The Most Expensive Banana Never Eaten

A thirteen hour flight must be tackled with strategy.

1) Passport. After the dreadful displacement of 2011, I am so paranoid about losing my passport, I highly doubt it will reoccur. I routinely place it in the smallest pocket of my luggage and transport said luggage to my vehicle only upon the day of departure. Idiot proof - or at least Anna proof.

2) Clothes. The outfit must be the ideal balance between comfort and adjustable temperature, one difficult to strike. Sneaks are obvious, paired with calf length leggings, stretchy enough to reach my ankles should the plane ac blow vigorously. Clothing the upper body requires a bit more tact. I begin with a shelf bra tank top, knowing all to well the grating nature of under wire. Since society demands a certain level of discreteness, I layer a loose tank top to hide potential protrusions. The sweatshirt is a zip-up for ease of removal, and my look is completed with a loose head band to keep hair at bay while not tugging follicles.

3) Appropriate level of exhaustion. I begin the morning with a vigorous workout, spend four hours at the office and drive to Dulles. I entertain myself the first leg of the journey with John Grisham's latest work, knowing I can not concede to the seduction of sleep. Further, my final flight coincides with a bedtime of one o'clock in the morning, well past my usual time of retirement.

4) Food and water - yes, even the bare essentials require a systematic approach. I choose not to risk the entrance of foreign substances into my digestive track when the only place of relief is a 1'x 2' box that smells either sterile or foul. I have a simple sandwich and banana for dinner. Prior to boarding my marathon flight, I buy a two liter water, easily transferable to my own dispenser, to avoid dehydration. Although I plan on sleeping through this entire flight, I need to be prepared for an onset of insatiable hunger. I choose a granola bar, dried fruit and a banana (which I have trouble justifying because I already had one banana), pay the reasonable price of twenty dollars, and meander confidently aboard.

5) Generally I have no issue sleeping in any position amidst copious amount of noise, as numerous professors can attest. Leaving nothing to chance, however, it is time for the piece de resistance - pharmaceudicals. I swallow half a sleeping pill as instructed by a friend, curl into a cozy ball and enter blissful rest.

After ten hours of sleep, I awake with only three hours remaining. Those passed quite smoothly with a cup of coffee and an omelet. Despite my aversion to airline food, I find the odds of infecting eggs is quite slim so I partake. The fleeting thought of a banana passes through my conscience but makes a quick exit.

The plane lands at 6:55 AM New Zealand time, and I disembark with a spring in my step, knowing I had conquered the travel woes of others with ease. I even have the mental wherewithal to buy alcohol at the duty free shop. There is a deal on the desired rum, 2 for $69, a veritable steal. My spirits heighten.

I continue on my trek to customs, disregarding the sign prompting me to rid myself of all biohazards, focused on an exhilerating destination. I smile widely at the agent, knowing my vacation is within reach, and when asked about the food I claimed, I reassure him it is merely granola bars for my sister. All processed. Nothing fresh.

I place each bag on the conveyor belt for x-rays, including my purse, which I consider odd since it has already been through a security check point in America. The yellow satchel comes through the machine, and the following exchange ensues.

Agent: Is this yours?
Me: Yes

Agent: You are aware of all contents of your purse?
Me: Yes
My head: What if the sleeping pill is actually illegal? Should I confess it?

Agent: Your customs sheet is correct?
Me: Yes
My head: Why do they make me fill this sheet out when I first am roused? Alright, I will come clean regarding the half sleeping pill.

Me: I do have a pill in there.
My head: I hope this does not parallel Brokedown Palace, landing me in a New Zealand prison the remainder of my life. What could be in there? Perhaps the family man playing tetris beside me was not as innocent as he seemed.

Agent (pulling out a banana that is now passed ripe): Please come with me.
Me (rolling my eyes): You have got to be kidding me.

Agent: This is a biohazard.
My head: Your face is a biohazard.
Me: I bought this at a Starbuck's, I forgot about it, please have mercy on me.

Agent: Please read this.

I read and am informed I owe the small fine of $400, the tinge of which was lessened slightly upon realizing that was only about $340 US dollars.

Me: Do you enjoy doing this?
My head: Do you realize you are only in this position because you could never be a cop, or even a traffic cop? There are real criminals out there and you are enacting a sick power trip on an innocent, health conscience girl. You are adopted and your parents do not even love you.

Silence.

Me: Sugar.

I am happy to assure you New Zealand has been compensating for this rude welcoming with wine, food and gorgeous scenery. As for my relationship with the banana, I had a nibble of a friend's yesterday. Though I have faith our fire will be rekindled, it will certainly take time to heal the wound inflicted by the most expensive banana never eaten.

Three Years!

Hey there, friend. I just group skyped with my sisters for the first time, and it was fantastic. There are a lot of wonderful people in my life, but I do not think I will ever laugh as hard with anyone else.

