I'm not ready to write my Vegas recap post(s) yet. I don't know how to explain the last three years and what they've meant and why this trip has been so important to me. I don't know how to round up all of the photos and quotes and tweets and inside jokes and all of the things I'm so desperately trying to hold on to. I don't know how to process the fact that I'm not sure when (or even if) I'll see some or most or all of these people again. My heart is aching in a way that it does only when I come home from BiSC. I half-jokingly commented earlier that I didn't want to talk to anyone or read anything that wasn't related to BiSC. I'm not ready to let go of it yet. I'm in complete denial over the fact that it's over.
I just spent the last ten minutes sobbing uncontrollably because I couldn't find my running shoes. I suspect it's not really about the shoes, but really, who the hell loses a pair of shoes? Whose life is so overwhelming and messy and out of control that they literally lose their only pair of athletic shoes? My frustration kept building to the point where I just snapped, and there were ugly tears and it just.. I don't know. I had a very small window this afternoon where I could go - I was going to meet up with the BF for dinner before he had his weekly evening telecon with his China counterparts, it's probably going to storm again, and I really just want to sit and organize all of my photos but I really, really wanted to go running, because I haven't for almost a full week now and also: buffets. I'm already getting bombarded with work emails and softball emails and ALL OF THE OBLIGATIONS and I was doing pretty good with the transition back into real life until this shoe debacle and suddenly I felt like all control was slipping away from me and I just cracked. I'm still processing All of the Feelings from saying goodbye to everyone and really, I just want a hug and I don't want to be back in my real life yet because it's hard and demanding and stressful and all I really wanted to do was go for a run (never thought I'd say that) and I CAN'T because I LOST MY EFFING SHOES and everything is the worst.
I didn't expect it to hit me so hard, so all at once, so soon, this end of an era, this final goodbye to our family reunion in the desert. I know it's not really the end - we'll find new ways to meet up and hang out, we're all a few mouse clicks and keystrokes away from each other, and yet... and yet, my heart is breaking and I've never, ever been good at handling my emotions. From the people I met three years ago to the people I met three days ago, I miss everyone terribly. I never really thought I would feel like I belong - and sometimes, oftentimes, I still don't, but it's the worst feeling to know that I'm so far from everyone and I feel like I'm going to miss out on everything and be left out of everything. The worst part is? The only people who will ever truly understand exactly what I am feeling are the ones who were there and experienced it themselves - the people that are too far away to hug. How could I possibly explain any of this to anyone else? I don't think anyone else can truly understand why am I so upset over this, why it's so hard. I'll never be able to figure out how to explain it, I could spend years writing and re-writing about it, and I doubt the words will ever come out right.
Where do we go from here? I don't know. I'm sure there's something. But I can't look ahead yet, because I'm stuck right here. I'm mourning something that I never really thought could be mine to miss, and yet, here we are. All the feelings, all the tears, and this space is my only outlet and I can't even explain it. A fine mess I'm in, indeed.
![[Insert Clever Title Here]](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LT5fLI7SfKI/ULRS_Y8YOkI/AAAAAAAAE94/iFvOkGxy5H8/s898/Blog%2BHeader%2B11.26.12.png)
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Friday, May 17, 2013
Nephew'd!
One month ago today, I became an aunt. Obviously I couldn't post about it before I had several pictures to show off my little nephew's absolute adorableness, so I figured the one month birthday would be a good milestone for which to show him off.
I had gotten it into my head that it was going to be a boy. My sister and brother-in-law had opted to be surprised, so they spent nineteen weeks with a little envelope on their coffee table that had the answer to the ultimate mystery inside of it, for which they should probably be given an award because I would not have been able to pass by it every day without caving. But I had three dreams where it was a boy - okay, one of which they said it was a boy and then when they came out to announce the name, they were all JK IT'S A GIRL, so that dream is pretty much irrelevant. The most vivid one was where I was coming to visit and I walked in the front door of their house and a little brown-haired toddler came running at me, all excited that I was there. That was the very best, and I can't wait until it happens for real.
Here's the suckiest thing about being an aunt: not getting to see the little peanut very often. My sister only lives an hour and a half away, but that's still kind of a trek, and gas isn't cheap, plus they're obviously busy and trying to juggle a plethora of other visitors as well. I have decided to claim him as my own; I am oddly jealous of the girls who have married Mike's brothers - I have to share my aunthood with them and I want it all to myself, dammit. But, well, I'm selfish, I guess.
