Caveat: I thought about writing this after recruiting, because what if a recruiter reads it and does not appreciate my humor and marks me off the list. Then I thought, if they don't appreciate my style, it's likely not a great fit. More than that, I think it's good to write about uncertainty in the middle of uncertainty, as the emotions are more raw. Finally, I very much appreciate the fact that Ross positions you to succeed in the job market, presenting you with a veritable smorgasbord of opportunity. However, that doesn't mean there's no stress involved.
Ooo this is nice. All these companies are here, fawning over me. Courting me.
Yay! Free food. Mmm and free beverages.
Am I interested in that company? No, no I'm not. I wish I was, but I'm not. And I'm bad at faking it.
That was a good night. I think we really had a connection.
How many ways adjectives are there for "great company"? Can I use the word awesome, or is that inappropriate?
Should I be stressed? Other people are stressed. Maybe I should be stressed. Shoot. I'm stressed. Why am I stressed?
Maybe I should have applied for more internships.
I didn't come here to just get a job. I came here to get my job. The job. The one where I can make the biggest difference. Why would I want less than that?
Ahhh I don't know if I can eat any more free food. Anna, who are you and why would you ever bemoan free food?
May I please have your grandmother's email address, so I can thank her for birthing your mother, who in turn birthed you.
O, sweet professor. You really want me to care about the efficiency of a cranberry plant right now?
Thank you, dear classmate who I speak to in passing, for reassuring me I will get a job now that you have one. As patronizing as that sounds, I prefer it to hearing you complain about how you don't have a job yet.
But seriously, where am I going to be this summer? How about next year? How about in five years?
Hey, everyone, how about instead of talking about interviewing, we talk about music, or how Grayson Allen is the biggest pre Madonna in college basketball, even by Duke standards. Or talk about Chipotle. I can always talk about Chipotle.
Hmmm. Maybe I want a boyfriend. No, Anna, that literally has nothing to do with right now. You just don't like uncertainty. And you want a back massage.
Why is it so gray outside?
Alright, God, close all the doors except the right one. And maybe keep a couple others open for the sake of my sanity.
Why didn't they like me? How could anyone not like me? I thought we had something special.
They didn't like me? Well, fine, I didn't like them, either.
Maybe I'll die alone and never contribute anything to society.*
Get it together, Anna. Go work out.
I woke up at 4:30 this morning. Normally when that happens, I go to the bathroom and return to bed. Since it coincided with the Australian Open men's semifinal between the recently rehabbed Federer and Wawrinka, however, I decided to watch. I joined the match after Federer had won the first two sets and was seemingly cruising to the finals. He dropped the third set 1-6. They fought through the fourth set, until Wawrinka broke to go up 5-4 and closed the set. Federer fought off two break points in the fifth and will be in the finals Sunday at 3:30 AM, which I may or may not watch live.
I know ya'll have missed the tennis metaphors*, so here goes.
Tennis requires a unique mental strength to succeed*, different than that required in team sports. You are completely alone. No teammate will compensate if your shot is off, and no coach will calm you down, except for a brief look into the stands. And there's an opponent that's fighting the same fight. I think the pitcher/batter matchup is a similar battle, but if a pitcher is having an off day, the GM pulls him from the mound, and the offense can redeem the performance. Boxing certainly requires a similar mentality, but it moves so quickly that you don't have the time to think.
In tennis, you have 30 seconds in between points to think about what went wrong, what could go wrong, or how to compete in the next point. You have two minutes during changeover to regroup or unravel. And five minutes in between sets to dig deep, make strategic adjustments and finish strong, or panic. It's your choice.
If you watch the sport enough, or play it enough, you can see this internal battle raging. You can predict the momentum shifts. The single points that completely alter the tone of the match.
The toughest matches are won not because of strength or technique. They're won because you can dictate momentum. You know which points will cause your opponent to unravel, and when you're the person unraveling - when you've temporarily lost your shot or can't seem to convert - you know how to stop the spiral. To snap out of it. Point by point.