You know what's crazy? Tomorrow marks my three year anniversary in Charlottesville. I thought I would let you know, as I plan on celebrating so will be unable to offer a provocative reflection the day of. I know you will miss my pontifications, but fear not, there will be more wistful musings in the coming weeks - I can feel it. For now, I will give you some brief life updates since last we spoke.

I was recently promoted which is a testament to God's faithfulness; I sincerely appreciate the path he lay for me thus far, and am excited to continue walking it purposefully. I am also hoping this position will eventually give me the authority to restructure our bathrooms. Corporate bathrooms should be a place of solace and relaxation, but because of cultural stigmas associated with certain matters, it can become an uncomfortable burden a worker should not have to bare. My solution is threefold:

1) Doors extending to the floor to hide incriminating feet
2) Soothing music, easily accessible via iPod, to ease the employee's disposition
3) Varied paint and tile colors, further contributing to the overall ambiance

Even if this authority is not granted, I see myself growing abundantly.

Speaking of God, I have been considering the human body lately. Mainly, just my eyelids. I would like to suggest they be fashioned a bit thicker, so when I lay down for a nap, it is not interrupted by a momentary white flash across my television screen.

Also related to the new job, I have officially turned in my server's apron... for now. We have a deep, passionate history, and I am extremely sad to bid that part of my life a temporary adieu, but for the sake of mental stamina, it is necessary.

This past weekend I was acting coordinator for a friend's wedding. It was my first Virginia wedding, and as suspected, the vineyard views were simply breathtaking, although I was reminded that I cry more during sporting events than I do at weddings. My favorite part was probably having the opportunity to greet guests and encourage them to "enjoy the nuptuals." I also caught the bouquet, but this does not fit with my four year plan. Why four years, you ask? In four years, my niece and nephew will be of perfect ring bearer and flower girl age. That's all. I do know should I ever saunter down the aisle, I will be wearing a huge smile and will give my dad a very large hug.

I have a new temporary goal: spur the NSA to knock on my apartment door after generating suspicion. More to come on my progress.

I know this post is super disjointed, but I did not want to neglect you in the midst of the chaos that is the end of summer. I will offer more cohesive thoughts soon.

Lessons from a Protein Shake

I have resolved to remove processed sugar and alcohol from my diet this week, imposing a more regimented self discipline than the usual, "only eat half a bag of Powerberries*." Protein shakes are a great supplement because they

1) Contain, you guessed it, protein, which aids in the post workout recovery process and
2) Taste like a milkshake when I close my eyes and dream

I prepared said indulgence last night and, lacking motivation, did not rinse the cup. Tonight I revisited the vessel with the same lackluster mentality but realized it must be cleaned. Unfortunately, the residue had settled, rendering the scrubbing process infinitely more irritating. I experienced the same frustration when I cleaned my bathroom Sunday after no less than three three months. I now understand the reasoning behind my mother's once a week cleaning schedule.

So how do we apply this lesson to life as a whole? Maybe it is to clean more often, although I highly doubt I will touch my bathroom in the next month. As I begrudged the residue for accumulating, I realized it was not the residue's fault but rather my neglect. Often, we tarry out of laziness, be it in commitments, patterns of behavior or any other aspect of daily life. This only exacerbates inward conflicts, and by not confronting these immediately, we passively permit them to become a larger nuisance than necessary. Clean out the filth at the onset, and one will have a much cleaner kitchen.

The thought of the evening is brought to you courtesy of an out-of-the-apartment room mate and a perfect summer night on a patio. The last two posts portray an attempt at insightful perception, so I promise the next post will be about something silly.

*If you know not the power of these morsels, do yourself a favor and pick up a bag from Trader Joe's. They may change your life.

Embracing Square One

Hello, square one, we meet again. I will warn you, I have also met with a glass of wine and five episodes of Scrubs this evening. That show always draws a tear or two to my eyes, so yes, you may expect an introverted pontification. Possibly a tangent as well.

My sister had a child recently, Mabel Josephine. The child is absolutely darling, and I expect she will emulate her mother's joyous spirit. Consistent with her nature, Lydia already has an abundance of nicknames for the child, her current being Zupertine. I think this sounds like an empire, probably because the pronunciation is akin to Byzantine, applicable because Mabel exudes stoic regalia. Upon questioning the nickname, Lydia informed me that this is one of many the child will receive. This is simply her 'Zupertine Phase.' But of course.

Lydia has always amplified the significance of phases; when I was in high school, she suggested wearing different perfumes so as to harken memories when that scent and I met again. Indeed, every time I smell Angel, I still remember sitting in the gym on a Tuesday morning in an oversized Bowling Green hoodie. I love it.