It was April 16 when my sister texted me to tell me that her water had broken, and I just stood there in my kitchen all excited and wondering what the hell I was supposed to do. Should I drop everything and zoom up there? I obviously wanted to meet the little dude as soon as possible. (Or dudette. It was still unknown at that point.) So I stayed put and just hung around, anxiously waiting to hear. I even made a comment to the BF that I bet she was hoping he'd be born that day, because she has this (what I believe to be irrational) hatred of odd numbers. (I was totally right, too - even during the process of giving birth, that thought had crossed her mind. I know her so well.) But, alas, he was born shortly after midnight - 12:41 am. Seven pounds, eleven ounces. Nineteen and three quarters of an inch long. Looking exactly like his daddy.
The crappy part is that nobody actually texted me when he was born, so naturally I was really worried, because the last text I got from the BIL was that she was getting ready to push, and then... nothing. I guess my mother had tried to send me a picture message, but fun fact: even though Google Voice will forward calls and texts to my old number to my new phone, it won't relay picture messages. So it wasn't until about 6am the next morning that I got the official announcement from my sister.
Everyone say hello to Jackson Richard.
At one of her baby showers, we were supposed to guess the birth day, what it would be, and a name. All I knew was that she liked names that ended in N. So this one popped into my head, I decided that it was the very best one, and wrote it down. She gave me kind of a funny look and was like, "that's actually our first choice right now." I'm pretty much psychic, you guys. So basically from that point forward, I decided it my head that his name was going to be Jackson. So it was a good thing that that's what they named him, otherwise I would have had some mental dissonance to deal with. The Richard is after both our dad and our grandpa. (I'm actually floating around the theory right now that my dad likes little J-man more than he liked either me or my sister. My grandma swears he was the same way with us, but I don't know. He's loving this grandpa business. Obviously my mother and stepmother are too, but that could probably go without saying.)
I had never held a baby that little before, but I took the day off and drove on up to visit them in the hospital and I sat with little Jackson in my arms for quite a long time. He was still pretty sleepy from, y'know, being born, and occasionally he would wake up, scream for no reason, and then suddenly pass back out.
I've only gotten to visit him one other time since then, and he was pretty much just as adorable as I remembered. I'm pretty much going to spoil the crap out of that kid. I have purchased no fewer than ten outfits for the little guy, of which I am incredibly excited to show you because they are AWESOME, but my sister hasn't even seen them yet, so I don't want to ruin the surprise of them. So you'll have to wait. I had to cut myself off from buying him things... partially because of money, but mostly because I had already purchased all of the things I liked enough to buy, and now I will just have to wait until the next season's outfits come out.
I have mandated that my sister send me a picture of him every day, which she's been pretty good about. I have them all in an album on my phone now, so odds are good that anyone I hang out with will be subjected to a viewing. Yeah, I'm gonna be THAT person. At least it's not pictures of my cat, right?
Anyway. This is only the first installment in what will probably be many of the saga of my aunthood and my quest to become Jackson's absolute favorite aunt, so I'll wrap it up here for now. Here, have another picture or three before you go.
I had gotten it into my head that it was going to be a boy. My sister and brother-in-law had opted to be surprised, so they spent nineteen weeks with a little envelope on their coffee table that had the answer to the ultimate mystery inside of it, for which they should probably be given an award because I would not have been able to pass by it every day without caving. But I had three dreams where it was a boy - okay, one of which they said it was a boy and then when they came out to announce the name, they were all JK IT'S A GIRL, so that dream is pretty much irrelevant. The most vivid one was where I was coming to visit and I walked in the front door of their house and a little brown-haired toddler came running at me, all excited that I was there. That was the very best, and I can't wait until it happens for real.
Here's the suckiest thing about being an aunt: not getting to see the little peanut very often. My sister only lives an hour and a half away, but that's still kind of a trek, and gas isn't cheap, plus they're obviously busy and trying to juggle a plethora of other visitors as well. I have decided to claim him as my own; I am oddly jealous of the girls who have married Mike's brothers - I have to share my aunthood with them and I want it all to myself, dammit. But, well, I'm selfish, I guess.
It was April 16 when my sister texted me to tell me that her water had broken, and I just stood there in my kitchen all excited and wondering what the hell I was supposed to do. Should I drop everything and zoom up there? I obviously wanted to meet the little dude as soon as possible. (Or dudette. It was still unknown at that point.) So I stayed put and just hung around, anxiously waiting to hear. I even made a comment to the BF that I bet she was hoping he'd be born that day, because she has this (what I believe to be irrational) hatred of odd numbers. (I was totally right, too - even during the process of giving birth, that thought had crossed her mind. I know her so well.) But, alas, he was born shortly after midnight - 12:41 am. Seven pounds, eleven ounces. Nineteen and three quarters of an inch long. Looking exactly like his daddy.