Life seems to be a constant sequence of momentum shifts. There are times when you are converting on all cylinders, times when you're a little off, and times when not a single shot seems to fall. How you react to those periods dictates your success.
Over the years, you learn to curb your internal momentum shifts. Every player has marquee matches, and the longer you play, the more you have. Those matches when you were steady, smart, and strong. And when you're in the middle of match, knowing the next point could determine momentum, you remember those matches.
So right now, in the middle of recruiting, when my mind can wander in many fruitless directions, dwelling on past errors or wondering what might happen in the third set when I haven't even finished the first, I remember those past victories. When I quit my job and began serving tables, when I joined a startup, or when I left that job without knowing if I had been accepted to graduate school.
Most tennis players have a ritual between points. It could be Nadal picking his wedgie - why don't you just get bigger shorts - or Federer brushing back his hair - don't ever cut your hair, Federer. I always took a moment to remind myself to compete. And in the middle of uncertainty, I hold on to Philippians 4:6: Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And then I work out.
* I renounce that. Plus, I've already contributed this blog.
* As I wrote this, I realized it's been nearly two years since one has graced my blog, and new readers may never have experienced my favorite metaphor. What a shame.
* And frankly, I think under appreciated by the masses.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
Saturday, January 14, 2017
Home with the Navs
First. Remember last year, I thought adding elbow holes in sweaters could be the next fashion trend. I'm seeing sweaters with shoulder holes all over the place this winter. I should be fashion blogger. Until that transition...
Coming home for the holidays after living alone is always a bit of an adjustment. For instance: I can't do my own laundry, my meals are cooked for me, I have to continually be ready when Mom asks what I want from the grocery store, delicious treats are constantly calling, the 86'' TV sometimes hurts my eyes. It's difficult, but I press through. I do always forget to bring home my lufa which throws a major wrench in my shower routine.*
Everyone knows I love my family. We all have our idiosyncrasies, that I believe each has embraced, so no one will mind if I share them. It's a difficult task to provide a window for outsiders into a week with the Navatsyks, but that's not going to keep me from trying.
I stop by Gail and Mitch's first. Colt, the three year old tornado, is extremely excited to see me, and I savor the moment, because soon enough, he will be asking when it's time for me to go home. Or our friendship will end because he trips over a pillow while playing tag. Ahh, the volatility of toddler affections. Briella, who's 8 going on 28, runs into my arms and within a minute asks if I have started dating the quarterback yet. I tell her I'm going to wait until he's legal to make my move.
Gail and Mitch are taking their kids to Miami in a few weeks. Gail is considering recording their vacation, putting it on Youtube and monetizing it. After all, it's about time they make money off their good looks. I agree, and if I didn't have school, I would definitely manage the production. Of course, Mitch would make me delete half of what he says, so maybe a reality show won't work. Gail could make videos coaching Moms to have their children sleep through the night. Or Mitch could tour the country giving motivational speeches. If not Mitch, Briella could. She is reenacting her inspirational speech: "You go hard. You better have nothing left at the end of the swim!" she had spurred her teammate to a relay victory.
Gail and I discuss her most recent nail salon drama - anyone who has entered the world of nail allegiance knows that switching between salons is a difficult line to cross without consequence. She had a procedure recently and is recovering very swiftly, as I anticipated she would. By procedure, I mean boob job. Mitch's gift to both of them. Yes, for everyone scrolling through pictures on Facebook and wondering: they're not real, and they're spectacular. I had to cop a feel, obviously. And don't worry, I know you're scrolling, because we do, too. And Mitch rolls his eyes but secretly enjoys our commentary. For anyone scrolling through my profile page, here's the synopsis: I have big thighs and this blog where I ramble about my life as if people care. Don't try to make fun of my forehead. We all know it's glorious.
