

I stopped by 7/11, grabbed a Snickers, hopped in an Uber and went home.

I’m still mad at myself for the nachos and Snickers and my fingers are puffy, so I hope the story brought you entertainment, and perhaps solace to all those people in relationships that you are no longer operating in this world. But I promise, as long as I mingle, I will continue to share. Though gentlemen, please don’t let the promise of endlessly entertaining stories keep you from trying to remove me from that world. It’s a jungle out there.


*I realized writing this sentence that the Honky Tonk could be the place where he has connections rather than the place where we met, but I didn’t want to change it.

*If you don’t know to which game 2 I’m referring, we should reevaluate our friendship.

*Unless it’s an argument about how overrated Steph Curry is or the validity of the NCAA. Then I’ll argue for hours.

* (or BOI, as I like to call us)

* come on woman, the guy didn’t return your first call, play it cool.

My Love Affair with Restaurants

I was fourteen, and my dad's close friend opened the Hilltopper, a local sports bar and restaurant. My older sisters had worked at the Hilltopper Cafe on the town square, so of course, I wanted to follow in their footsteps. I always wanted to follow in their footsteps, but just like when I started playing tennis so I could hit with Julie and Gail, my foray in the restaurant industry would be last much longer than theirs.

I don't remember much about my first day - I think it was a Sunday brunch shift. I remember a lot, though. The twenty-five hour weeks while going to school and tennis practices. Sweet talking the cooks for scraps and mistakes from the kitchen. The owner's wife's perfume. The slow nights when servers wished they could tip me more and the nights when I made a whopping $15/hour. Wing nights frequented by the high school sports teams - those were my favorite nights. So many cute boys. The quiet after the storm of a whirlwind weekend.

I remember my first experience confronting authority. The quarterback of the football team joined me as a host, and during one of our casual conversations, it came to my attention that he was making $6.75, whereas I, who had worked there a year and a half, was making $6.25. My indignant teenage stomach churned as I walked into my boss's office and requested a raise based on the merits of my performance. What did I want? Seven dollars an hour. What did I get? $6.75.

I remember Matthew. He was your quintessential server, loved by every patron. He wore crazy socks and talked with flamboyant flair, and he occasionally made the comment that made you do a double take: nude sun bathing, elicit details on foreplay between him and his girlfriend that would compromise the integrity of this blog if quoted. When you went to a Christian middle school and the most scandalous thing you did was write notes on the back of the bus, these lines stick with you. There are others, too: when everyone told their most public sex story, talked about the hardest drugs they had done: most stuck with weed, but a couple dabbled with the hard stuff on occasion. The many times I sat with them on their smoke breaks as they cussed out an idiot customer. My virgin ears lost their innocence.

Right about now, my mother deeply regrets allowing me to work in a restaurant. I don't, though. Because they were my friends, my outlet from my high school bubble. When a woman called me incompetent and I had my first and last breakdown in the back of the building, they hugged me and told me where she could stick it. And they were real.

That's what I love about restaurants - no pretenses, no facade. And if you didn't like it, they couldn't care less.

I was 18 and a freshmen in college. At the end of my second semester, I became bored with the monotony of school so I applied to the Cheesecake Factory. I worked in the bakery for the next year, pulling the typical back to back 30 hour weekend double, sustaining myself on espresso shots and cheesecake - my record was five slices in a shift, and if you know the nutrition facts - which I did - it's easy to understand how I got to a point where my button popped off my pants.

Working in the bakery was much more difficult than serving on a busy night, because while you have a finite number of tables as a server, behind the counter, you have an endless number of tickets to fill. Janelle was my lady. She was the most seasoned baker, a feisty woman who no one would dare confront. And Darnell. He was beautiful, quiet, and probably thought we were crazy. We half-jokingly encouraged him to take one for the team when our manager wasn't in a relationship. She was always in a much better mood with a man in her life.

I became a server after a year, and the Cheesecake Factory remained my escape from the collegiate bubble, a relatively homogeneous world where everyone is enjoying their safe space. When I passed through those doors in my all white and tie - what a terrible uniform - there were all kinds. There was the server with the attitude, never quite happy with how many young people or foreigners were sat in the section. The one who was always in the weeds, no matter how slow the restaurant. The jaded bartender who could tell you story after story of his exploits and the exploits of those across the bar. The sleezeball who inevitably hit on every new hostess.

There was the charmer, who could convince a table to buy a turd flavored cocktail. The one who talks about leaving - moving west and starting over. I always hoped they follow that dream, and sometimes they did. There was the immigrant cook and the one who may or may not have done a line of cocaine before coming into work. And those who saw their work as a fine craft. There were the lifers. Then there was me.

I was 22 and had decided that my 9 to 5 simply wasn't fulfilling. I submitted applications over the weekend, got a job at Commonwealth, went into my six month review and quit. They understood - some people couldn't handle the competitive atmosphere of the company, one told me. What are you going to do? they asked. I said I was going to take my college degree and work at a restaurant. My first night I followed Adrienne, an eccentric woman who knew who she was and embraced every inch of it. I spent the next three months working full time through the summer hours, building relationships with the most honest - sometimes shamelessly so - people I had met since moving to Charlottesville. After being in an atmosphere with young professionals trying to prove themselves, it was beyond refreshing. I continued to work part time for the next four years, because I needed that escape from my professional bubble.

Because when you serve people, you have to leave everything at the door. Guests don't care about your massive amounts of school work, your annoying boss or terrible day, the idiot who didn't call. They came to be entertained, to have an experience, and it's your job to forget yourself and give it to them.

When I wasn't with the customers, I was able to spend time with these amazing people from all different walks of life. They were immigrants, students, professionals, retirees. Some saw their work as an art, some as a means to end, and some were just trying to pay monthly bills or get to the next beer.

It's a rare breed, the restaurant crowd. We're flawed, like everyone else, but there lies an unequivocal authenticity among us.