The crappy part is that nobody actually texted me when he was born, so naturally I was really worried, because the last text I got from the BIL was that she was getting ready to push, and then... nothing. I guess my mother had tried to send me a picture message, but fun fact: even though Google Voice will forward calls and texts to my old number to my new phone, it won't relay picture messages. So it wasn't until about 6am the next morning that I got the official announcement from my sister.
At one of her baby showers, we were supposed to guess the birth day, what it would be, and a name. All I knew was that she liked names that ended in N. So this one popped into my head, I decided that it was the very best one, and wrote it down. She gave me kind of a funny look and was like, "that's actually our first choice right now." I'm pretty much psychic, you guys. So basically from that point forward, I decided it my head that his name was going to be Jackson. So it was a good thing that that's what they named him, otherwise I would have had some mental dissonance to deal with. The Richard is after both our dad and our grandpa. (I'm actually floating around the theory right now that my dad likes little J-man more than he liked either me or my sister. My grandma swears he was the same way with us, but I don't know. He's loving this grandpa business. Obviously my mother and stepmother are too, but that could probably go without saying.)
I had never held a baby that little before, but I took the day off and drove on up to visit them in the hospital and I sat with little Jackson in my arms for quite a long time. He was still pretty sleepy from, y'know, being born, and occasionally he would wake up, scream for no reason, and then suddenly pass back out.
I've only gotten to visit him one other time since then, and he was pretty much just as adorable as I remembered. I'm pretty much going to spoil the crap out of that kid. I have purchased no fewer than ten outfits for the little guy, of which I am incredibly excited to show you because they are AWESOME, but my sister hasn't even seen them yet, so I don't want to ruin the surprise of them. So you'll have to wait. I had to cut myself off from buying him things... partially because of money, but mostly because I had already purchased all of the things I liked enough to buy, and now I will just have to wait until the next season's outfits come out.
I have mandated that my sister send me a picture of him every day, which she's been pretty good about. I have them all in an album on my phone now, so odds are good that anyone I hang out with will be subjected to a viewing. Yeah, I'm gonna be THAT person. At least it's not pictures of my cat, right?
Anyway. This is only the first installment in what will probably be many of the saga of my aunthood and my quest to become Jackson's absolute favorite aunt, so I'll wrap it up here for now. Here, have another picture or three before you go.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Hot Hot Heat
The temperature outside yesterday stayed pretty steady at 95 degrees.
Depending on where you live or how much you like the heat, that sentence may mean something different to each of you. To me, it means it feels like it's hotter than the surface of the sun outside and my poor delicate self has a tendency to wilt under extreme temperatures. I don't like the heat and I am very rarely dressed appropriately for it. You know those crazy people that wear shorts in the middle of the winter while there's a foot of snow on the ground? I'm the opposite. I'm the crazy person that wears jeans and black t-shirts in the summer. (Hey, black is slimming.) I'm most comfortable in jeans and I dislike when it's too hot because then I am physically uncomfortable and my brain weeps.
At any rate, I figured it would be a good trial run for Vegas, who is currently experiencing 100 degree temperatures, which, frankly, is only 5 degrees hotter than here, and once I've reached my heat threshold, it's all miserable and the temperature really doesn't matter anymore. And I really do want to slap the people who are always all, "yeah, but it's a dry heat." ONE HUNDRED DEGREES IS EFFING HOT, WHETHER IT IS DRY OR NOT. Granted, humidity makes everything worse (especially my hair), but even so.
AIR CONDITIONING IS MY BFF.
It wasn't quite as bad as I was bracing myself for, though. I mean, I only went to my car to go get my hair cut* but there was kind of a breeze and I could tolerate it in short increments, despite that I am dressed for a temperature roughly twenty five degrees cooler than what it actually was. So maybe I will be okay.
*OMG I FINALLY GOT A HAIR CUT. I went into full-on panic mode last month when I went to call for a cut and my salon didn't answer and didn't answer and didn't answer and naturally this was the end of the world because I don't trust anyone else with my hair, even though I don't do anything terribly exciting with it (trim off the damaged bits, layer it up a little, and thin in out, because I have the thickest hair ever), and then finally I did some Google-fu and landed on their facebook page (which I probably should have looked for first) and discovered that, to my relief, they were remodeling and would reopen in time for me to squish in a haircut before I left. I booked a hair appointment through their facebook page which is one of the more random things I've done lately when it comes to my mundane little life, and then I went and it was awesome and now my head is five pounds lighter (approximately).