Let's bring it back. While Lydia's parenting technique may result in Mabel's response to a plethora of obscure references, it leads me to my thought of the evening. Life is full of phases, beginnings and ends. Whether in work, school, relationships or hobbies, very few aspects of our lives remain constant. For instance, I had a month stint where I was determined to be a history buff, which was quickly severed by the realization of reading required to be a history buff. Recognizing the fleeting nature of phases allows one to first fully appreciate certain certainties. More importantly, it allows one to glean insights from each phase that will further empower you in the next.

No nickname will be worthless. No perfume's scent will fall on hollow nostrils. No phase is without purpose. And each square one is different than the previous, so approach it as such, with vigor renewed by increased experience.

O, Life, You So Silly

This entry is brought to you by Anna's admitted senioritus and lack of workload due to a boss on paternity leave. I will refrain from my thoughts on this Communist concept and instead address another relevant topic - final day numero dos.

My favorite blogging feature is the right sidebar, as it allows me to revisit past posts and subsequently that point in life. I vividly remember state of mind, setting and at times even clothing worn - a safe default image is sweatpants. There are certain posts I thoroughly enjoy reading since I shamelessly throw myself into hysterical fits, while others conjure the difficult memories related to why I wrote as I did. Regardless the associated emotions, I find it beneficial to reflect on how one may have changed or grown over time, and blogging offers a tangible way to do so.

Congruently, here's a fun game: "Where was I a year ago?" I will play.

Some things will never change. A year ago, I referenced an insatiable craving for ice cream and elation at the prospect of Luke Bryan sweeping me off my feet. A girl can continue to dream, although I will not limit myself to Luke. I would take any rugged country boy with toned arms and a sexy voice.

Outside my fantasies and related to reality, I was transferring my responsibilities at RKG to fellow employees, as my last day was April 13th. I am currently transferring my responsibilities to fellow employees at Musictoday as my last day is today. I will be returning to RKG the 23rd of April. As an objective spectator, this begs the question, "Was it worth leaving?"

I did not use the time in an exotic manner, backpacking Europe or saving Arctic seals. Heck, I did not even go on vacation. The foundation of my illustrious career would appear stronger had I remained; I would be a few rungs higher on the proverbial corporate ladder. I could have foregone emotional breakdowns in the Commonwealth employee bathroom, questioning my choice to be a college graduate waiting tables, and I may have avoided certain pitfalls associated with a search for security.

Still, the answer to the posed question is, "Definitely." The past year seemed simultaneously spastic and deliberate. The world offers a multitude of opportunities for a single, capable lady in her mid-twenties. I battled, and still battle, the persistent ache to be settled, but never to settle. I struggled with the cognitive dissonance between an innate desire for black and white paths and the freedom to, in the distinguished words of Miss Frizzle, "take chances, make mistakes, and get messy." In working through those sentiments, I built valued relationships that would not exist had I remained curled in the comfort of employment. I was forced to confront weaknesses and insecurities, and though I did not emerge unscathed, I emerged with a stronger sense of self. Most importantly, my appreciation for absolute dependence on God to handle life's details grew incredibly.

Ironically enough, He brought me full circle, and I could not be more excited. I will return to a workplace with a great reputation, exceptional management, genius IT department, and coworkers I have missed seeing on a daily basis. I am confident I will grow in ways not previously available. More than that, I can do so while living in a city that I have intentionally made my home.

Where will I be next April? Probably pining over Luke Bryan. Definitely infatuated with ice cream. Rigid, Type A and romantic, Type B mindsets will dwell in a state of controlled juxtaposition. Beyond that, I trust I will be where God leads. I am decidedly content with knowing only that.

The Ultimate High

Forgive me. I am on an unapologetic tennis high. Unfortunately, I am also on my lunch break, so this will have to be quick.

You are losing 4-5, 0-30. You step back, taking a brief reprieve to breath deeply and gather composure. It is futile to dwell on the unforced errors, winners or mental lapses that brought you to this point. You are here, and you have two options: to fold or to fight. For the true competitor, there is no choice. You not only must fight, but you must fight harder than your opponent, want it more than your opponent and dig deeper than your opponent. You must forget the debilitating heat, screaming muscles, glaring sunlight and relentless wind to execute one more ground stroke, rush the net one more time and scramble for one more ball.

You step to the line, poised to receive serve. You make eye contact with the nemesis across the net. You reach into the inner most chambers of your will as you stare mercilessly into the innermost chambers of theirs. In that moment, the scoreboard holds no significance. You know who will rise.

Dear Fashion Square Mall

Define Yourself.