I may not ever work at a restaurant again, although I've said that before and been wrong. Regardless, what I learned from my passionate foray - working in a fast paced environment, dealing with difficult personalities and embracing my own, reading people, and learning from people who are very different than you - I will carry that with me forever.

Hi, I'm Anna. I'm a Christian.

Is not how I've introduced myself at grad school.

This week is National Coming Out Week. I didn't realize it when I began writing, but I thought it was an interesting coincidence. I'm not going to pretend to relate to "coming out," although I did tell my siblings that after navigating the world of men for many years, I may throw in the towel and come out as asexual. Amoeba Anna, my brother nicknamed me. Don't worry, everyone who enjoys hearing about my awkward interactions with men, I talked myself out of it as I watched baseball in HD. Those pants do it for me every time... Point is - sometimes it's hard being totally honest about who you are, and I've been surprised about how difficult it has been to be honest about my Christianity since coming to school. Not necessarily saying I'm a Christian, but explaining why and actually living it have been difficult - a reflection more of me than those around me, so obviously, my blogging conscience urged me to reflect.

The first time I shared openly about God on this blog was when I started working for VividCortex. "Taste and see that the Lord is good," I quoted as I reflected on my journey to that point. The opportunity was such a clear answer to prayer, and I thought, this is it. This is what you have for me, God. I created this narrative about where it was going to lead - I tend to create narratives for my life and expect God's plan to follow.

It wasn't at all what I expected. It was a grind, it was hard, in many ways unfulfilling, but it brought me to a place where I was utterly desperate and dependent on God. One particular night in November, when I was rejected by a program, I broke down, not knowing what I would do if I didn't get accepted to a school. During that time, God showed His faithfulness, that He rewards those who seek Him, and that while His plan is not the same as mine, it is wholly good.

And then I started business school. I signed up for the Ross Christian Fellowship, and I finally went to a meeting this week. Unfortunately, since they're held on Thursday evenings, I haven't been able to make one yet, and even so, I could only make the first twenty minutes. There were six people there. Six. Out of 800 students. You know what percentage that is? I do, because I decided to actually start studying for my stats class. It's less than one percent.

Business school is full of motivated people with a plan. We are smart, driven, independent, and successful. When asked where we see ourselves in the next five years, we're working at an investment bank, at a consulting firm. We're saving the environment. We're building infrastructure in Africa. Which are all amazing things. You know what's not a popular response? "In five years, I want to be where God can use me for His purposes to make the greatest impact." Perhaps there are a lot of festering Christian beliefs in many that I am not aware of, but for many single people in their mid-late twenties in academia, God's will doesn't seem to be the first priority.

When I began business school, I had goals for myself, if you remember. One of them was to find a church, but I think that was misguided. A more appropriate goal would have been to have God at the center of my world as the rest spins around. And if I'm completely honest with myself - and everyone reading my blog - that hasn't been the case the first quarter.

On the few occasions people have asked me why I am a Christian, I have found it more difficult to explain than I would like to admit. Many who have casually followed my blog for years have heard my musings, but for newcomers, the short answer is:

1) I am broken without God's grace. There are times where I like to think I am a good picture of Christ's love, but I know there are definitely times when I don't represent Christianity. Hence... grace. Any time you wonder why I'm happy or why I smile so often, it's because I understand the love of Christ. The times when I act like an idiot - well, that's all me.

And 2) God can do more with my life than I ever thought possible. Even though I am a smart, driven, independent individual.

During the twenty minutes I was at the Christian Fellowship meeting, we wrote down our high school expectations of the future. When I looked at my former expectations and reality, they were vastly different. But here I am, on a full scholarship to one of the elite business schools in the country, and I don't credit myself for that. I credit God's goodness, His guidance, and His unmerited favor. So why wouldn't I live for Him?

Quite simply - because sometimes it's hard. It's easy to forget God's faithfulness and become complacent when you're no longer desperate. It's easy to create my own narrative and lose sight of the fact that God's plan is greater than any fanciful one I can concoct. And, sometimes, it's easier to incorporate God into my life when it's convenient for me. In the morning with my coffee, at night as I go to bed, occasionally on a Sunday when I decide to wake up for church.

I have been a Christian for over twenty years, and the times I have been confused have been those when I have lost focus and been distracted. And the times I have had clarity and purpose have been those when I have fixed my eyes on the cross.

I visited home this weekend and went to the high school football game. Afterward, I saw my dad, who immediately opened his arms for a giant, warm hug, and I was reminded of the loving embrace of God. He meets us where we are. He meets us in our brokenness, with all our faults, and He tells us that He loves us unconditionally, He rids of us our shame, and then He invites us to walk with Him, without distraction.

So I am amending my goals to make that my focus. Incidentally, in writing this, I am completing goal number 4: to get out of my comfort zone, because while I often talk about God, it is hard to write about times when I have struggled. I suspect that means it was worth it.

Wins, Losses, Nostalgia

Hi friend! Hope this Monday finds you well. First things first: binder update. I finally ordered them from Amazon and sent them to the correct address. I should have gone with the half inch though, because they are way to thick.* You may see me walking around campus, appearing to be smuggling a small Asian family into America.

We had a couple wins and a couple losses the past few weeks. Win: I am the director of the marketing lab. I hope I get to play with schematics, but that may be a different kind of lab. Loss: I applied for a non-profit board fellows program and was rejected, which I am taking as a signal I should reconsider any charitable donations of my time. Clearly, I'm meant to be a tycoon. Win: My team and I won a marketing case competition for Land O Lakes. It was a pretty cool experience - we collaborated, argued, built consensus, dominated. Loss: I had interviewed for an internship with Conagra in August, and I got rejected. I'm not disappointed though, so I assume that means I didn't really want it. Win: I have mentally denoted everyone's Tinder song in stats. Loss: Stats. WIN: The Tribe's in the playoffs!!!