And then since I was at the mall anyway, I went and bought some capris and a new skirt, because I'm not an idiot. It's gonna be hellishly warm.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Five Disclaimers About the Quirkiness of My Being
The most anxiety-ridden part of signing up for BiSC is probably writing your bio and choosing a picture. I mean, this is what introduces you to a bunch of people that don't know you. First impressions, and what not. I got smart this year, though, and instead of agonizing over it at the last minute, I chose a photo and wrote out my Five Things pretty much as soon as I got home, and then stored it in my Dropbox until such a time as it was needed. I was PREPARED.
So, in case you are curious (which you are most likely not, but I'd like to keep it preserved somewhere for nostalgia sake), here is my 2013 bio. Complete with wonky elbow. (No, seriously. If you ever meet me in person, ask me to demonstrate how my elbows bend all weird. It squicks out everyone. This picture doesn't do them justice.) Maybe it makes me really vain but I really like that picture of me, I don't even care, I think I look pretty and even kind of thin in it. And my hair looks nice.
As far as the five points go, as we approach B-day*?
I kind of want a black fedora this year, as I don't have one and it seems like an essential item for any fedora wardrobe.
I suspect I will totally destroy my picture quantity record this year, mostly because I plan on visiting the Neon Museum if I don't die of heat stroke first.
I have a swim top and a floppy hat and a < 3oz bottle of sunscreen (THANKS FOR WANTING ME TO GET SKIN CANCER, TSA), but I make no promises beyond that.
I HAVE UPGRADED MY PHONE and it is everything I dreamed it would be and more.
And I still kind of plan on going to bed early at least a couple nights. Because I am, in fact, not-so-secretly an old lady. But, y'know. Time zones.
*BiSC Day. GET IT?!
So, in case you are curious (which you are most likely not, but I'd like to keep it preserved somewhere for nostalgia sake), here is my 2013 bio. Complete with wonky elbow. (No, seriously. If you ever meet me in person, ask me to demonstrate how my elbows bend all weird. It squicks out everyone. This picture doesn't do them justice.) Maybe it makes me really vain but I really like that picture of me, I don't even care, I think I look pretty and even kind of thin in it. And my hair looks nice.
As far as the five points go, as we approach B-day*?
I kind of want a black fedora this year, as I don't have one and it seems like an essential item for any fedora wardrobe.
I suspect I will totally destroy my picture quantity record this year, mostly because I plan on visiting the Neon Museum if I don't die of heat stroke first.
I have a swim top and a floppy hat and a < 3oz bottle of sunscreen (THANKS FOR WANTING ME TO GET SKIN CANCER, TSA), but I make no promises beyond that.
I HAVE UPGRADED MY PHONE and it is everything I dreamed it would be and more.
And I still kind of plan on going to bed early at least a couple nights. Because I am, in fact, not-so-secretly an old lady. But, y'know. Time zones.
*BiSC Day. GET IT?!
Monday, May 13, 2013
The Final Countdown
Apparently, I'm on a kick of using song names for post titles. I present this fact without comment or explanation.
In two days, I'll be getting on a plane for Las Vegas, as I have done for the past couple years in the middle of May. It's the final Bloggers in Sin City, and I have all sorts of anxieties and concerns that are completely new from previous years. The things I was scared of the first year aren't even on my radar. I know I'll have fun. I know that I will make new friends. I know that I will have people to hang out with. Most of all, I know what to expect. You may or may not know this about me, but I am a Planner. I like to have all my ducks in a row. The unknown is my worst enemy. Uncertainty is one of my most dreaded emotions.
The trip kind of snuck up on me this year, despite the fact that I've been looking forward to it ever since I stepped off the airplane in my home airport last year. Three hundred and sixty five days of waiting for the next one. An entire trip around the sun, collecting as many sequin tops as I could find. Writing my bio for the registration as soon as I got home, so it would be ready, so I didn't have to obsess over it at the last minute when it came time to fill it out this year.
Then there was winter and it was long and dreary and then suddenly it was May and I skyrocketed into panic mode.
What am I panicking about, you might ask? It's a long weekend in Las Vegas, what is there to possibly panic about?
PACKING.