Personally, I plan on botoxing my forehead to preserve the beauty of the dome selfie, so I'm in no position to judge another taking advantage of the medical advances at one's fingertips. Plus, I think after you have four kids, you have the right to do whatever you want to your body, and as our President-elect once proclaimed, "It's impossible to be flat chested and a 10." If there was doubt, Gail's now a ten. The addition to the Hewitt household does offer a multitude of material, and if Mitch were not in a position of civic service, this blog post would be a running recording of commentary. I will simply say: he's not demanding his money back.*
Phil and Courtny are in for a brief 24 hours during which we watch the 45 minute compilation Philip made of our time roadtripping through Eastern Europe together. And Courtney watches the whole video and laughs, which is why he married her, because most people would probably leave after five minutes, though I don't know why, because we're hilarious. The opening scene is the two of us belting out T-Swift. There is a lot of made up history on our self guided tours, that's what she said moments, complaining about the speed limit, and one scene where I molest a gummy bear. Pure gold.
Philip's trying a new method to wake up Courtny - bacon. She seems a little startled and even annoyed the first time bacon slides under her nostril as she sleeps, but the second time, she is much more amenable, and even seems to enjoy the bacon. They're prepping for their 45-day honeymoonth. Forty-five days seems like a totally appropriate amount of time. Any more may be unreasonable.
We manage to squeeze in a Christmas tree sleepover with Caleb and Bri, and while Courtny and Phil opted for a bed, I lay under the tree and talk with the kiddos about school, their little brothers, and sports. I hope they skip that stage when they are too cool for their aunts.
Christmas comes and goes, and the Cavs beat the Warriors.
The day after, I join Mom and Dad for dinner. They seem to go out more since no one lives with them, and they may be my favorite couple to join as a third wheel, because as of now, they are the only ones who pay.* I had forgotten to get Dad a present, and I saw this as the perfect opportunity.
"Excellent. I'll cover some of the meal, and that will be your Christmas present, Dad."
"So let me understand. We go out to dinner. You pay for yourself. That's my Christmas present?"
"Correct."
"How is that my Christmas present?"
"Because, Dad. You get to spend time with me. And you love me." Merry Christmas.
I do go out with a few friends one night. Mom informs me the following morning that according to the track your iPhone app, I was at Pub Frato then a Hibachi restaurant and somewhere else in between. Good thing I nixed the strip club idea; that would have been an awkward conversation over coffee.
The Christmas tree down, her latest mission is to get rid of my Playmobile Victorian house from childhood. I'm not totally ready to part with it. I'm not sure when or why I will have any use for it, but there's so many pieces, it seems wrong to say goodbye. Incidentally, that's exactly why she wants it gone. I hold my ground, though, by simply not responding to her pleas for me to give her permission to throw it away*, and she's giving me until age 30 to remove it from the premises, lest it be removed for me. It was in two boxes, but if stacked properly, it can be condensed to one, which is a minor relief for her. Win, win.
The Amish woman Mom befriended is cleaning our house, which brings the cleaning lady tally to two. I'm not sure what they do, though mother did say that when my dad's car lights hit the ground just right, you could see bits of dust. She would later find a bit more dust when the sun shone directly on the living room table at 5:07 PM. I contemplate how I can get these ladies to my apartment and really show them some dust, when Dad comes down with big news.
"Jim Lyons called the other day and said he met a shortstop that was better than me. I went on a diatribe on how that simply wasn't the case. Today someone posted a picture on Facebook of the 1973 All Star team. I was the shortstop. I sent Jim the picture and said, 'I rest my case.'" Additionally, Dad has tweeted at Kimberly Gildoyle of Fox's Five at Five, telling her to part her hair on one side or the other because the part down the middle is no bueno. It's been bugging him for a long time, so the household's glad that's off his mind.