This time of year always brings a whisper of nostalgia. My dad nicknamed me Novocain* in high school after my first big freshman tennis match. It was against our biggest rival, and I was playing a senior. She had pretty strokes, a solid serve, all the fixings of an easy match. But I had guts. The match lasted four hours, and much of that was tedious back and forth as I scrambled around like a rabid mongoose, willing my legs to reach one more ball. One point lasted a very uninteresting 96 shots. I didn't win because I was technically better - I rarely did. I won because I was mentally tougher. Because I wanted it more. Because I could dig deeper.

That's why sports are so special. They're black and white, and the scoreboard never lies. They're a battle, an exhausting grind, a constant test of mental strength. And they elevate you to a level you didn't know you could reach.*

On days like today, with the crisp air and the dying leaves, I miss that unwavering focus, that singular goal. I miss that grind.


* That's what she said.
* This was one of my better high school nicknames.
* That and the beautiful, muscular men.

Elle Woods - My Hero

Short backstory. High school Anna did not like being given superfluous work, and often took a sarcastic approach if it was forced upon her. For instance, our class was a trial for the Ohio Graduation Test, wasting a cumulative 10 hours of my week, so I wrote my essay on my dream about being a stripper. Unfortunately, that gem wasn't saved, but my mother passed this AP English prep assignment my way.

The teacher's feedback: "You are an excellent writer. The AP graders may question your choice of hero."

Elle Woods, a distinguished attorney of law and a politician, is the protagonist of Legally Blonde. More than that, she is a prime example of the discrimination that blondes face and the overcoming of the "dumb blonde" stigma. Elle Woods is someone I would like to emulate because she is a great woman on many levels.

First and foremost, she has long blonde hair. Though years of dying have made my hair unmistakeably blonde, it has not yet grown past the foot mark. Many an hour have I spent lusting over such luscious locks, only to find that when I look in the mirror, my hair is still at the top of my shoulder blades. I can only continue to envy the voluptuous hair and hope that mine will achieve its greatness.
Elle Woods also has a superb sense of fashion and the bank account to afford it. Growing up in Belair, she never had an issue with money. She has indeed put that money to good use. Her shimmering high heels, glamorous gowns, and even her fitness gear are red-carpet worthy. Never is she seen looking down, but dresses, rather over dresses, for every occasion. Her bold fashion sense allows her to go places most people dare not go.

Not only is Woods bold enough to stand out, she is bold enough to prove the dumb blonde stereotype wrong. Nearly everywhere she goes, people try to take advantage of her, thinking that since she is a gorgeous blonde, she must be foolish. Proving their assumptions amiss, Woods never falls into their trickery. She works very hard to make it into law school, and once there, she is taken as a joke. Determined once again to go against the stereotype, she rises to greatness by clearing an innocent woman convicted of murder. In fact, she clinches her victory and place of respect due to her knowledge of cosmetology and fashion.

Elle Woods is an inspiration to me as a blonde. I understand the persecution one goes through with blonde hair, a nice pair of shoes, and a cute outfit. Like Woods, I am determined to prove the assumptions wrong and will rise above the odds to earn my respect. Like Woods, I will hold my blonde head high.

My 28 Thoughts

Hello! In what has quickly become my favorite birthday tradition, I am going to use this day to give you a window into my head and share 28 thoughts. Perhaps one to grow on. Since 28 is an overall unexciting number, I will make my thoughts interesting. Confessions, shortcomings, musings, sidenotes. What a delicious treat for everyone.

1. Let's start with my current location, my favorite spot in Ann Arbor - my little porch. I spend as much time here as possible, soaking in the late summer - now fall!!! - air, watching the earnest students pass, contemplating climbing the tree.

2. I've been reading a chapter of Ernest Hemingway's book each night. Turns out, the book is more than an accessory. It's been so savory, and for ten minutes, I'm beside him as he wanders the streets of Paris, unsure of what his future holds, but knowing he's where he's supposed to be. I love a good coming of age memoir.

3. Then I glance at the big oak tree* and am taken back to the days when I sat in our crab apple tree and wrote stories about bunnies and thought about my future playing tennis and living in New York.

4. I consider this blog my own coming of age tale. How cool will it be to look back in 25 years and see the beautiful tapestry that was woven? And how lucky will the world be to have 25 years of my musings?

5. Then I snap out of it and go do stats homework.

6. Stats is currently my worst class, and I don't think it's a coincidence that I sit in the back. I can't help but scan the classroom, attempt to make awkward eye contact with people - which is oddly difficult - try to guess what their Tinder profile song would be. The sweet little man is speeding through binomial distribution in his Indian accent and I'm having an internal debate on whether the guy across the room would go with rock, rap, or pop. He's definitely choosing a Beebs song.

7. Tinder profile song. It's a thing. Apparently Spotify and Tinder have recently partnered so you can judge others on their musical preferences. What's better though, is that you get to choose your profile song. We all know I've thought a lot about my batter walk up song, but this is a whole new market. How do I want to present myself? Gunpowder and Lead probably not going to work. Maybe a classic oldies: Signed, Sealed, Delivered. That might put off a strong marriage vibe, though. Or Closer because I'm unabashedly obsessed with that song.

8. I don't have Tinder, so it's really a moot point. I'm sure your wondering about my dating life. Don't worry, all you gents holding out, waiting until I make my millions, I'm still on the market. My previous prediction that my dating life would see success when Cleveland sports gained a championship was apparently incorrect.

9. I saw an eHarmony commercial the other day with a woman who was in her late twenties, stating she wanted to meet someone organically. She ends up alone at age 75, wishing she had online dated. Then I had a dream I had cats.

10. Well, eHarmony, I still think I can meet someone organically, and if I am single and 75, I will redefine cougar.

11. Back to stats and my shortcomings. For everyone who assumes I'm perfect, I have a couple more shortcomings to share with you:

12. I never know how to get rid of condensation on my window. I get that you use the defrost in the winter, but on humid mornings, I try cold air, hot air, and end up running my windshield wipers every five seconds.