I have been even more neurotic than usual this year about stuffing some clothes in a zippered box. Which is saying something, because I am incredibly neurotic about a lot of things, but especially packing for trips. I make the most thorough lists you could ever want to have, and I plan my outfits out weeks in advance. Which is what the problem was: I didn't know what to wear. Again, who cares, you might say. Well I care, for a couple of really dumb reasons.
Reason #1: It is a truth universally acknowledged, thata single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife I take a metric truckload of photos, pretty much all the time, but especially on vacation. Don't get me wrong: I still enjoy myself and the photo-taking doesn't distract from my enjoyment of (insert event here), like most people would assume. What you fail to take into account is that photography has been one of my life-long hobbies, and I crave things to take photos of. I can still enjoy a concert or a party or a vacation, even if I'm seeing part of it through a lens (or, these days, a digital screen). With this being the final BiSC, I am reasonably certain I will be taking more photos than usual. I even bought a new memory card. Now, I expect that I will appear in many photos as well, because, hi: it's a blogger meetup, and we all like to document things. I have struggled with my self-images for years and nothing is quite as bad as a visual slap in the face when you see a photo of yourself looking fat, frumpy, and wearing ill-fitting clothes. I want to look nice in the photos. I want to not cringe when I look at the photos.
Reason #2: I'm from an area that is also pretty universally acknowledged as being, well, unhip. I feel reasonably proud of the fact that people don't always know where I'm from unless I tell them, because I feel like I have overcome the stereotype of the region and come across as a normal person instead of the backwards hick that I assume that people assume that I would be inclined to be. Basically: I feel like I'm an ambassador for the great state of Iowa, and I want to paint us in the most positive light possible, because everyone thinks this place sucks (which admittedly, it does sometimes) and that we're all five years behind and can't be even remotely conscious of what's "in." Yes, I know, this is all very ridiculous, but given that everyone else hails from much cooler, trendier places (Chicago! DC! Portland! California! New York!), I can't help but feel like on some level, I need to prove myself.
Reason #3: This is highly related to Reason #1, but: I'm not a terribly svelte individual. I've put on more weight than what I should have, given the size of my frame. I am very, very self-conscious of this, doubly so when it's warm out because I can't hide in my layers or sleeves or even pants. I LOVE PANTS. Even if I'm not necessarily being photographed, I am still very self-aware of how I look, and how things fit, and how this might be perceived by others. Even though it's scientifically proven that people are so focused on themselves that they don't give a rat's ass what you look like. I want to be comfortable so I can be confident and frankly, this is something I've really been trying to work at. I don't want to feel like a phony last year, overcompensating for my insecurities.
On the bright side, I've lost about ten pounds since March, so I have at least that going for me.
Reason #4: It's going to be in the upper 90s in Vegas. It's been hanging out in the 60s, maybe 70s around here, with a nice cool breeze. In other words: comfortable, erring on the side of chilly. I am so not used to nor am I ready for near 100-degree temperatures. I am going to MELT and I am going to be HOT and UNCOMFORTABLE and SWEATY and DISGUSTING and probably CRANKY. My wardrobe has not been updated for the summer, because it hasn't needed to be. I'm not ready for hot weather. I'm worried that the clothes I am bringing are going to be too warm.
So these are the things that are constantly circling over my head every day as I make and remake and revise and edit my packing list(s). I've tried almost everything on more than once, I've meticulously paired jewelry and accessories with each outfit, I've broken in two new pairs of flats. I'm almost ready to go, which is good, because it's almost time to go. Eep!
In two days, I'll be getting on a plane for Las Vegas, as I have done for the past couple years in the middle of May. It's the final Bloggers in Sin City, and I have all sorts of anxieties and concerns that are completely new from previous years. The things I was scared of the first year aren't even on my radar. I know I'll have fun. I know that I will make new friends. I know that I will have people to hang out with. Most of all, I know what to expect. You may or may not know this about me, but I am a Planner. I like to have all my ducks in a row. The unknown is my worst enemy. Uncertainty is one of my most dreaded emotions.
The trip kind of snuck up on me this year, despite the fact that I've been looking forward to it ever since I stepped off the airplane in my home airport last year. Three hundred and sixty five days of waiting for the next one. An entire trip around the sun, collecting as many sequin tops as I could find. Writing my bio for the registration as soon as I got home, so it would be ready, so I didn't have to obsess over it at the last minute when it came time to fill it out this year.
Then there was winter and it was long and dreary and then suddenly it was May and I skyrocketed into panic mode.
