Guess who's online at the airport?
Me! That's who!
Airport wi-fi is the best. So I'm sitting here at my gate, nice and early, as I always like to be. And it's a little fun to people watch. Some girl across from me is helping a friend resolve drama over the phone, all while wearing super cute shoes. Two asians at my gate are dressed in fluorescent--and I mean eye-hurting fluorescent--yellow hoodies with fur-lined jackets over the top. Perhaps they are cold? And we're flying to Austin? Where the weather is....
Dude! Did you know Google makes their lightning bolts red instead of yellow? Random. And for some reason, that makes me happy.
Okay, for reals: the weather in Austin is supposed to be 108 and sunny. (Imagine me wheezy-gasping right now... heat and I aren't exactly great friends). So back to my point: the Asians are dressed like they're going to Alaska. And I'm confused. Because personally, I think I'd prefer Alaska temperatures to Texas temperatures. (Fun fact: my room in Bountiful is roughly the temperature of Alaska--I love it!)
Heh heh heh. Some lady is making good use of her bra-ket.
Anyway, in the middle of all this people watching, I'm struggling frantically to figure out what I've forgotten, because I have that horribly prickly feeling you get when you've left something behind on a trip. But I got through airport security just fine, so obviously I didn't forget my license and boarding pass...
Maybe it's just the up-in-the-air feeling of having just moved, too. I'm all kinds of un-settled (intentionally hyphenated, I promise). Savannah and I moved all of my stuff up to Bountiful last night and she was wonderfully patient while I set up everything so that I wouldn't have to stress when I get back from Texas. Then we had a slumber party. And giggled like we were ten years old again. Granted, our slumber party consisted of brainstorming our story ideas instead of painting our toenails and doing makeovers. But that's what happens when you put literary nerds together.
So back to that up-in-the-air feeling. Yeah. It's there. I did it. I. Moved. Out. Of. Provo. Still single. But graduated. Possibly for good. Well, the out of Provo part. And the graduated part. Hopefully not the single part. :) But let me tell you, it is a weird feeling. Kind of unreal. Like I'm not entirely sure how I should behave. What do graduated, real-live adults do? Oh yeah, work. But I don't start work yet. One more week of freedome. Yeah, freedom with an e. Because my fingers spazz and I'm too lazy to fix it.
I apologize for the ramblings. But if you wanted to peek inside my mind (you brave soul, you!) this is pretty much what it looks like right now.
w00t.
27 August 2011
26 August 2011
Welcome to My New Pad
So... a couple of weeks ago, many of my awesome friends and family gave me money for graduation, to help me get settled in my new life. And help me they did! Since I've upgraded from a twin size bed to a four-poster queen bed, I've needed to upgrade my bedding, too. My parents were kind enough to donate a couple of sets of (very soft and snuggly) sheets that they don't use anymore, but I still lacked some pizzazz. So, thanks to the loving contributions from my friends and family, I was able to purchase a bed set that I'm passionately in love with. And it matches my other decor.
Yay!
So welcome, dear friends, to my new place.
And look over here! A bookshelf (filled with books), which is probably about the happiest thing I can imagine.
I love my cozy little room. ^_^
Yay!
So welcome, dear friends, to my new place.
And look over here! A bookshelf (filled with books), which is probably about the happiest thing I can imagine.
I love my cozy little room. ^_^
25 August 2011
Last Day
So, today is my last day of work and therefore, my last day on campus. My coworkers had a party for me today to say goodbye, and I concluded that they need to be nerdier. They asked for a speech, so I started off with:
"I know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."
No one laughed, and I felt lame. The end.
"I know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."
No one laughed, and I felt lame. The end.
24 August 2011
Cruel Joke
The buzz of an incoming text blared through my restless sleep. Blearily, I flipped my phone over and cracked one eye at the screen to see the time. A shot of electricity bolted through me: it was almost 9, and I had exactly 25 minutes to be at work. And I wasn't even awake yet. Crap!
So I threw on my clothes (luckily everything is packed except like, two shirts, so it wasn't exactly rocket science to find something that matched), not-quite-smeared mascara on my lashes, and half-tumbled down the stairs, begging my grandmother to give me a ride to work so that I wouldn't be late.