13. I don't cry when animals die. I don't see this as a shortcoming, but others might.

14. I get random chin hairs. And one random neck hair that is suddenly an inch long.

15. I've recently switched my workout routine to 6 am and realized I'm not great at accepting coaching cues that early in the morning.

16. I'm at risk for ODing on gummy vitamins. Trader Joe's, how do you make Vitamin K so tasty? My worst case was about twenty, and I started to doubt the vitamins' efficacy, because this didn't affect the color of my pee at all.

17. Speaking of the bathroom, I wonder if I have to go to the bathroom, and I drink water, how long does it take the water to effect me? Do I have to go to the bathroom more after the drink of water, or is it pretty inconsequential?

18. I'm currently listening to the National, and it takes me back to my first fall in Charlottesville. The year I embraced indie music. And the Avett Brothers at the Pavillion. Besides the people, Charlottesville's music scene is what I miss the most. I don't think a music venue will ever replace the Pavillion in my heart.

19. A couple guys just passed in suits. Probably going to a ibanking or consulting presentation. I have no interest in either of those, but I do love a man in a suit. Probably best I don't pursue the professions - my mouth would hang open in the office a lot.

20. Another guy just passed on a skateboard. I'm considering adding a skateboard to my look. I think it would give me a certain level of street cred, and I'm always looking for ways to enhance street cred.

21. I have to work on my resume today, and there are a couple strengths I wish I could emphasize:

22. I'm an excellent napper.

23. My high five game is tight. Real tight.

24. I am exceptional at recognizing hair cuts. Probably because my sisters and I would compete to see who noticed my dad's haircut first.

25. I can turn anything into a competition - as evidenced by the previous statement.

26. I have a unique ability to generate extremely awkward stories.

To close - a couple confessions:

27. I stole a pair of sunglasses from CVS. I think. They didn't have a tag or sticker, and I didn't ask for the receipt. When I left, I realized my merch likely exceeded the total I paid. But we all know my feelings about CVS, so I have little remorse.

28. This is a juicy one. Remember the chicken sausage? The one I thought was stolen from the RKG fridge, at which point I sent a company email calling said thief out. I may have found it in the back of the fridge two weeks later. I still hold the thief returned the chicken sausage in a fit of shame after the email, but it's entirely possible I erred. Wow. Feels good to get that off my chest.

And one to grow on:

It's finally fall! The best season of the year, where everything feels alive in the midst of dying, the world is magical, and anything is possible. Year 27 was pretty epic, especially because I only worked two months of it. I have a good feeling about year 28, too.

*I don't know if it's an oak tree. Seems right, though.

Is Business School Stressful?

Short answer. No. At least not yet. But we all know I'm not giving the short answer.

First. New grad school rule: no getting below parallel while dancing in broad daylight. In my defense, they were playing Drop It Low, so I don't see how I had much of a choice. Still, save it for the club, Anna. Speaking of my name, I've been regretting the fact that I didn't redefine myself as Ana Navatsyk, the blonde, exotic Polack. God, I would have been so hot.

Two weeks into classes, I feel quite settled, save a few kinks. I still have to establish a reliable bookbag pocket system. Do I put my keys in the front pocket with the calculator or the middle with my snacks? Or do I put them in the side pocket where they are easily accessible but risk being dropped. And my cell phone? Should it be up front or in a pocket within a pocket? My headphones? I thought they were lost this past week until I found them hiding in some obscure compartment.

I still don't have my binders. I was very excited to use Amazon one-click, but in my enthusiasm did not change my default credit card, so now, some lucky individual at 11 Altamont Circle has binders, and I have paper all over my floor. I don't mind buying more, though, because I got my deposit check from my apartment back this week and am practically rolling in the dough.

Classes are interesting: applied microeconomics, strategy, financial accounting and statistics. The accounting and stats classes are made more interesting by the prof's* accent, so hopefully I'll stay awake more than I did in college. Potential business: accented audiobooks. Household Chores narrated by Edward, the Brit. Learning how to clean the toilet has never been so sexy.

I applied to the social venture fund and was rejected. It's true - even I get rejected occasionally, but I don't think my heart was really in the application. I should only apply when my heart is committed.

Companies have started visiting campus, and I talked with Ford this week about a marketing rotational program that gives you exposure to three different strategic areas of marketing over time. You know the drill: networking, oozing intelligence. Afterward, of course, I followed the golden rule: thank you notes. Thankfully, years of Grandma Tippit threatening to stop giving us birthday money if we didn't write a thank you note has prepared me for such a time as this. I shot off an email to everyone I talked to during their work hours so as not to be disruptive. I received a response with a question on Saturday, though, and I wasn't sure if I should respond on Saturday or wait until Monday morning. Etiquette is tricky.

I had a consultation to review my communication style and efficacy. It's confirmed. I'm an amazing communicator. I also made the three hour trip to Cleveland Thursday night to have a coffee with a man entrenched in the Cleveland sports industry, and immediately return to finish a group project. The trip was totally worth it, though, if only because I had dinner with my parents and met Greg Pruitt, an apparent Browns legend.

Saturday was another game day, which meant another day of revelry, chanting, pretending I am in college again, only to be harshly reminded this morning, that, no, I am not 21. In fact, I will be 28 this Friday!

Once again, my fantasy team caused me the most angst. I made some good moves this week and was feeling pretty confident after a strong performance Thursday night, but yelled in the Trader Joe's checkout line when I saw that Coleman, the Browns wide receiver who I didn't start because, well, the Browns are the Browns, scored 26 points warming my bench. And they still lost. Very Browns of them.

So. The burning question to which everyone seems to expect the answer to be yes - is it stressful? I can't help but think I have different stress triggers than some.