What am I panicking about, you might ask? It's a long weekend in Las Vegas, what is there to possibly panic about?
PACKING.
I have been even more neurotic than usual this year about stuffing some clothes in a zippered box. Which is saying something, because I am incredibly neurotic about a lot of things, but especially packing for trips. I make the most thorough lists you could ever want to have, and I plan my outfits out weeks in advance. Which is what the problem was: I didn't know what to wear. Again, who cares, you might say. Well I care, for a couple of really dumb reasons.
Reason #1: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that
Reason #2: I'm from an area that is also pretty universally acknowledged as being, well, unhip. I feel reasonably proud of the fact that people don't always know where I'm from unless I tell them, because I feel like I have overcome the stereotype of the region and come across as a normal person instead of the backwards hick that I assume that people assume that I would be inclined to be. Basically: I feel like I'm an ambassador for the great state of Iowa, and I want to paint us in the most positive light possible, because everyone thinks this place sucks (which admittedly, it does sometimes) and that we're all five years behind and can't be even remotely conscious of what's "in." Yes, I know, this is all very ridiculous, but given that everyone else hails from much cooler, trendier places (Chicago! DC! Portland! California! New York!), I can't help but feel like on some level, I need to prove myself.
Reason #3: This is highly related to Reason #1, but: I'm not a terribly svelte individual. I've put on more weight than what I should have, given the size of my frame. I am very, very self-conscious of this, doubly so when it's warm out because I can't hide in my layers or sleeves or even pants. I LOVE PANTS. Even if I'm not necessarily being photographed, I am still very self-aware of how I look, and how things fit, and how this might be perceived by others. Even though it's scientifically proven that people are so focused on themselves that they don't give a rat's ass what you look like. I want to be comfortable so I can be confident and frankly, this is something I've really been trying to work at. I don't want to feel like a phony last year, overcompensating for my insecurities.
On the bright side, I've lost about ten pounds since March, so I have at least that going for me.
Reason #4: It's going to be in the upper 90s in Vegas. It's been hanging out in the 60s, maybe 70s around here, with a nice cool breeze. In other words: comfortable, erring on the side of chilly. I am so not used to nor am I ready for near 100-degree temperatures. I am going to MELT and I am going to be HOT and UNCOMFORTABLE and SWEATY and DISGUSTING and probably CRANKY. My wardrobe has not been updated for the summer, because it hasn't needed to be. I'm not ready for hot weather. I'm worried that the clothes I am bringing are going to be too warm.
So these are the things that are constantly circling over my head every day as I make and remake and revise and edit my packing list(s). I've tried almost everything on more than once, I've meticulously paired jewelry and accessories with each outfit, I've broken in two new pairs of flats. I'm almost ready to go, which is good, because it's almost time to go. Eep!
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone
I'm lying in bed this morning and the weight of what day it is comes rushing over me in full force. It had crossed my mind earlier this week, when I'd realized we'd entered into May, but I'd held it in, just below the level of cognizant awareness. It's not that I wanted to forget, or even that I'm trying to forget, but on some level, I wanted to give the day back to my friend Maria, whose birthday has had a cloud over it for so many years.
We were reminiscing about Maria's 21st birthday last night (as one does, when it's one of the best stories you share involving alcohol and shoes), and my brain tried to start doing the math. I wouldn't let it, but it finally won this morning, effectively tarnishing that cheerful memory. We went out for Maria's birthday at midnight as May 4 turned into May 5 and 20 turned into 21. Several hours later, the unthinkable happened, as we were all disbanding for the summer, as Maria and her epic hangover rode home with her mother, as I packed up the last bit of my dorm room for the year. The next morning, I got the worst of all phone calls while sitting in the parking lot of a property management office, waiting for them to open so I could pick up my keys for the apartment that I was co-subleasing for the summer. I can't remember what was said, I was dazed, staring out my windshield, not comprehending what I was hearing.
Michelle... car accident... she's gone.
It hurts as much today as it did seven years ago. For some reason my brain decided to wonder if the article about her car accident was still up online, but my stomach tightened and I realized there was no way I could bring myself to read it again.
She would have turned thirty this upcoming November, the first one in our tight-knit circle to do so. She would probably be married, with a baby, maybe two. She would have gotten a fantastic job as a graphic designer or illustrator (she was amazing at both), using her talents to brighten the world. Her positivity was infectious, and I miss that the most. She always had the words to get you through your darkest patches, and always knew what to say to make you feel like a million bucks. I miss having her to turn to. I miss the reassurance of her hugs. They were the best hugs, made extra soft by the gray hoodie she always wore when she was relaxing.