While she went to put on shoes, my eyes watched the kitchen clock, counting down the minutes until I was late to work. Normally, I wouldn't panic about these things. A quick call to let my boss know I'm running behind is usually sufficient. She doesn't mind. But I was training my replacement and I had to be on time!
Ten minutes.
How long does it take to put on shoes?!?!?
Eight minutes.
I heard my grandma's keys clink as she picked them up.
I practically pushed her into the car, and it took Herculean effort not to mention anything about driving faster (because she was driving so.... very... slow...). She commented that the marching band was late for their practice: "Normally, they're playing well before 8:00."
Right. Poor them. Maybe they were running a whole hour behind. It seemed much less important than my own near-lateness.
It was hot for early morning, and I was panting as I clattered into my office with five minutes to spare, sinking gratefully into my chair as I booted up my computer. I vaguely registered that it was strangely quiet for 9am. My boss wasn't here yet. Weird. Maybe she took the day off.
My to-do list absorbed my attention until my boss came in, keys jingling. "Hey, you're here early," she said, peeking into my office. I started to say that I was only a couple of minutes early when I glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of my screen. And then REALLY looked at it.
8:07 am.
Seriously? Eight. Oh. Seven. Not nine.
What. The. Heck.
I must have looked at like, ten different clocks that morning. My phone has a digital display. The clock in my bathroom that I'd been anxiously checking in between swipes of mascara was an analog clock. The kitchen clock. The clock in my grandmother's car. The Hinckley center tower clock. Two different clocks in the hall of the building I work in. The clock on the Kronos machine where I punched in. I'd obsessively checked every single one, watching the minute hand (or numbers) inch slowly closer to the hour mark.
But I never looked at the actual hour.
Stupid brain. That was a mean trick to pull.
So I threw on my clothes (luckily everything is packed except like, two shirts, so it wasn't exactly rocket science to find something that matched), not-quite-smeared mascara on my lashes, and half-tumbled down the stairs, begging my grandmother to give me a ride to work so that I wouldn't be late.
While she went to put on shoes, my eyes watched the kitchen clock, counting down the minutes until I was late to work. Normally, I wouldn't panic about these things. A quick call to let my boss know I'm running behind is usually sufficient. She doesn't mind. But I was training my replacement and I had to be on time!
Ten minutes.
How long does it take to put on shoes?!?!?
Eight minutes.
I heard my grandma's keys clink as she picked them up.
I practically pushed her into the car, and it took Herculean effort not to mention anything about driving faster (because she was driving so.... very... slow...). She commented that the marching band was late for their practice: "Normally, they're playing well before 8:00."
Right. Poor them. Maybe they were running a whole hour behind. It seemed much less important than my own near-lateness.
It was hot for early morning, and I was panting as I clattered into my office with five minutes to spare, sinking gratefully into my chair as I booted up my computer. I vaguely registered that it was strangely quiet for 9am. My boss wasn't here yet. Weird. Maybe she took the day off.
My to-do list absorbed my attention until my boss came in, keys jingling. "Hey, you're here early," she said, peeking into my office. I started to say that I was only a couple of minutes early when I glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of my screen. And then REALLY looked at it.
8:07 am.
Seriously? Eight. Oh. Seven. Not nine.
What. The. Heck.
I must have looked at like, ten different clocks that morning. My phone has a digital display. The clock in my bathroom that I'd been anxiously checking in between swipes of mascara was an analog clock. The kitchen clock. The clock in my grandmother's car. The Hinckley center tower clock. Two different clocks in the hall of the building I work in. The clock on the Kronos machine where I punched in. I'd obsessively checked every single one, watching the minute hand (or numbers) inch slowly closer to the hour mark.
But I never looked at the actual hour.
Stupid brain. That was a mean trick to pull.
23 August 2011
Affirmation
There's nothing like moving away for getting people to open up about how amazing and indispensable they think you are.
Right.
I could have used some of that affirmation over the last three years. Thanks.
Right.
I could have used some of that affirmation over the last three years. Thanks.