Before heading back to Ann Arbor, I have communion with Mom and Dad, something they have started doing daily. Dad prays for me as he always does: that I would be a leader, not a follower, that I would find favor in the eyes of those I work with, that the right doors would open and every other door close. I give both a big hug, grab one final treat and hop on the road, grateful as always for such strong roots. And sad that I have to do my own laundry.
* Simple solution: spend two dollars on a lufa to keep there.
* I ran this section by Gail and Mitch and have interpreted their silence as tacit compliance.
* Every other couple, please feel free to step up your game to compete.
* Thanks for teaching me negotiating skills, MO 503.
Coming home for the holidays after living alone is always a bit of an adjustment. For instance: I can't do my own laundry, my meals are cooked for me, I have to continually be ready when Mom asks what I want from the grocery store, delicious treats are constantly calling, the 86'' TV sometimes hurts my eyes. It's difficult, but I press through. I do always forget to bring home my lufa which throws a major wrench in my shower routine.*
Everyone knows I love my family. We all have our idiosyncrasies, that I believe each has embraced, so no one will mind if I share them. It's a difficult task to provide a window for outsiders into a week with the Navatsyks, but that's not going to keep me from trying.
I stop by Gail and Mitch's first. Colt, the three year old tornado, is extremely excited to see me, and I savor the moment, because soon enough, he will be asking when it's time for me to go home. Or our friendship will end because he trips over a pillow while playing tag. Ahh, the volatility of toddler affections. Briella, who's 8 going on 28, runs into my arms and within a minute asks if I have started dating the quarterback yet. I tell her I'm going to wait until he's legal to make my move.
Gail and Mitch are taking their kids to Miami in a few weeks. Gail is considering recording their vacation, putting it on Youtube and monetizing it. After all, it's about time they make money off their good looks. I agree, and if I didn't have school, I would definitely manage the production. Of course, Mitch would make me delete half of what he says, so maybe a reality show won't work. Gail could make videos coaching Moms to have their children sleep through the night. Or Mitch could tour the country giving motivational speeches. If not Mitch, Briella could. She is reenacting her inspirational speech: "You go hard. You better have nothing left at the end of the swim!" she had spurred her teammate to a relay victory.
Gail and I discuss her most recent nail salon drama - anyone who has entered the world of nail allegiance knows that switching between salons is a difficult line to cross without consequence. She had a procedure recently and is recovering very swiftly, as I anticipated she would. By procedure, I mean boob job. Mitch's gift to both of them. Yes, for everyone scrolling through pictures on Facebook and wondering: they're not real, and they're spectacular. I had to cop a feel, obviously. And don't worry, I know you're scrolling, because we do, too. And Mitch rolls his eyes but secretly enjoys our commentary. For anyone scrolling through my profile page, here's the synopsis: I have big thighs and this blog where I ramble about my life as if people care. Don't try to make fun of my forehead. We all know it's glorious.
Personally, I plan on botoxing my forehead to preserve the beauty of the dome selfie, so I'm in no position to judge another taking advantage of the medical advances at one's fingertips. Plus, I think after you have four kids, you have the right to do whatever you want to your body, and as our President-elect once proclaimed, "It's impossible to be flat chested and a 10." If there was doubt, Gail's now a ten. The addition to the Hewitt household does offer a multitude of material, and if Mitch were not in a position of civic service, this blog post would be a running recording of commentary. I will simply say: he's not demanding his money back.*
Phil and Courtny are in for a brief 24 hours during which we watch the 45 minute compilation Philip made of our time roadtripping through Eastern Europe together. And Courtney watches the whole video and laughs, which is why he married her, because most people would probably leave after five minutes, though I don't know why, because we're hilarious. The opening scene is the two of us belting out T-Swift. There is a lot of made up history on our self guided tours, that's what she said moments, complaining about the speed limit, and one scene where I molest a gummy bear. Pure gold.
