|
|
I’ve found a certain pattern in my thought process for wanting something important. Be it a new job, a change of location, a boyfriend, or the crown of a small country, it’s always the same. I think about it, I decide I want it, and that wanting increases to a level which is no longer tolerable. I’ve outlined this below in Graph 1.
Once the intolerable level is reached, when I can’t stand this life anymore without that different thing, when all my waking hours are spent wanting and my sleeping hours are full of dreams of bloody fields littered with the decimated bodies of everything that stood in my way of attaining that thing… I weigh my options. I think seriously about Doing Something About It. I could send out my resume, apply for a study abroad program, bat my eyelashes like I’m getting paid for it, or plant myself in someone’s castle and hope no one notices for awhile. And here’s the odd part: the more likely it seems that I could attain X (where X does not equal the current Situation), my fear level increases. Fear level, as you can see in Graph B, is directly proportional to the likelihood of X happening. This is where I have The Choice. The Choice is to either run away, like a pansy-ass mofo, so that the fear level decreases and I can crawl back into my moist, warm comfort zone. Moist. Or I can press on through the fear, Do Something About It, and maybe get what I deserve.
You see, The Choice is up to you — can you go back to the way it was, dissatisfied and wanting, with those gory, sticky dreams, or can you live with the fear, push past it to find out what awaits you in the bright, scary future? I’ve found that, whether I like it or not, I can always tell I’m on the right path when the possibility of success scares the crap out of me.
As my soon-to-be delicious creamy tomato basil soup cooks, I thought I’d write a toast for my soon-to-be… not a relative at all. My boyfriend’s sister. The whole wedding planning has been an interesting adventure, even from the periphery, but as last-minute maid of honor here goes.
First of all, congratulations, and thank you for allowing us to be a part of your big day. Unfortunately, I don’t have any embarrassing stories about the happy couple, but I have had the privilege of getting to know them over the past few years. Anyone who knows [bride] and [groom] can see they are truly in love, and if the first six years of their relationship are any indication of the life they’ll share as a married couple, then they will truly live happily ever after.
Watching you two grow, changing before our eyes from boyfriend and girlfriend, to fiances, to husband and wife, I am struck by the power that love has to transform. The search for love can transform you from someone who would never post a personal ad, to someone who would do just that, complete with photos of your latest chain-mail creations. The possibility of finding love can transform you into the kind of person who would read such a personal ad, and think, this one is worth answering. Love can give you the courage to pursue your wildest dreams, and in the next instant humble you absolutely. It can expand the boundaries of your world, taking you across oceans to exotic destinations you never could have ventured alone, and can also tint the places you’ve known all your life in brilliant new shades. Love can alter the path you’ve chosen — bending it until it merges with another. It can bring two families from all across the map together in celebration of one love.
But to me, the most amazing transformations are not the ones that dramatically reshape the course of your life, but those that subtly revive the day-to-day–the little things. With love, the smallest, most everyday moments are transformed: cooking a simple meal can turn into a romantic dinner, talking about your long day at work can grow to be the thing that gets you through it, and even the unpleasant sound of the alarm clock can become a sweet reminder that every morning you get to wake up next to the person you love.
So enjoy the big moves, the fantastic vacations, the exciting journey love will take you on — but don’t miss the thousand little things that are better because your wife, your husband is now a part of them. To love, and to the new Mr. and Mrs. [last name]!
“Introvert” is one of the most misunderstood words in our vocabulary. You could have knocked me over with a feather boa when, a month ago, one of my coworkers responded, “You’re not introverted!” as I used the term to describe myself. This was followed a week or so later by another coworker describing a discussion he had about me, where he claimed I was not shy and was actually quite communicative.
You see I’ve been shy all my life. Plenty of friends, I’ve just never been outgoing enough to be popular or widely noticed. I’m always surprised when people remember me from a class. It’s startling, this new image of me not as a shy little mouse, but as more of a standoffish cat who will allow you the pleasure of having your lap occupied by it it once you’ve passed inspection. And while it certainly is a function of my growing up, I think it’s more a result of my understanding of this label: introvert.
