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.