Philip's trying a new method to wake up Courtny - bacon. She seems a little startled and even annoyed the first time bacon slides under her nostril as she sleeps, but the second time, she is much more amenable, and even seems to enjoy the bacon. They're prepping for their 45-day honeymoonth. Forty-five days seems like a totally appropriate amount of time. Any more may be unreasonable.
We manage to squeeze in a Christmas tree sleepover with Caleb and Bri, and while Courtny and Phil opted for a bed, I lay under the tree and talk with the kiddos about school, their little brothers, and sports. I hope they skip that stage when they are too cool for their aunts.
Christmas comes and goes, and the Cavs beat the Warriors.
The day after, I join Mom and Dad for dinner. They seem to go out more since no one lives with them, and they may be my favorite couple to join as a third wheel, because as of now, they are the only ones who pay.* I had forgotten to get Dad a present, and I saw this as the perfect opportunity.
"Excellent. I'll cover some of the meal, and that will be your Christmas present, Dad."
"So let me understand. We go out to dinner. You pay for yourself. That's my Christmas present?"
"Correct."
"How is that my Christmas present?"
"Because, Dad. You get to spend time with me. And you love me." Merry Christmas.
I do go out with a few friends one night. Mom informs me the following morning that according to the track your iPhone app, I was at Pub Frato then a Hibachi restaurant and somewhere else in between. Good thing I nixed the strip club idea; that would have been an awkward conversation over coffee.
The Christmas tree down, her latest mission is to get rid of my Playmobile Victorian house from childhood. I'm not totally ready to part with it. I'm not sure when or why I will have any use for it, but there's so many pieces, it seems wrong to say goodbye. Incidentally, that's exactly why she wants it gone. I hold my ground, though, by simply not responding to her pleas for me to give her permission to throw it away*, and she's giving me until age 30 to remove it from the premises, lest it be removed for me. It was in two boxes, but if stacked properly, it can be condensed to one, which is a minor relief for her. Win, win.
The Amish woman Mom befriended is cleaning our house, which brings the cleaning lady tally to two. I'm not sure what they do, though mother did say that when my dad's car lights hit the ground just right, you could see bits of dust. She would later find a bit more dust when the sun shone directly on the living room table at 5:07 PM. I contemplate how I can get these ladies to my apartment and really show them some dust, when Dad comes down with big news.
"Jim Lyons called the other day and said he met a shortstop that was better than me. I went on a diatribe on how that simply wasn't the case. Today someone posted a picture on Facebook of the 1973 All Star team. I was the shortstop. I sent Jim the picture and said, 'I rest my case.'" Additionally, Dad has tweeted at Kimberly Gildoyle of Fox's Five at Five, telling her to part her hair on one side or the other because the part down the middle is no bueno. It's been bugging him for a long time, so the household's glad that's off his mind.
Before heading back to Ann Arbor, I have communion with Mom and Dad, something they have started doing daily. Dad prays for me as he always does: that I would be a leader, not a follower, that I would find favor in the eyes of those I work with, that the right doors would open and every other door close. I give both a big hug, grab one final treat and hop on the road, grateful as always for such strong roots. And sad that I have to do my own laundry.
* Simple solution: spend two dollars on a lufa to keep there.
* I ran this section by Gail and Mitch and have interpreted their silence as tacit compliance.
* Every other couple, please feel free to step up your game to compete.
* Thanks for teaching me negotiating skills, MO 503.
Friday, January 6, 2017
2016 Winners and Losers. 2017 Goals. World Domination, Always.
Alright, guys, the countdown to world takeover by age 30 is ticking.
I'm supposed to be writing an essay for an application. The theme: resilience. You know what I'm going to use? A tennis analogy. Surprising, I know. In order to get my creative juices flowing, I thought it wise to partake in my annual reflection and goal setting ritual. In addition to a brief assessment of 2016 goal accomplishment - I found the sweet spot and got very close to getting a drink named after me - this year's reflection takes the form of post-weekend football analysis, with winners and losers. Appropriately, we will begin with fantasy.