Feeling wasted at your job. Working for a boss who doesn't trust you. That's stressful. But this. This is why I'm here. I get to take two years out of my life to learn, meet smart, kind people* and explore different areas where I can make an impact. What a very rare and exciting privilege.*

Instead of stress, I have felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude this week. For a dad who proudly introduces me as going to Michigan for my MBA and tells me what an accomplishment that is. For a mom who constantly shares her wisdom and encouragement. For family - man, I'm so grateful for my family. For people who have made this transition that I was somewhat dreading so very easy. And for the chance to define my future.

It's possible I'll be stressed at some point this year, but for now, I'm going to go watch Jordy Nelson lead the Sugga Momma Bears to a week two victory.

Signing off,

Ana

* When my sister first went to college, we made fun of her because she started using words like prof and drinking coffee.
* Still no d-bags!
* Plus, I'm not working 25 hours a week at a restaurant this time around.

A Letter to Pappy

Tuesday morning, I packed my book bag and made the five minute walk to my eighteenth first day of school. Isn't it crazy? You were only able to finish high school - I forget whether or not the war kept you from graduating - and I have the opportunity to pursue a master's. I'm going to Michigan, but please don't hate me. I will never forget my roots.

I chose a casual chic look the first day, classy the second, and capped the week with a hint of Bohemian. Solid lineup. I entered class and looked for my assigned seat, hoping I would sit next to that dream boat. Then I remembered Luke Bryan decided to pursue country music instead of his MBA, so that wasn't possible. I wished they had sent a school supplies list because I found myself ill prepared without binders. Throughout the lectures, I struck a balance between not speaking and asking inane questions that drive the conversation nowhere and elicit eye rolls. I also tried not to roll my eyes. I did wake up anxious this morning, but that was because I knew I shouldn't have passed on Deandre Hopkins for a running back in the first round of a PPR* fantasy league. Rookie move, Sugga Momma Bears*.

Most of my classmates are at the local watering hole for the weekly drink special, but I've been thinking about you and wanted to write. Plus, I'm finishing a Netflix documentary on JuCo football, and the MBA games are tomorrow, so I need my rest to be at peak performance.* And the first NFL game is tonight. Welcome to another season of Browns mediocrity. Sixteen years after you passed, it's still a building a year.

I visited the cemetery the other day to catch up with Stephen, and as I was chatting, I realized I don't often talk to you when I'm there. Maybe it's because Stephen was my brother or maybe it's because his grave is easier to find, but I wanted to stop by today and say thank you.

I went to Woodstock last weekend, Aunt DeeDee's annual party that has grown to include most of Chardon and half the surrounding counties. Much of our rapidly expanding family* was there, including Briella, my eight year old niece.

I see myself in her, running to her gramps for a big belly hug and his hearty laugh. It's weird to think that I was her age when you were diagnosed with cancer. I'm so glad I was able to spend those hot summer nights watching baseball with you and grandma. I remember one night in particular, your body was growing frail and you were leaning over as grandma tended one of the injection wounds. You were looking at the ground with a hint of sadness, but when you saw that I was watching, you got that glimmer in your eye and flashed a reassuring smile. I only remember you smiling, no matter how knobby your knees were, or how black and blue your arm was. Maybe it's because I was young, and that's all I want to remember, but maybe it's because that's all you wanted me to remember.

You're probably wondering what I'm going to do with a fancy degree. I plan to do something great, but great is defined in so many ways. What you did, pappy - moving your family, supporting them on the little you made so they could have better, instilling values that enabled them to build strong families, and filling your home with joy and love - that was great. I recognize it's rare, and I don't take it for granted.* If I have a legacy as strong as that, well, I would consider my life a great success.

I can't wait until the day we can share a couple beers, but for now, thank you for being such a big part of the short time I knew you. Even in your absence, I hold tightly to what you taught me about fighting, about family, about love and sacrifice, and I hope that when you look down on occasion and see me, you smile.

* Points per reception
* My team name, which I thought appropriate because I am the only female. Also, you will notice it is a before and after, a classic Wheel of Fortune puzzle that I appreciate from all those nights watching it with you and gram.
* I probably have some homework I could do, too.
* You have 26 great grand children!
* Despite what grandma says, not everyone in my generation is entitled.

My Encroaching Reality

I tried writing yesterday. I was in a cafe with my Ernest Hemingway accessory* beside me, which seemed the perfect setting. Instead, I kept imagining my life in a Bordeaux apartment, sitting on my terrace overlooking the quaint streets. I would take up casual smoking and look classy doing it, pass the mornings writing and afternoons painting. I would obviously acquire the skill of painting. I would meet my Monsieur while sipping a martini in a dimly lit bar that smelled of elegant cologne and smoked whisky. We would spend weekends in Paris, summer in a chateau, live in the countryside. Our two children, Noemi and Auguste would frolic in the field as I drank wine and prepared a meal of fine cheese, bread, and duck breast. Despite my steady consumption of carbs, my thighs would shrink, and I may or may not stop shaving. I'm not sure if French women shave.

Alright. Snap out of it, Anna. Forgive my romantic fantasies, but when this was my view, I couldn’t help myself.

Sitting in Chuck De'Gaul airport, I am a nine hour flight away from reality. Since I’m not sprinting to my gate as I usually am at this airport, now seems the perfect time to reflect briefly on the late fall/winter/spring/summer of Anna* and look forward to the next adventure.

I started working at age fourteen, spent summers juggling two jobs and babysitting, pulled weekend doubles at the Cheesecake Factory throughout college, and served part time in addition to full time employment. So the past nine months, I rested. I soaked in the goodness of friends and family, established myself as the favorite aunt, and celebrated marriages. I became domestic, mowed a lawn, helped my sister move, painted a house*. I temporarily satiated my travel bug, upped my country count to thirty, enjoyed delicious cuisine, made new friends around the world. I laughed a lot, cried a little, considered where I want to be after graduate school.