It has a vaguely negative connotation, for some reason that I can’t understand. People who are not introverted treat the word as an insult (“You’re not an introvert!” my coworker immediately exclaimed, as if coming to my defense), and people who are treat it as a chronic condition that has to be coped with all your life. No matter what anyone claims, you cannot change your vertedness from intro- to extra-. You simply get a better grasp of it.
Introverted does not mean you don’t like people. It doesn’t mean you’d rather be by yourself than with others. It doesn’t mean you don’t want to participate in class, that you don’t want to be noticed or the center of attention. It’s a description of energy — it is more natural for you to focus your energy internally, or on just one person, than to project it out to everyone around you.
For me, it takes a lot of energy to meet new people, to be in a large group, or to express myself in structured group settings. I can do it, it’s just exhausting. For a long time, I couldn’t see the benefit — why should I use up my precious energy on people I don’t even know and don’t care about? My job at an ad agency has forced me to talk to every single person in the company, to speak constantly to clients, to meet new vendors and travel to new situations. To voice my opinion in meetings. To communicate with people from different age groups and from different backgrounds. While my years here have been valuable experience to my professional development, the way they’ve forced me to grow personally is priceless.
So how did I possibly come so far, with such grace and beauty and confidence, as an introverted individual? Here are my tips on how to work through one’s introversion:
- Acceptance. Repeat after me (to yourself, in your head, obviously): I am an introvert, and I am still a contributing member of society.
- Don’t fight it. You are an introvert (weren’t you listening to yourself just now?). You always will be. Don’t try and force yourself to be outgoing, because you know what’s going to happen? You do know. You won’t succeed. You’ll sit there and not say anything and then you’ll feel bad and be mad at yourself for being you.
- Find a benefit to exerting yourself. The only way you’ll participate is if you can identify how it will help you. You’ll get the answer to a problem. You’ll hear a really good story about someone’s life. (You’ll get to tell it later.) You’ll open doors of opportunity for yourself. You’ll start a relationship with someone who could be you future best friend, your future employer, your future husband, your future babysitter. Who knows?
- Recharge. Probably the most important one for me. When I say that it’s exhausting to talk to new people, I mean it literally drains me. I’m emotionally tired, my tongue is tired, my brain is tired, my cheeks are tired, my energy is depleted. I have to restore my energy by resting in a quiet area, by myself, not having to talk to anyone. Why, right now I’m sitting in the quiet hallway of the basement of the library, outside some administrative offices. I was going to go to the cafeteria, or upstairs to a study area. But there would be too many people around dividing my attention. Even if they were being (mostly) quiet. What with all the shushing librarians. Plus there are the ghosts. There really must be ghosts in this building, it’s too spooky not to be haunted. Gee, I hope they don’t like the basement…
So there it is. If you’re introverted, I hope you can commiserate and maybe this was helpful for you. If you’re extroverted, I hope this sheds some light on the introverts around you. We live among you, sometimes out in the open, sometimes hidden behind tiring smiles. Do not be afraid of us. Give us a hug.
For years I thought I was a most excellent argumentalist. I always won, thanks to my infallible logic and the coolly systematic way in which I broke down my opponent’s defense. However, by some odd coincidence, two different roommates informed me that I was not so much an extremely persuasive debater, but that I was so stubborn I tended to break down my opponent’s desire to keep talking and they would just let me have my way. The outcome is more or less the same… so I was really ok with that.
In my rash youth, there was nothing I loved more than a good verbal fight. I didn’t have the clothes, the popularity, the looks; I hadn’t yet found my confidence, impeccable style, grace and humility — all I had were my words. I relished a good tongue-lashing, and prided myself in always besting my challenger. Sometimes, when I felt a fight was brewing, I’d play it out to myself (as I’m sure many have). I’d imagine not only what I’d say, but what the other person’s likely reactions would be so that I could have the perfect comeback ready. I’d envision how it would all start, and, more often than not, if the argument never started itself, I’d give it the ignition t it needed.