Maybe it's selfish, how much I miss her, how much I know my life would be better if she were still here. I miss her sunshine. But if I start to think about the injustice of it all, about how her future was ripped away from her, far too soon, far too abruptly - I can't handle that. I know life isn't fair - you hear that from the time you are old enough to understand words (even if you're not old enough to understand what "fair" actually means, as opposed to what you think it means), but it's truly not. My biggest ache was always the why - why her? Why then? I would have gladly traded places with her. At that time, my outlook was so bleak and I had often wished for an out - while she was the opposite, so full of life and light. It was all backwards and never made sense to me. Maybe, on some level, her death saved my life; I vowed to carry on because she wouldn't. Living my life was a tribute to hers, in a way. A sloppy, messy, but well-intentioned tribute, I suppose, but I'm still going.
I hate it. I miss my friend. It's been seven years and the hole is still there, and I can't think about it too much or it paralyzes me. It hurts less than it did; time has a merciful way of turning raw wounds into scars, but the mark will always be there. I miss her, I miss her bubbly personality, her advice, her outlook on life. I miss living across the hall from her, I miss sharing the ups and downs of our lives. I never felt like I was worthy of being her friend. She was the rarest of people, the kind that proved there was good in the world. No matter how much time passes, my memory of first meeting her - a welcoming, reassuring sophomore who plunked herself in the middle of all us nervous freshmen on move-in day - remains as vivid as if it just happened. Her memory is one of the strongest that I carry; I know I can trust that, if I can trust nothing else. Anyone who knew her can tell you that I'm not exaggerating when I talk about how wonderful she was - they'd probably tell you that I'm not doing her enough justice.
It's a hard day today, like it always is. I don't think she'd approve of me lying around in my pajamas, being mopey and sad. She'd give me a hug and let me feel my feelings, but then she'd launch into a campaign to cheer me up. I'd probably stubbornly continue to wallow, but it wouldn't last long. It couldn't. She was like a magnet that demanded you to smile.
I think I might go for a run today. She was a runner, the first "real" runner I'd really been friends with. (The first of many, I might add). The snow is gone today, and it looks like the sun is trying to peek through. I kind of like to think that's her doing, her way of letting us know that wherever she is, she's all right, and she's keeping an eye on us.
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We were reminiscing about Maria's 21st birthday last night (as one does, when it's one of the best stories you share involving alcohol and shoes), and my brain tried to start doing the math. I wouldn't let it, but it finally won this morning, effectively tarnishing that cheerful memory. We went out for Maria's birthday at midnight as May 4 turned into May 5 and 20 turned into 21. Several hours later, the unthinkable happened, as we were all disbanding for the summer, as Maria and her epic hangover rode home with her mother, as I packed up the last bit of my dorm room for the year. The next morning, I got the worst of all phone calls while sitting in the parking lot of a property management office, waiting for them to open so I could pick up my keys for the apartment that I was co-subleasing for the summer. I can't remember what was said, I was dazed, staring out my windshield, not comprehending what I was hearing.
Michelle... car accident... she's gone.
It hurts as much today as it did seven years ago. For some reason my brain decided to wonder if the article about her car accident was still up online, but my stomach tightened and I realized there was no way I could bring myself to read it again.
She would have turned thirty this upcoming November, the first one in our tight-knit circle to do so. She would probably be married, with a baby, maybe two. She would have gotten a fantastic job as a graphic designer or illustrator (she was amazing at both), using her talents to brighten the world. Her positivity was infectious, and I miss that the most. She always had the words to get you through your darkest patches, and always knew what to say to make you feel like a million bucks. I miss having her to turn to. I miss the reassurance of her hugs. They were the best hugs, made extra soft by the gray hoodie she always wore when she was relaxing.
Maybe it's selfish, how much I miss her, how much I know my life would be better if she were still here. I miss her sunshine. But if I start to think about the injustice of it all, about how her future was ripped away from her, far too soon, far too abruptly - I can't handle that. I know life isn't fair - you hear that from the time you are old enough to understand words (even if you're not old enough to understand what "fair" actually means, as opposed to what you think it means), but it's truly not. My biggest ache was always the why - why her? Why then? I would have gladly traded places with her. At that time, my outlook was so bleak and I had often wished for an out - while she was the opposite, so full of life and light. It was all backwards and never made sense to me. Maybe, on some level, her death saved my life; I vowed to carry on because she wouldn't. Living my life was a tribute to hers, in a way. A sloppy, messy, but well-intentioned tribute, I suppose, but I'm still going.