I even read. From Phil Knight's - my spirit entrepreneur - biography to the Principles of Economics to America's Bitter Pill, the less than riveting tale of Obamacare's bureaucratic journey that confirmed I have no desire to be in politics, I managed to gain a little knowledge.

And my biggest accomplishment by far: helping the Cleveland Cavaliers win the NBA title with years of gritty optimism, prayers, and attendance of game six, shouting from the rafters.

With such a full year, it’s hard to imagine I still have more to accomplish. The last three weeks have been a whirlwind of new faces, preparation for the months to come, and cultural adventure. I could say a lot about particulars, but my main conclusion is this: Ross does a great job of 1) giving you opportunity to build relationships before class begins and 2) choosing people who are smart, humble, and authentic. I expected to enjoy most people, but even so, we are in business school, and there are investment bankers, so I assumed there would be a greater percentage of idiots. But even the investment bankers are nice – at least for now. If the first year is as intense as they say*, I am glad I will be going through it with these classmates.

Before we embark - I'm told it's good to write goals; how much better to share them with the ten people reading my blog? With that, here are some overarching goals for the next 21 months that I reserve the right to change.

Lead a club.

Find a mentor. Admittedly, I always think of Seinfeld and the mentor/protege relationship, but I hear mentors can offer wisdom, and I love wisdom. Plus, you sound intelligent when you start a sentence with, "I was talking to my mentor the other day," so I'm taking applications. At the very least, I'll take one trip to the career advising office.

Do something completely out of my comfort zone - which is difficult because at this point, my comfort zone is really large.

Get involved with a church. I was scanning some online, and one has holy yoga - I have a feeling that's not going to be the one I choose.

Make a couple friends that would invite me to their wedding. Not too many, because weddings get expensive, but a couple.

Squat 190 pounds and do a muscle up. Because I need fitness goals, too.

Where do I want to be at the end of 21 months? I want to be near family, marketing something I love, specifically sports but food, drink and travel are also viable options. I still have a desire to create, and I want to be in a position of influence with leaders who trust their employees. I want to touch people. What does that look like? I'll let you know when I find out, and I am well aware it could be nothing as I imagine it.

Most importantly, trust that in the end, I will be where God wants me to be. The chicken scratch on my chalkboard reminds me, "God is wholly good. Trust Him now with everything. Show me where to walk, for I give my soul to you." Holding tightly to that belief, and taking an occasional deep breath when I get overwhelmed, the rest will fall into place.

So as the French say, "Allez le blue!"

* Because let's be honest, it's just there so I appear well read and intelligent.
* I know, I should have created a better name for it.
* By painting a house, I mean painting a room, but house sounds better.
* Still doubt it.

Some of my favorite pics from the last nine months.

Florianopolis, apparently home to very good looking people, but an even better coastline in my opinion.

Nothing better than reunions with the college bestie.

El Cristo!!! And a lot of clouds.

A few of the children I worked with. At this point, they were staring in awe at my blue eyes.

A dreary but magnificent Halong Bay.

The beautiful New Zealand sky.

Melbourne skyline, matched in greatness only by their delicious donuts.

Ko Phi Phi island. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Angkor Wat in the extreme, extreme heat.

Our last night in Singapore. So much laughter on this trip.

We did it!!! World champions.

My last night in Cville spent with amazing friends.

The sweetest kiddos who I got to spend so much time with this summer.

My most innovative dome selfie to date.

The idyllic setting for an afternoon glass of vino.

My future summer chateau.

Of course - family.

Allez le bleu!!

The Woes of Moving

Orientation is over, and I almost went the whole week without telling a boob story. But then high school nicknames arose. Not once, but twice! I refrained the first time, but the second, I had to tell the story of Nips Navs. I didn't drink any tequila, though, so I think I managed to maintain a small level of mystique.

Because I was focused on orientation, I failed to lament over the laborious process of moving. No worries, though, I haven't forgotten the pain.

If ever there is a time I 1) despise being independent and 2) wish I had a personal assistant, Johan, it is when moving. I have moved four times, and each time, my fifty year old mother and I are hauling boxes from apartment to apartment. Granted, she is in phenomenal shape, but hauling boxes across four states was a bit much to ask, so I hired movers. It was the best two grand I have ever spent; however, I still hate moving.

First, there is the packing process, during which I continuously ask myself how I accumulated so many clothes and kitchen appliances in two years. And whether or not I really need to save my college diploma. Of course, I need to save that red dress I wore to homecoming senior year, because there's a chance my thighs will one day return to their pre-squat girth. I use an entire week's worth of newspaper to ensure my two dollar plastic cup doesn't crack in transit and five rolls of packing tape to ensure not even the Rock could open my box.*

The moving men eased the pain of lifting boxes. In retrospect, I should have gone out to breakfast during the two hours they were packing, because I didn't know what to do with myself. After realizing that I was hindering any loading process more than helping, I just sat on the floor in my kitchen and pondered life.*

When we arrived in Ann Arbor, the unloading process was just as smooth, but this time, I could occupy myself by unpacking. A picture, of efficiency, I unpacked all boxes and even hung relatively level pictures within the first week. Assembling furniture is another story.

I bought a cheap patio set from Wayfair. The review read: "it took my husband five minutes to put it together." Not all of us have husbands to put it together in five minutes. My legs are currently strewn about the floor and the over/under on the assembly of the table is one month. I get intimidated by screws, and I imagine I will eventually acquiesce the help of others in exchange for food and drink.

The most frustrating part of any move for me is logistics. I don't know how I would have survived before the Internet, because every time I have to call an automated system, I end up yelling at the operator. After taking care of gas and electric, I called Comcast and got suckered into the cable package for $69. Then I decided I didn't need to pay for cable. Afterall, everyone tells me I'm going to have zero free time come September. I call Comcast, and our conversation goes something like this:

I would like to cancel my cable.

Why?

I don't want to pay for it.

Okay, Well, if you only have Internet, it will cost you the same. Actually, I can knock ten dollars off your current package and only charge you $59.