22 August 2011
Cherry on Top
To anyone who saw me during graduation week, it was a well-known fact that I was having a terrible time. Well, more like, an extremely stressful time. So many things went wrong that I found myself frequently throwing my hands up in the air, glaring at the sky, and desperately asking, "WHY?? It's just graduation! It's not like I'm getting married or going on a mission. Why is it so hard?"
But you know what? I would do it all over again--every mishap, every problem--to relive today.
See, graduates can buy a Stole of Gratitude to give to someone who's made a lasting impact on their academic career. I chose to give mine to my editing professor, Brother Gardner, because he really is the reason I am where I am right now. I owe my career to him.
He wasn't able to be at graduation, so I called him to set up a time to drop by, mentioning that I had something to give him. So today, I took a brief break from work to run over to his office and visit for a little bit.
And look on his face when I gave him the Stole of Gratitude?
Yeah, I'd walk through fire for a smile like that. It made everything worth it.
But you know what? I would do it all over again--every mishap, every problem--to relive today.
See, graduates can buy a Stole of Gratitude to give to someone who's made a lasting impact on their academic career. I chose to give mine to my editing professor, Brother Gardner, because he really is the reason I am where I am right now. I owe my career to him.
He wasn't able to be at graduation, so I called him to set up a time to drop by, mentioning that I had something to give him. So today, I took a brief break from work to run over to his office and visit for a little bit.
And look on his face when I gave him the Stole of Gratitude?
Yeah, I'd walk through fire for a smile like that. It made everything worth it.
19 August 2011
Fire Trap
Sometimes, it all goes up in smoke.
This was a house she loved more than anything. She had helped build it, pouring hours of toil and tears into the beautifully crafted walls, the solid foundation, and the nearly-indestructible roof that provided shelter from the outside forces that would have beaten her into the ground.
It was a beautiful house. So full of treasured memories that smiled from the walls and danced in tantalizing scents on the air. It was comfortable and familiar, and she loved it.
But it had a problem. One that ate at the inside of this beautiful house.
The wiring was bad. Sometimes, when she turned on a straightener, or tried to vacuum away some of the dirt, or even just turned on a light, the wiring would spark and a tiny fire would crop up. Time and time again, she put it out, even bringing in electricians to consult with her on the best way to fix it. They would offer their advice and leave, believing that they had fixed the problem. And yet the stubborn wiring continued to be bad. Another fire would sprout.
She got really talented at using every fire-dousing technique in the book, and labored lovingly over her task of scrubbing soot from the walls and repairing the burned spots so that guests who entered her house to look around wouldn't see anything wrong. Because she couldn't bear the thought that this house was too dangerous for her to live in. That would mean that she couldn't save it.
The fires got more dangerous. Sometimes she had to leave it and let the Fire Department handle the fire. Then she would return and repair it once again.
Finally, one nearly took her life. She couldn't fight it anymore. The bad wiring made the house too dangerous, even for her devoted persistence. Choking back tears, she stripped the memories from the walls, carefully preserving each treasure so that it wouldn't succumb to the ravages of time.
As the movers helped haul her possessions away, she stopped at the door and looked back at her beloved house one more time. She flipped the light switch on, hearing the familiar crackle of the bad wiring. Even as she watched, a spark flashed. She shut the door and walked away, leaving the wiring to do its work.
This was a house she loved more than anything. She had helped build it, pouring hours of toil and tears into the beautifully crafted walls, the solid foundation, and the nearly-indestructible roof that provided shelter from the outside forces that would have beaten her into the ground.
It was a beautiful house. So full of treasured memories that smiled from the walls and danced in tantalizing scents on the air. It was comfortable and familiar, and she loved it.
But it had a problem. One that ate at the inside of this beautiful house.
The wiring was bad. Sometimes, when she turned on a straightener, or tried to vacuum away some of the dirt, or even just turned on a light, the wiring would spark and a tiny fire would crop up. Time and time again, she put it out, even bringing in electricians to consult with her on the best way to fix it. They would offer their advice and leave, believing that they had fixed the problem. And yet the stubborn wiring continued to be bad. Another fire would sprout.