Winner. Steel the Win and Sugga Momma Bears. In a demonstration of dominance, Steel the Win took the victory in league one. Thank you, Le'Veon Bell and David Johnson. Unfortunately, the cardiac kids, Sugga Momma Bears, fell in the championship, a defeat that would have been more palatable if the winning lineup had not been sitting on my bench. Still, considering I had the 11th lowest number of overall points in the regular season, second place is a victory.
Loser. Fantasy football team names. My pun game is weak. I plan on spending the offseason considering alternative names, which will inevitably lead to me figuring out how I can cleverly combine Ezekiel and some obscure part of the male anatomy.
Winner. My laugh. I was nominated for best laugh in high school, but alas, I lost to Alison Piccioni. I don't think I laughed to the extent I do now in high school, as much of my time was spent sleeping during class. This year, however, I received my section superlative award for best laugh. Is this the greatest accomplishment of my MBA career thus far? I'm not saying it's not.
Loser. There are no losers when I laugh, unless you're a dog that detects high pitch frequency. Then, it might hurt your ears.
Winner. My ability to differentiate between Coors Light, Miller Light, and Bud Light. I think it's improved.
Loser. My self-respect. Why am I 28 and drinking light beer? Apparently, when in grad school, ones' tastes revert to age 21. Sometimes, so do one's dance moves.
Winner. My funeral. I recently listened to a podcast about "the town that talks about death." The gist of it was: an end of life caregiver started broaching the subject of death with patients long before the threat was imminent so when the time did come, families knew what the individual wanted, subsequently lowering healthcare costs and improving end of life quality. The town took a sensitive subject and made it commonplace. Very interesting. Anyways, it got me thinking about my funeral, and I have a few requests: a slideshow of dome selfies, which I imagine at that time will be plentiful; no need to wear black, people should wear color, but by no means does this excuse anyone from crying. Brownie sundae bar at the post-lunch. Also, if people would like to have a competition of who can share the most embarrassing Anna story at the post-lunch, the winner could receive an Anna bobblehead.
Loser. My wedding. Haven't made much progress on that front, although I have started answering creatively when old family friends ask if I'm married yet. "No, but I'm getting my business degree so I can get rich and buy myself a husband..." Awkward pause.
Winner. My apartment. Possibly my best decision of 2016 was getting an apartment fifty feet from the business school. Was I a bit skeptical when I awoke the first Saturday at 6 am to undergrads pre-gaming? Yes. However, now that it is a balmy 5 degrees outside, I am grateful for the proximity.
Loser. My mail. I've had this issue with my mail where nothing that is sent to me arrives. You have one job, postal service. Wedding invitations, birthday cards, Christmas cards, checks. Not receiving them. The obvious answer is that I am giving the wrong address, but I am receiving packages, so that's not the case. I asked my landlord about this, and he told me, yes, it's an ongoing problem, and I need to talk to the postal service, which I have yet to do, because I fear they will be of little help. A possible thought is that I need to start telling people the end of my zip code, because all the junk mail I receive has 48104-3554 on it. Are those last four digits important?
Winner. The Cavs. I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but they are the reigning NBA champions.
Loser. The Browns. It's a building year. Also... Golden State. Since I called out Golden State, I feel obligated to acknowledge that the Indians gave up a 3-1 lead to the Cubbies, although they did so without their best player and best pitchers, so the loss was not quite as humiliating.
Winner. My driving record. I received zero moving violations and zero parking tickets in 2016. I believe this is a first. It's likely because I was out of the country for about five months.
Loser. My sense of direction. Technology is great, but I had to enter Trader Joe's into my phone the first three months in Ann Arbor, and I still am not sure how to get from the east side to the west side of the city. Or if there even is an East side.