I hate it. I miss my friend. It's been seven years and the hole is still there, and I can't think about it too much or it paralyzes me. It hurts less than it did; time has a merciful way of turning raw wounds into scars, but the mark will always be there. I miss her, I miss her bubbly personality, her advice, her outlook on life. I miss living across the hall from her, I miss sharing the ups and downs of our lives. I never felt like I was worthy of being her friend. She was the rarest of people, the kind that proved there was good in the world. No matter how much time passes, my memory of first meeting her - a welcoming, reassuring sophomore who plunked herself in the middle of all us nervous freshmen on move-in day - remains as vivid as if it just happened. Her memory is one of the strongest that I carry; I know I can trust that, if I can trust nothing else. Anyone who knew her can tell you that I'm not exaggerating when I talk about how wonderful she was - they'd probably tell you that I'm not doing her enough justice.
It's a hard day today, like it always is. I don't think she'd approve of me lying around in my pajamas, being mopey and sad. She'd give me a hug and let me feel my feelings, but then she'd launch into a campaign to cheer me up. I'd probably stubbornly continue to wallow, but it wouldn't last long. It couldn't. She was like a magnet that demanded you to smile.
I think I might go for a run today. She was a runner, the first "real" runner I'd really been friends with. (The first of many, I might add). The snow is gone today, and it looks like the sun is trying to peek through. I kind of like to think that's her doing, her way of letting us know that wherever she is, she's all right, and she's keeping an eye on us.
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Friday, May 3, 2013
Onward
Yep, still snowy and slushy and gross. I don't even know.
BUT! Before it got all gross and disgusting (so, like, Tuesday), I went for a run and set a new PR for the year. If I can keep adding five minutes every week, I'll not only smash my overall PR in no time, but I'll get to a 5K before I know it. I'm pretty slow - I think I was running about a 14 minute mile on average, so I haven't quite cleared the 2 mile mark yet, but... soon.
Slow forward progress, guys.
Also, speaking of which... there seems to be a large Venn diagram overlap of bloggers who have taken up running, which I think is kind of cool. Because then I get quotes like this from Amber that make me feel better about myself:
Plus this entire post by Nicole.
Now, we won't focus too much on the fact that my writing has stagnated lately, but, again. Baby steps. One thing at a time and I'm focusing on keeping my head above water with life, work, coaching, family, and the entire backlog of projects that are lurking in my apartment.
Which, given the fact that I've been driven inside by the snow (which, I almost went for a run last night but I opted to go shopping instead), you'd think I'd be able to focus on some of the indoorsy activities, but whatever. I'm suffering from a bad case of Overwhelmeds right now and I can only take tiny nibbles out of my list.
And I really did think that maybe I would have woken up today and the snow would have been gone. I mean, it's May. That's not an unrealistic hope. SIGH.
BUT! Before it got all gross and disgusting (so, like, Tuesday), I went for a run and set a new PR for the year. If I can keep adding five minutes every week, I'll not only smash my overall PR in no time, but I'll get to a 5K before I know it. I'm pretty slow - I think I was running about a 14 minute mile on average, so I haven't quite cleared the 2 mile mark yet, but... soon.
Slow forward progress, guys.
Also, speaking of which... there seems to be a large Venn diagram overlap of bloggers who have taken up running, which I think is kind of cool. Because then I get quotes like this from Amber that make me feel better about myself:
I believe that if you run, you are a runner. It doesn’t matter if you run around the block or you run Badwater. If you tie on your shoes and start moving your feet, you are a runner. Just as it doesn’t matter if you write on cocktail napkins or head the New York Times bestseller list. If you put words to paper with the intent of telling a story or sharing a truth, you are a writer.
Plus this entire post by Nicole.
Now, we won't focus too much on the fact that my writing has stagnated lately, but, again. Baby steps. One thing at a time and I'm focusing on keeping my head above water with life, work, coaching, family, and the entire backlog of projects that are lurking in my apartment.
Which, given the fact that I've been driven inside by the snow (which, I almost went for a run last night but I opted to go shopping instead), you'd think I'd be able to focus on some of the indoorsy activities, but whatever. I'm suffering from a bad case of Overwhelmeds right now and I can only take tiny nibbles out of my list.
And I really did think that maybe I would have woken up today and the snow would have been gone. I mean, it's May. That's not an unrealistic hope. SIGH.
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