She got really talented at using every fire-dousing technique in the book, and labored lovingly over her task of scrubbing soot from the walls and repairing the burned spots so that guests who entered her house to look around wouldn't see anything wrong. Because she couldn't bear the thought that this house was too dangerous for her to live in. That would mean that she couldn't save it.
The fires got more dangerous. Sometimes she had to leave it and let the Fire Department handle the fire. Then she would return and repair it once again.
Finally, one nearly took her life. She couldn't fight it anymore. The bad wiring made the house too dangerous, even for her devoted persistence. Choking back tears, she stripped the memories from the walls, carefully preserving each treasure so that it wouldn't succumb to the ravages of time.
As the movers helped haul her possessions away, she stopped at the door and looked back at her beloved house one more time. She flipped the light switch on, hearing the familiar crackle of the bad wiring. Even as she watched, a spark flashed. She shut the door and walked away, leaving the wiring to do its work.
18 August 2011
Coward
-Walking away from a conversation that an attractive man was courageous enough to start out of thin air when it would have been so simple to keep talking to him.
-Averting my eyes when someone was bold enough to allow me to catch him staring at me.
-Settling for a pitiful and utterly unexpressive hug when I've been aching for months to tell a guy how amazing I thought he was.
-Pushing them all away because I'm afraid they'll lose interest the second they figure out where I'm going in the fall.
-Ducking out of the conversation when a prettier girl bats her eyes at the local hottie.
-Telling myself that I'll find him someday and then hiding away in my room instead of sticking myself out where he can actually meet me.
When it comes to my heart, I'm a little bit of a coward.
I don't think these are responses or emotions that are unique to me. Most, if not all, girls probably feel this way at some point or another. We go through a lot of pain and heartbreak, and it makes us reluctant to pry open our wounded hearts and try to let someone else in.
I've been thinking about this a lot recently. Most of the circumstances I just described have happened to me in the last week. That, combined with a lot of goodbyes as I prepare to leave Provo, has gotten me thinking a lot about what exactly I'm afraid of. And when you think about it, it's a little preposterous to be afraid of getting hurt, because that's the game we all know we're playing.
We're going to miss the mark until we hit it, you know? Until we find the right person, our romantic relationships will all end at some point. What hurts is not that they end, but that we want each one to be the right one. (Hopefully. Some people date purely for the fun and sport of it, but I'm not really that kind of person, so I don't relate to it very well.) When they aren't right, we feel let down.
Some people say you don't have anything to lose, because you'll just go back to being single, and that's right where you are right now. And you know what? Surprisingly, I agree with them. In fact, I think you gain, no matter how many times you "strike out" so to speak. The lessons you can take from every relationship (including the platonic ones) will last for the rest of your life, even if the relationship doesn't.
It's tough. So very tough to pick yourself up and try again. Much, much harder than the words "pick up and try again" suggest. It's more than that. Sometimes, there are broken hearts that need to be mended, or torn or shattered emotions that must be pieced back together before you can even start to pick yourself up off the ground. Trust me, I've been there. I know what it feels like to feel a physical pain from the emptiness left by someone who is no longer there. I know how it feels to cry yourself to sleep every night for weeks.
But courage isn't about not feeling pain. Rather, real courage is about embracing all of that emotion and recognizing that you dared to feel something, knowing you could get hurt. Then, you continue to feel. Every day. No matter how afraid you are, you keep allowing yourself to feel. The good. The bad. The unsettling. The triumph. The failure. All of it.
I call myself a coward, but perhaps that's a little harsh. I'm just re-learning the lesson, is all.
-Averting my eyes when someone was bold enough to allow me to catch him staring at me.
-Settling for a pitiful and utterly unexpressive hug when I've been aching for months to tell a guy how amazing I thought he was.
-Pushing them all away because I'm afraid they'll lose interest the second they figure out where I'm going in the fall.
-Ducking out of the conversation when a prettier girl bats her eyes at the local hottie.
-Telling myself that I'll find him someday and then hiding away in my room instead of sticking myself out where he can actually meet me.
When it comes to my heart, I'm a little bit of a coward.