Winner. My thighs. I say this because twice in the last week I have been asked what sport I played that made my legs so strong. I responded, "I was born with these beauties."* The Navatsyk thighs, finally getting the recognition they deserve.
Loser. Errands. While I have no problem prioritizing working out, it took me three months to register my car in Michigan, two months to return text books, and four months to return some WiFi device to Comcast. When I finally focused on each of these tasks, I completed each in thirty minutes. Why are errands so hard? And why do I still not have a life secretary? And why hasn't Amazon created a drone secretary to run these errands for me?
Winner. Ann Arbor. I moved here.
Loser. Charlottesville. I left there.
Alright - to resolutions. I was listening to Tim Ferriss the other day, an inspirational Podcaster whose yoga obsession I take with a grain of salt, as I do all yoga obsessions, and he suggested looking at what you could 10x. A very obvious answer to this is my blog readership, so if everyone reading this could simply click on the links to my posts 10 times instead of 1 (or 100 times instead of 10 if you're creepily already reading my posts 10 times to memorize them), I can hit that goal. Thank you in advance. Momentary shoutout for this blog: I hit a record number of posts last year with 27. Also, someone told me it was hilarious and inspirational which was in the running for the greatest compliment received in 2016.* I should have a Podcast.
Speaking of which, while my goal is not to have a Podcast, I am breaking tradition by stating a real, tangible goal: to build a business plan. I'm not going to pressure myself to start said business, but I will do the work prior to launching. Or at least read a book about building a business. I may start a blog segment called Anna Builds a Business. And not to give away any spoilers, but the sole product may be an Anna bobblehead with an obviously huge dome that laughs when you walk past it. Coming to your office workspace, 2018.
* Also, I played tennis.
* Next to, of course, the comparison between Elle Woods and me
For inquiring minds:
2015 Goals
2014 Goals
I'm supposed to be writing an essay for an application. The theme: resilience. You know what I'm going to use? A tennis analogy. Surprising, I know. In order to get my creative juices flowing, I thought it wise to partake in my annual reflection and goal setting ritual. In addition to a brief assessment of 2016 goal accomplishment - I found the sweet spot and got very close to getting a drink named after me - this year's reflection takes the form of post-weekend football analysis, with winners and losers. Appropriately, we will begin with fantasy.
Winner. Steel the Win and Sugga Momma Bears. In a demonstration of dominance, Steel the Win took the victory in league one. Thank you, Le'Veon Bell and David Johnson. Unfortunately, the cardiac kids, Sugga Momma Bears, fell in the championship, a defeat that would have been more palatable if the winning lineup had not been sitting on my bench. Still, considering I had the 11th lowest number of overall points in the regular season, second place is a victory.
Loser. Fantasy football team names. My pun game is weak. I plan on spending the offseason considering alternative names, which will inevitably lead to me figuring out how I can cleverly combine Ezekiel and some obscure part of the male anatomy.
Winner. My laugh. I was nominated for best laugh in high school, but alas, I lost to Alison Piccioni. I don't think I laughed to the extent I do now in high school, as much of my time was spent sleeping during class. This year, however, I received my section superlative award for best laugh. Is this the greatest accomplishment of my MBA career thus far? I'm not saying it's not.
Loser. There are no losers when I laugh, unless you're a dog that detects high pitch frequency. Then, it might hurt your ears.
Winner. My ability to differentiate between Coors Light, Miller Light, and Bud Light. I think it's improved.
Loser. My self-respect. Why am I 28 and drinking light beer? Apparently, when in grad school, ones' tastes revert to age 21. Sometimes, so do one's dance moves.