Why did I love it so much? I did usually come out on top, and that delicious, fiery hot taste of success when you know your opponent has nothing more to fight with was irresistible. It was like a sport to me, and since I was never athletically inclined, it was my only real victory over another.
It’s been many years since my last all-out-word-war, and over time I realized that few things are worth the energy a real argument takes. Especially the ones that last days — it’s generally all you can think about, planning what you’ll say next, what you’d like to do to that numbskull, and carefully avoiding any internal discovery that you may not be 100% right. That’s not to say that you should let everything slide or let someone walk over you, but you should really weigh whether it’s worth the effort. I mean, you could save that energy to pump some iron, or write an epic ballad, or go shopping or something.
I’ve also recently realized that it truly takes two people to start a fight. Which is both obvious and infuriating. “Hell no!” you might say, “that betch started it. She came at me like a spider-monkey and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening.” Startling imagery aside, in fact I’ve found that just as I can stubborn my way into a “win”, I can ignore my way out of a potential confrontation. I’m not championing passive-aggressiveness, or ignoring things that bug you until you spew them out in a pyroclastic flow all over innocent bystanders. But again, it’s a weighing of your options — yes, I can tell that you’re ticked off here, and you’ve thrown out a couple of juicy jabs at me that I could return. I could ask what the hell your problem is and find out that you think I eyed your man or something and we could really go at it in a fury of texts for the next few hours. Yet if I don’t take the bait, if I ignore the fact that you want to pick a fight with me, if I continue to be my lovely and gracious self and wish you safe travels and a Happy New Year, then I get to go on with my merry life. Have a nice mug of cider and watch some bad TV. Rock out to some Journey.
It’s only through the crippling humility of love that I have ever accepted defeat and been willing to make the first move after a fight. A fight is only worth pursuing if you can spare the hours away from the person you’re mad at. And this late in life, if you’re willing to hold out for a fight with me, I have to wonder if you are worth it. I’m jealous of my time, and if you’re just going to waste it then why would I make the effort to give you any?
Granted, this is a little belated but I posted it on our company blog at the appropriate time.
The first thing you should know is that Halloween is my favorite. I haven’t had a store-bought costume since age 6. And while my efforts have ranged from Miss Piggy to the Queen of Spades to Darth Maul (with an intense three-hour makeup job), my dream costume was an apple tree.
It may not sound particularly exciting, but I was in love with the idea of being so realistic that I would ring people’s doorbells, scurry off into the grass, and bask in their confusion as unsuspecting homeowners opened their door to find no rosy-cheeked child, but a great green apple tree that wasn’t there a minute ago. “Oh my,” I envisioned them saying as they scratched their heads, “where on earth did that apple tree come from? Was that always there?” Then I would let them in on the joke, pause graciously for the round of applause and move on to the next house.
This played out in my mind every single Halloween, but I built it up so much that I was (and am) a little intimidated to try it. Alas, the closest I ever got was a full-body cat outfit, which indeed confused my two cats and my grandpa, but lacked the satisfaction I envisioned my apple tree would give.
You see, my favorite parts of Halloween are the mystery, the youthful spirit and the fact that your only job on this one day is to have fun and, if you’re lucky, treat someone else to a little happiness.
A theorem. Theory. What have you.
A girl cannot pass up a good sale. There, I said it. Scavengers by nature, we’re constantly and unavoidably drawn to getting something at a discount. Things we don’t need. Things we don’t even want. Things that don’t quite fit, or look quite right, but God help me it’s half-price and maybe one day in the next 5 years I’ll need a faux leopard-print capelet. Be honest ladies, how many unworn items have you shoved into your Goodwill trash bag along with your bitter remorse for buying something just because it was on sale?
Not to say it’s a bad thing, and certainly we often brag about the steals we’ve made by spending an hour digging through the clearance rack. Some classy French dame may disagree, “Zis Luuuis Vwuitton bag cost me an entiyer month’s salareee and trois bottles of champagne.” “Well,” your savvy American gal will reply, “I found this bag in the 75% off bin AND I had a $10 coupon on top of my 15% store discount. They actually paid me $0.35 for this. And then gave me an award for Most Awesome at Life.”