I don't think these are responses or emotions that are unique to me. Most, if not all, girls probably feel this way at some point or another. We go through a lot of pain and heartbreak, and it makes us reluctant to pry open our wounded hearts and try to let someone else in.
I've been thinking about this a lot recently. Most of the circumstances I just described have happened to me in the last week. That, combined with a lot of goodbyes as I prepare to leave Provo, has gotten me thinking a lot about what exactly I'm afraid of. And when you think about it, it's a little preposterous to be afraid of getting hurt, because that's the game we all know we're playing.
We're going to miss the mark until we hit it, you know? Until we find the right person, our romantic relationships will all end at some point. What hurts is not that they end, but that we want each one to be the right one. (Hopefully. Some people date purely for the fun and sport of it, but I'm not really that kind of person, so I don't relate to it very well.) When they aren't right, we feel let down.
Some people say you don't have anything to lose, because you'll just go back to being single, and that's right where you are right now. And you know what? Surprisingly, I agree with them. In fact, I think you gain, no matter how many times you "strike out" so to speak. The lessons you can take from every relationship (including the platonic ones) will last for the rest of your life, even if the relationship doesn't.
It's tough. So very tough to pick yourself up and try again. Much, much harder than the words "pick up and try again" suggest. It's more than that. Sometimes, there are broken hearts that need to be mended, or torn or shattered emotions that must be pieced back together before you can even start to pick yourself up off the ground. Trust me, I've been there. I know what it feels like to feel a physical pain from the emptiness left by someone who is no longer there. I know how it feels to cry yourself to sleep every night for weeks.
But courage isn't about not feeling pain. Rather, real courage is about embracing all of that emotion and recognizing that you dared to feel something, knowing you could get hurt. Then, you continue to feel. Every day. No matter how afraid you are, you keep allowing yourself to feel. The good. The bad. The unsettling. The triumph. The failure. All of it.
I call myself a coward, but perhaps that's a little harsh. I'm just re-learning the lesson, is all.
16 August 2011
Chaos Theory
So guess what? I'm graduated now!
Does this mean I'm officially in adulthood? Because I'm pretty sure I got an inordinate amount of pleasure out of tickle-torturing my cousins the other night and I'm also pretty sure adults should be more mature than that.
So much for entering adulthood.
Insert a gigantic sigh of relief right here.
I'm done! And if I mention it several times in the next few weeks, that's probably because it's still sinking in. I haven't really had enough time to really process the whole graduating thing because last week was absolutely insane. Newton came up with his Second Law of Thermodynamics from getting a peek at my week.
Having my family up here is bonkers. First of all, we're crazy. I think we had an entire meal where none of us let go of our glasses of BYU chocolate milk because someone else would swipe it if we did. Add in a dash of absolutely psychotic scheduling, and things were just, well, chaotic.
And the fun/not-so-fun part? I'm still running around like crazy. My family went home on Sunday. It's now Tuesday, and I still haven't had a day to just kick back and take a break. Needless to say, I'm exhausted, which is probably why I can't seem to finish my blog posts.
Guess this will have to do...
Does this mean I'm officially in adulthood? Because I'm pretty sure I got an inordinate amount of pleasure out of tickle-torturing my cousins the other night and I'm also pretty sure adults should be more mature than that.
So much for entering adulthood.
Insert a gigantic sigh of relief right here.
I'm done! And if I mention it several times in the next few weeks, that's probably because it's still sinking in. I haven't really had enough time to really process the whole graduating thing because last week was absolutely insane. Newton came up with his Second Law of Thermodynamics from getting a peek at my week.
Having my family up here is bonkers. First of all, we're crazy. I think we had an entire meal where none of us let go of our glasses of BYU chocolate milk because someone else would swipe it if we did. Add in a dash of absolutely psychotic scheduling, and things were just, well, chaotic.
And the fun/not-so-fun part? I'm still running around like crazy. My family went home on Sunday. It's now Tuesday, and I still haven't had a day to just kick back and take a break. Needless to say, I'm exhausted, which is probably why I can't seem to finish my blog posts.
Guess this will have to do...
15 August 2011
Too Much and Too Little
I have like, three blog posts halfway written. I can't finish any of them. The end.
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