You confuse me. But okay.

For all the complaining I do about Comcast, I have had very good interactions with them. They were scheduled to come between 8:30 and 10:30. They arrived at 9 and were done within an hour - probably because I had already figured out the other wiring on my TV, one thing I have mastered in my independence. They also set up my WiFi username and password so I don't have to enter the ridiculous default. I wanted to tip them, but remembered I haven't had an income in months, so I just offered them some coffee.

Of course the process was not without caveat. My outlets are only two prong. It's okay, though, because I had to run to Target to pick up hooks for the new shower curtain because apparently buying a shower curtain requires three separate purchases - the curtain, the liner, and hooks. I quickly learned a surge protector with a two prong outlet and three prong inputs doesn't exist, so I need to purchase a cheat outlet, which is not available at Target.

But none of this compares to my general frustration with the bureau of motor vehicles, an entity with which I have not had to interact in my previous three moves.

Dear Presidential candidates: If one of you could nationalize the DMV/BMV, I will vote for you, regardless of your stance on other issues. If you could throw in a speed limit of 70 on all interstate highways, I will join the campaign trail.

My registration in Virginia expired July 31st. In order to renew again, I will need an eCheck from Virginia. I don't plan on taking my car back to Virginia any time soon, so I looked into getting Michigan plates, which requires me to transfer my title, insurance, and driver's license.* I don't know where my title is. Who knows where their title is? Of course, I need to transfer my license so I can register to vote in Michigan, but since neither of the candidates are promising to nationalize the system of motor vehicles, I may not vote, anyways. And my driving record transfers to Michigan, which is most annoying of all. What is the point of getting a new driver's license if the points remain? I may just risk being pulled over - I've been working on my "woo cops and get out of infractions" game, and I think it's getting stronger. If that fails, I'll get Geeves to take care of it.

* Perfect place for sexual innuendo, but I am refraining. I just want to acknowledge that I see the opportunity.
* As you can imagine, my thoughts were deep. Mostly, I thought about how the Olympic village was going to use 450,000, because I find that number to be absolutely fascinating.
* I also need to provide my birth certificate, social security card, and three people who can vouch for my legitimacy as a human.

Anna Preps for B School

Shortly after my first day at RKG, I was talking with a coworker, Brian. He said of meeting me: "At first I thought, 'man, she seems really classy - then you sent that email ranting about Cleveland sports.'"

Let me start by saying I don't know why classiness and ranting about Cleveland sports are mutually exclusive. Now...

Tomorrow is the first day of orientation. Alas, the late fall/winter/spring/most of summer of Anna is drawing to a close. Don't panic, I still have a bike trip through French wine country before the reality of grad school hits (which I still don't think will be a harsh reality).

Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though. Orientation. A chance to revamp my persona and define myself however I please. I could be the savvy, calculating tycoon. I could be the edgy chick with the leather coat and distant look in her eyes. I could be the quietly intelligent woman oozing sophistication. Guys - I could have mystique!*

What are the steps of preparation for such a pivotal point, the beginning of my MBA journey? We are all told to read inspirational books, map our strengths and weaknesses, write a statement of purpose, but there's so much more.

1. Wardrobe. You may not know this, but I won best dressed in high school. Of course, the organizer of senior superlatives was also in the running for the award and came in a distant (I assume) second. She decided that both first and second should be in the superlative pictures, clearly losing the essence of the word superlative, and conveniently forgot to tell me - and only me - the day of pictures. I was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Joke's on her, though, because I rocked those sweatpants ironically and have clearly moved past the injustice.

Working as the only female at a tech company took a toll on my fashion output, so I reassessed my closet and added a few token pieces, including a blazer, a red dress, a couple pencil skirts and blouses that don't reveal pit stains, casually chic tanks, and a hot pink mini skirt because why not. No pants suits. I do not and will never believe in them.

2. Hair color. My hues have spanned the spectrum: auburn, bleach blonde, natural (for about a month when I was experimenting with fiscal responsibility), brunette, deep brunette, warm golden highlights. For years I have adhered to the theory that people take me more seriously as a brunette because the combination of the blonde and my laugh make for an overwhelming impression. However, I think I've reached a point in my career where I have proven my intellect beyond the color of my hair, and I've reached a point in my life where the perception of others is less burdensome. So the question becomes, in what color do I feel most like myself? Is there really any contest? Blonde. Bright, glorious blonde.

3. My part. Perhaps a bigger decision than the color of my hair was the decision to switch the part from right to left. My brother-in-law, Will, made me aware of valid research that concludes the side on which one parts his/her hair has the power to impact success. I've come this far with my hair parted on the wrong side - imagine the power and prestige that lies ahead!

Emanating power.

4. Phase defining scent. Another scientific theory. Smells trigger memory. Angel takes me back to the high school gym. Happy takes me back to summers teaching tennis. What will harken memories of grad school years from now?

This decision is not one to be taken lightly, and I have literally spent hours seeking phase defining scents with my sister, Lydia, who first introduced me to their importance. Unfortunately, when I walked into the Nordstrom fragrance section, the scents were behind counters, meaning my quest was dictated by another. Were these women capable of leading me to a scent that frolicked upon my nostrils, one that was neither too sweet nor too floral, nor too MBA*? I had no choice but to believe they were.

Twenty minutes and ten perfumes later, between which I profusely apologized for taking so long and secretly wished I could try fifty more, I had narrowed the choice to two. From there, I had to employ bipartisan expertise. I spritzed one on each arm, picked up two mascaras so I could get Lancome's free gift, and sought my mother and sister for a dual arm sniff test. They were torn. While the first had a better initial scent, the second lingered. In the end, I went with my gut and chose the "elegant" fragrance, apparently also just chosen by a woman who was about to get married. I don't know why the salesperson thought it necessary to tell me this, but I suppose that sounds more appealing than if it had been chosen by a woman who was about to work the street corner. When I asked the price, it was obviously the most expensive, but I plan to recoup those costs with whatever job this degree lands me. Clearly, this is an investment in my future.