But I’ve recently noticed that this mentality creeps into other aspects of life, and that, my lady friends, is where it will get you into trouble. One such lady friend recently told me how touched she was when a friend she had casually seen last year confessed that he was willing to change his partying man-tramp ways and only wanted to be with her. She was so touched she started to consider… although she didn’t really have feelings for him and knew it was unfair to lead him on… well he was right there. He certainly wasn’t THE one, he was a little young for her and didn’t quite match her lifestyle or her shoes… but he was available. Standing in the rain (ok, I don’t think it was really raining), offering commitment and promising companionship. Maybe he would grow on her. Maybe she could make him fit, run him through the wash a few times to stretch out, or just remember to suck it in and stand up really straight everytime she had him around. He was saying the things she’d hoped to hear from another, less available man, and it’s just so tempting to snatch something up when it’s the right price.
A girl simply cannot pass up a sale.
But here’s the thing: no one ever gets pure delight from an item just because it was on sale. The purchases you really love, that make you feel like a million-dollar-Nobel-prize-winning-supermodel — you would pay anything for. The way you feel in it is worth full-price. Maybe more.
I have this red trench coat I bought online at Nordstrom’s. I was looking for a different kind of coat, but I saw this and knew that it must be mine. It’s quite a statement, with a really interesting cut and bold color, and I wasn’t even sure if I could pull it off. It was wayyyy more than I needed to spend, but I put it right into my virtual cart and virtually high-fived the virtual cashier. When it arrived, I put it on and felt like a total spy. I have to wear at least 3-inch heals when it rains now so I can stomp my way through puddles and all the small people in my life while wearing my very favorite trench coat.
The point is that it’s worth it. Don’t jump at something just because it’s there and it kind of seems like it might be useful. Your happiness is worth the wait. You deserve top-shelf, exclusive, first-class, premium plus, grade-A, red rope, haute couture, private limo, best-table-in-the-house, orchestra seating, don’t you think?
I love Halloween. That statement probably goes farther than any other to explain about me. I start thinking about costumes in mid-September. I have a list. I always wanted to be a hyper-realistic apple tree. But that’s another story…
This weekend, my very patient BF and I started our costume research. I’ve been circling around the concepts of Amelia Earhart, or a twofer as Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins. We were searching for old fancy hats, some goggles, a nice aviator scarf, anything to inspire the creative juices. (They taste like pomegranate, by the way. Those juices do.) After driving by two or three closed antiques stores (an ironic relic of the past, it would seem), we passed… The Garret.
The Garret is a self-described Victorian Eclectic house in downtown Bloomington, complete with authentic limestone, slate shingles, and, well, some garrets I suppose. Passing it on foot, you wonder whether it’s really a store, or maybe a warehouse where old dusty junk goes to die. In the mood for a little adventure, I said, “Let’s check it out!” Dubious BF looked at me with concern, but I assured him that since it was a lovely autumn Sunday, and it was daylight after all, surely it wouldn’t be too bad. I mean, who sets a scary story at any other time than on a dark and stormy night? We walked up the front porch, read the sign that said “The Batman House*”, opened the door with trepidation, and to the ominous jingling of sleigh bells we peeked inside…
At this point, my good sensible friend Justin’s voice rang clear as those bells in my head, “Turn around, bitch!” But as surely as I knew this was Possibly the Last Place I’d Ever See on This Sweet Earth, I knew I must continue inside. The bells really gave us away, as was no doubt their evil intention. Every inch of floor was stacked with dusty glass, lamp shades, nick knacks, chotchkies, whosits and whatsits. From behind some nook and/or cranny, an ancient lady who seemed to think bras were not period enough came out and asked what we were looking for. Did I reply, “The fastest way out of here”? “A good excuse to leave immediately”? “The entry into the netherworld you have hidden so cleverly with that roll-top desk”? No, “hats,” is what came out, and as she inevitably told us that the only hats and clothes she had were upstairs, again Justin’s voice cried to my conscience, “Run, bitch! Don’t you go up those stairs you crazy bitch!” (He gets very abusive when horror situations present themselves in my head.)