Winner. My funeral. I recently listened to a podcast about "the town that talks about death." The gist of it was: an end of life caregiver started broaching the subject of death with patients long before the threat was imminent so when the time did come, families knew what the individual wanted, subsequently lowering healthcare costs and improving end of life quality. The town took a sensitive subject and made it commonplace. Very interesting. Anyways, it got me thinking about my funeral, and I have a few requests: a slideshow of dome selfies, which I imagine at that time will be plentiful; no need to wear black, people should wear color, but by no means does this excuse anyone from crying. Brownie sundae bar at the post-lunch. Also, if people would like to have a competition of who can share the most embarrassing Anna story at the post-lunch, the winner could receive an Anna bobblehead.
Loser. My wedding. Haven't made much progress on that front, although I have started answering creatively when old family friends ask if I'm married yet. "No, but I'm getting my business degree so I can get rich and buy myself a husband..." Awkward pause.
Winner. My apartment. Possibly my best decision of 2016 was getting an apartment fifty feet from the business school. Was I a bit skeptical when I awoke the first Saturday at 6 am to undergrads pre-gaming? Yes. However, now that it is a balmy 5 degrees outside, I am grateful for the proximity.
Loser. My mail. I've had this issue with my mail where nothing that is sent to me arrives. You have one job, postal service. Wedding invitations, birthday cards, Christmas cards, checks. Not receiving them. The obvious answer is that I am giving the wrong address, but I am receiving packages, so that's not the case. I asked my landlord about this, and he told me, yes, it's an ongoing problem, and I need to talk to the postal service, which I have yet to do, because I fear they will be of little help. A possible thought is that I need to start telling people the end of my zip code, because all the junk mail I receive has 48104-3554 on it. Are those last four digits important?
Winner. The Cavs. I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but they are the reigning NBA champions.
Loser. The Browns. It's a building year. Also... Golden State. Since I called out Golden State, I feel obligated to acknowledge that the Indians gave up a 3-1 lead to the Cubbies, although they did so without their best player and best pitchers, so the loss was not quite as humiliating.
Winner. My driving record. I received zero moving violations and zero parking tickets in 2016. I believe this is a first. It's likely because I was out of the country for about five months.
Loser. My sense of direction. Technology is great, but I had to enter Trader Joe's into my phone the first three months in Ann Arbor, and I still am not sure how to get from the east side to the west side of the city. Or if there even is an East side.
Winner. My thighs. I say this because twice in the last week I have been asked what sport I played that made my legs so strong. I responded, "I was born with these beauties."* The Navatsyk thighs, finally getting the recognition they deserve.
Loser. Errands. While I have no problem prioritizing working out, it took me three months to register my car in Michigan, two months to return text books, and four months to return some WiFi device to Comcast. When I finally focused on each of these tasks, I completed each in thirty minutes. Why are errands so hard? And why do I still not have a life secretary? And why hasn't Amazon created a drone secretary to run these errands for me?
Winner. Ann Arbor. I moved here.
Loser. Charlottesville. I left there.
Alright - to resolutions. I was listening to Tim Ferriss the other day, an inspirational Podcaster whose yoga obsession I take with a grain of salt, as I do all yoga obsessions, and he suggested looking at what you could 10x. A very obvious answer to this is my blog readership, so if everyone reading this could simply click on the links to my posts 10 times instead of 1 (or 100 times instead of 10 if you're creepily already reading my posts 10 times to memorize them), I can hit that goal. Thank you in advance. Momentary shoutout for this blog: I hit a record number of posts last year with 27. Also, someone told me it was hilarious and inspirational which was in the running for the greatest compliment received in 2016.* I should have a Podcast.
Speaking of which, while my goal is not to have a Podcast, I am breaking tradition by stating a real, tangible goal: to build a business plan. I'm not going to pressure myself to start said business, but I will do the work prior to launching. Or at least read a book about building a business. I may start a blog segment called Anna Builds a Business. And not to give away any spoilers, but the sole product may be an Anna bobblehead with an obviously huge dome that laughs when you walk past it. Coming to your office workspace, 2018.
* Also, I played tennis.
* Next to, of course, the comparison between Elle Woods and me
For inquiring minds:
2015 Goals
2014 Goals
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