Sincerely,
Disoriented Consumers Holding the Experience to a Higher Standard, or Any Standard for that Matter


A trip to the mall was once an excursion, a noteworthy event. My mother, sisters and I made the forty five minute trek to Beachwood Place, a bona fide Jerusalem for the avid shopper. Faces beamed as we stepped outside, greeted by the sweet smell of commerce. The following hours were spent meandering from store to store, perusing the latest trends, deciding which items were essential to the enhancement of our wardrobes and which could be sacrificed. Such intense commitment required sustenance, provided by the upscale food court. There are two places where I assume calories are non-existent, a mall food court and an airport, so additional stops by Auntie Anne’s, Cheryl & Co and Godiva were always a must. As we ate, consulted with one another and danced to the stores’ melodies, the years between us dissipated. Costs incurred were well hidden by Mother, and I left a bit more of a lady than at the day’s onset.

Fifteen years later, my sentiments toward shopping are not the same. There are viable reasons as to why this is the case.

1) I am now spending money, and with each swipe of the credit card, my soul grieves. Further, online shopping substantiates the stance, "full retail is for suckers."
2) I am no longer ten and my body no longer shapeless. Apparently there are no phantom calories. I find myself trying on five different shirts, each revealing a different layer I would prefer non existent.
3)The shopping provided by Charlottesville's main venue leaves much to be desired. The topic upon which I will expound in the ensuing diatribe...

I get it – Charlottesville is diverse, but as Seth Godin reiterates, you cannot please everyone. Pick your audience and focus. Fashion Square Mall houses the most incongruent assortment of stores, and I have no idea to whom they are catering. Lane Bryant beside J.Crew, Payless beside Nine West, Sephora beside Lids, J.Crew beside the Buckle. Is it targeting trashy teenagers, yuppie yo-pros, slightly overweight middle-aged women, wannabe gangsters? Add Urban Outfitters for the hipsters and the schizophrenic style spectrum is complete.

The ultimate offender is Coach, and worse, the sales personnel who believe they are too good for the mall's clientele. Maybe you should not park your store next to Body Central. This is not Rodeo Drive. Yes, I am bitter. The last time I entered, the saleswoman looked me up and down; noticing my ten dollar bag and workout attire, she coyly asked, “Are you looking to replace your current purse?” The tone said, "I have to be polite because you are human, but you will never be worthy of Coach."

It is times such as these I want to drop $300 to spite the judgmental tone. Then I remember my policy, "Do not overpay for articles produced by Malaysian children toiling in textile factories." Perhaps if I were treated with a bit of respect, I could be assuaged to overlook said policy; with that attitude, however, I will simply bum my mother’s hand-me-down clutches, totes, satchels, cross bodies - what happened to the days of yore when a purse was all a woman carried? Seemingly hypocritical, but I must adhere to my primary policy: "Do not refuse free articles, even if produced by Malaysian children toiling in textile factories. Common courtesy to the giver."

Despite my aversion, unavoidable purchases made a recent trip to this den of disparity necessary. The soles of my shoes were worn, my mascara was crumbling, and my powder had lost its luster. These are not exciting items but essentials that would be eternally replenished in an ideal world. Alas, we live in a fallen world, so off to the mall I begrudgingly drove.

The experience did not revolutionize my opinion. Fashion Square Mall did not spontaneously sprout a second floor, securing a claim to legitimacy. The food court was still sub par and the layout still confusing. I could not tell if people were there to shop, exercise, steal bras or nap.

I put these ponderings aside as I had to find new tennis shoes, a frightening transition. I have been a loyal supporter of Asics for years, but upon joining Crossfit, I was told it would behoove me to find soleless shoes. Fitting, as I consider the membership dues are a bit soulless as well.

The Finish Line salesman was quite friendly and humored me after I mistook my left foot for my right. Spirits were further buoyed when I happened upon an over sized UVA zip-up hoodie, the perfect replacement for my brother-in-law's sweatshirt I regret discarding. A zip-up hoodie is less committal than a pullover and does not dishevel hair in the garbing process. When paired with a slimming tank top and zipped just low enough to reveal tasteful cleave, it implies, "I am low maintenance, but still sexy." All this for only $15 - what a treat!

I was even mildly entertained listening to the Lancome cosmetic artist's feeble attempt to communicate with the group of male Asian tourists seeking lotion*.

When the flustered woman was ready, I bought the most expensive mascara with the vibrating brush for two reasons:

1) Just as all cookies are better double stuffed, so all mechanisms are better vibrating

2) The crafty sales department of Lancome realized that if they set the monetary limit for a free gift slightly higher than average retail, people will upgrade or purchase two items. You win, Lancome. Thirty-six dollars for luscious lashes.

I acquired my goods with relative ease and a faint hint of enjoyment. Perhaps not all experiences need to be grandiose and memorable. We still parted ways on a note of disappointment, as not even the Japanese eatery had samples to satisfy my growing hunger pangs. Until next time, FSM, stay mediocre.

*They obviously had cameras around their necks.