After a quick, courteous peek upstairs we snuck back out, thankful to have found our way through the maze of the decades-worth of crap. Honestly I was surprised not to have found a a couple hundred cats, or juicy skeleton, or a… basement full of albino children.
Anyway, its amazing to find new places in a town I thought I’d scoured every corner of.
Oh, and happy fall 
*Note: Once in high school for a folklore project I did grave rubbings in Rose Hill Cemetery (where many an illustrous relative are interred), I in fact came across Batman’s grave. It’s good to have some further confirmation that he existed. And apparently… moved to Bloomington. To fight… underage drinking and rowdy fratties.
…what happened? I was looking for an ancient list of costume ideas on the old livejournal, and I’m always impressed with how awesome I used to be.
A little help? Would anyone get Amelia Earhart if I just wear a hot bomber jacket and get some goggles?
UPDATE: People got it.
Have you ever gotten good news that really just made you feel worse than before you heard it?
I’ll give you an example. Two years ago, when I was fresh out of college and fresh out of job prospects, I was asked to come back for a second interview at a “marketing” company up in Indy. I was super excited — this was the farthest I’d gotten on the hiring process all summer. I drove up in my snappy little suit, and found out I’d be shadowing one of the marketing reps for a full 8-hour day. I proceeded to go on about 15 cold calls to businesses in the outlying Indianapolis areas trying to sell them credit card processing services. At about noon, I thought, “Ok, ok. I could do this. If I really had to, I could do this. Plus there’ll be training for a few weeks, then a shadowing period, so it’s not like I’ll just be thrown into it.” But at the first stop after lunch, I realized, “Hell no. Hell. NOOOOOOOO. I have to get the fuck outta here, this is the worst thing for me ever. There is no way I could do this even for one day. No matter how desperate.”
So we got back to the office, and after a short discussion between the supervisor and the girl I was following all day, they called me in. And offered me the job. On the spot. My stomach fell to my toes, and I squeaked out that I’d need some time. I smiled, shook their hands, got in my car, and started crying hysterically. I pulled over to a McDonald’s to call my bff. Here was a job, a real-life money-making job, here in my hands. This was the farthest I’d gotten after months of rejection. What if there was nothing but this available to me? But how on earth could I force myself to go back there. It was good news that destroyed my fragile emotions. It was confusing…
I eventually calmed down, got in my car, and on the drive home realized what I’d known all along: this was not the job for me. It was just something that could be done by someone with my capabilities. But it wasn’t mine. Mine would come, eventually, and if I had to wait a little longer for it, then so be it. It would be just that much sweeter when I found it.
I recently got some news that — while good and overdue — made me really depressed. I liken it to finding out you’re really good at something you don’t want to be really good at. Like, strangling kittens. I mean, sure, it’s nice to know that you have a certain skill-set, but it doesn’t mean I want to be strangling kittens for the rest of my life.
If a decision is really tearing you up inside, if it makes you nauseous to think about acting on that “good news”, well, you know the answer then, don’t you?
…I’d take some scissors to an old pair of jeans if I didn’t have me some baggy shorts today. The Indiana summer makes white trash of us all. Doesn’t this look like a great idea right about now?
(By the way, doesn’t this just look like a stroke of genius?)
Let’s not even talk about the Bluegrass festival I went to with my dad this weekend. I’m surprised I only saw one representation of the Confederate flag. It was only on a t-shirt lapel anyway. And in case you were thinking, “Who the hell would go to a Bluegrass festival in southern Indiana?”, tell me you didn’t see O Brother, Where Art Thou and wish you could sing with the Soggy Bottom Boys. They were at the festival, btw (the real band, not that pretty George Clooney) and they were great. There’s something sort of ethereal and primordial about this music that calls to me…
Makes me wish I’d followed my mother’s dream to become Jenny Lou, the country star.
|
Warning: strpos() expects parameter 1 to be string, array given in /home/richard/domains/theextraordinarilyordinary.com/public_html/wp-includes/rss.php on line 577
|