5. Locate Crossfit, tennis courts, and radio presets. I'm about to encounter a lot of change. For starters, I have to wake up tomorrow at a specific time. I will need an aggressive, athletic outlet for any buildup of angst, and of course, I will need to be able to jam out in the car. Thankfully, there is no shortage of athletes in Ann Arbor, and since it's a Midwest town near Detroit, there is no shortage of country or hip hop radio stations. There's even a station dedicated to throw back tunes, playing Juvenile and NWA all day. Done and done.

6. Set some social ground rules. 1) Don't bring up embarrassing stories about bodily functions or boobs for at least six weeks. 2) Obey rule number one. Even if the story is really funny. 3. No tequila. Just. No. 4. Obey rule number three. Even if the tequila is really good and lime and salt are involved. 5. Smile.

I'm pretty confident I have covered all my bases. Now if you'll excuse me, I think have to read some case study for tomorrow.

*Or I could be the one giggling when the professor says, "The British currency has been falling since the Brexit. How do they get it up again?" because she definitely could have said that.

*my mother told me she didn't want me to get a scent that was too MBA, which Julie and I determined must mean musky.

The Night I Decided to Leave Charlottesville

“How beautiful to dream. But dreams,” I tell Gil, in one of our quiet moments, “are so damned tiring.”
He laughed.
“I can't promise you that you won't be tired,” he says. “But please know this. There's a lot of good waiting for you on the other side of tired. Get yourself tired, Andre. That's where you're going to know yourself. On the other side of tired.”
- Open, the autobiography of Andre Agassi. Read it.

At the age of ten, I went to camp. I desperately wanted to leave on day four. I finished the week but was relieved to return to the comforts of my mom’s cooking and my dad’s hugs. Don’t be fooled by my boisterous laugh and big mouth. I am happiest at home, and I find it very hard to be away. When I moved to Charlottesville, I wasn’t sure what would become of our relationship, but I did know this – I was going to make it my home.

It was October 25th, 2011. I had lived in Charlottesville 14 months, and not a week passed that I didn’t break down. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. I wasn’t supposed to be this tired. Sure, the first months may have been lonely, but then I would have met kindred spirits, found a church, figured out my job, maybe dated a guy. Built a life.

Instead, I found myself swimming through tar. I tried a couple churches and Bible studies, but none seemed to fit. Maybe I didn’t fit them. I tried serving others but found I had very little energy to do so. I had been turned down for a promotion, which was not as crushing as the fact that I felt wasted in my current position. No one understood my quirks like my family and close friends had. I struggled with brokenness, shame, and rejection.

That night, two friends and I went to a cozy bar for the Tuesday drink special. I chose water, knowing alcohol was no good for my current state.

I told them how often I cried. “I cry, too,” one consoled me. “Just the other night I put on some mellow music and had a good cry. It was cathartic.”

“No,” I said. “I cry too much.“

I told them I had registered for a marathon that day. I was going to train for it, I was going to run it, and then, I was going to leave Charlottesville. I was going home, where I knew the love of family.

It felt good to get this off my chest, and I was ready for bed. Plus, the bar was full, people were clearly eying our seats, and we were drinking water. As we stood up to leave, I ran into a guy. I apologized: “We’re leaving; you can have our seats.”

“My friend and I came to talk to you,” he smiled. We stayed and chatted, covering the usual small talk topics: jobs, education, favorite music. He asked for my number and gave me his, which was instantly etched in my memory - it was a combination of two important jersey numbers. We said goodbye.

I left that night with a gut feeling – there was something in Charlottesville I had yet to find. Over the next few months, and even the next few years, that gut reminded me to never run from anything, but to always run toward something. It encouraged me to keep grinding. It demanded me to get myself tired.

I realize not everyone relates to my tennis metaphors, so I will break from routine and use my second favorite metaphor – food.

My sister, Lydia, loved my grandma’s cinnamon rolls*, and sometimes, she made her own. It was a huge undertaking. She had to first make the dough, then knead it and let it rise. After it rose, she folded it, punched it down and let it rise again. Then, a third time, she folded it, punched it down and let it rise. Finally, after a day’s work, the dough was ready to be rolled, sliced, baked, and frosted into a heavenly treat.

Yes, I am a cinnamon roll* in this metaphor, and like its dough, I was knocked down by the same challenges repeatedly: trusting in transition and confronting loneliness. Each time I rose, I learned something new, even though many times, those challenges began with me asking, “Why do I have to do this again?”

Charlottesville has taught me so much. It taught me to be vulnerable and to fight fear. It taught me to let go, look forward, and trust. It taught me that though circumstances may seem otherwise, I am never alone. It taught me my desperate need for grace.

Charlottesville has given me so much: a very full resume, a host of friendships that I carry with me always, a church that pushed me, and a more seasoned palette. I am happy to call it home.

More than that, on the other side of tired - of that folding, punching, and rising - I know myself. I am ready to be rolled up, sliced, and put in the oven*. I am thankful to Charlottesville for so many things, but for this one thing, I am indebted.

*They were one of her many favorite desserts. Lydia doesn’t understand the superlative indication of the word favorite.

*Anytime I can compare myself to a baked good, I feel a certain level of success.

*One day, I will be ready to be frosted into a heavenly treat.

First St Patty's Day in Cville

RKG No Shoes Day! I forget why we weren't wearing shoes, but I don't like shoes anyways, so I joined.

Best. Costume. Ever. Cool Runnings!

RKG Christmas Party 2012

The people I laughed with the most.

Saying goodbye to Wayne, our favorite Citizen Burger bartender

Wineries are always so lovely.

Celebrating the birthday of Erin, one of the first people I met, and one of my closest friends.

Glad I joined Crossfit four years ago and met these fine people.

Dome. Out.