I Just Want to Know What I Want

Today, I feel kind of guilty for writing these pensive-bordering-on-morose entries because I know my life is great and I shouldn’t whine and lots of people would kill for what I’ve got.

To those people who feel the need to remind me how lucky I am, I hear ya. I really do.

I’m just trying to articulate how despite having seemingly everything going for me, I still have plenty of disappointments and concerns and a scarily intangible life plan. My problems might be #whitegirlproblems but that doesn’t make them any less significant to me. I’m not actually comparing my difficulties to serious issues - I recognize that a rough day at work is not on par with global strife, it just hits closer to home.

I get to angst about meaningless issues because I have no real ones to stress about. It's a privilege.

I’m not hungry or homeless or in debt. I’m not unemployed or friendless. I’m not addicted to drugs or dying of diseases. I have a lovely life. And I’m grateful. I am. I just know that there’s more than this and I’m not sure if I can wait for whatever that is or if I have to actively seek it out. And where does one start looking...?

I’m acutely aware of time passing me by and I want – I really, really want – to slow it down so I can focus on what makes me over-the-moon-happy and then pursue that. I spend so much time worrying about what’s less-than-perfect in my life that I don’t have time to sit down and figure out how to maximize the goods and minimize the bads.

Before I can get what I want, I need to figure out exactly what that is. And for some reason, no matter how many lists I start and then abandon in the notes section of my iphone, it continues to elude me.

Today, my only want is to know what I want.

It's Really, Really Hard to Live in the Moment

Two years out of college and 24 months of real world living have done little to change my core way of being. I thought without a rigid academic curriculum, I’d have the freedom to do so much more but it turns out that we just shift away from the ivy-laced walls of campus to the red-brick walls of work.

Routines feel stale but I still suffer from an intense fear of missing out. The thought of leaving DC for even a weekend feels both refreshing and irritating. I want to escape life here but as soon as I’m away, it seems like everything great happens. I'm always looking ahead, away, over there.

I’m terrible at living in the present.

Either I’m combing through old pictures on facebook conjuring up that buzzed pre-party excitement, or I’m thinking about my next weekend, my next day off, my next trip. Even when I’m having fun, surrounded by friends, I’m looking around for the better option.

Where’s the “more fun”? What’s better than this?

What Would Your Mother Have to Say About This?

I like you. You’re an asshole. I’d like to have a chat with your mother.

I swear I’ve had these consecutive thoughts more times than I can count. What is WRONG with men in their twenties!?

It seems like every time someone comes along who is mildly entertaining, not brain dead, and knows how to take a shower, they feel entitled to behave like inconsiderate, egomaniacal jerks. I’m pretty sure this is a symptom of helicopter parents and/or the facebook “like” button. I mean, if a guy updates his status to something involving a burrito and gets ten likes and somewhere between one and three supportive comments, he’s obviously going to have a false sense of self.

So, allow me to enlighten you. YOU ARE NOT THAT GREAT.

A few loves ago, a guy ended things between us over the phone with this line: “I thought hanging out with you would be better than nothing but uhh…” Now, imagine my dumbfounded reaction. (Yes, he’s not-so-subtly informing me that time spent in my presence has become worse than nothing).

I can’t take it anymore.

What would his MOTHER have to say about this??

I am a nice, smart, thoughtful girl with a job. I live in a gorgeous apartment that I can actually afford in a fun neighborhood and I live with a roommate who is normal and non-creepy. I know these aren’t the only dating-qualifiers out there but, come on, I should be a catch.

So why do males feel like they can treat me like I’m less of a person than they are? Too many times now, I’ve found myself thinking, “If he were my son, I’d be mortified,” or “I’d send my kid to a therapist if he ever spoke to a girl this way,” or “my son would never do something like that.” I know that deep down these are nice boys from good families who don’t mean to be mean but then… they are.

A word of advice to guys out there. Think twice before you say something hurtful to a lady. Imagine a future generation of men saying the same thing to your precious, beautiful perfect daughter… if the sentence you’re about to utter would make future-you want to punch present-you in the face, there’s your clue to hit mute.

Ties that Bind...

I watched you pack up your apartment in a matter of hours it seemed. You posted and re-posted on craigslist offering up the last of your freecycled furniture and managed to turn a profit off the pieces you’d accumulated over the months. I was impressed. And jealous. And sad.

Your ability to take flight, literally, made me feel all the more stifled and tied down. I’m grateful for the life I’ve made but I have too many things.

I have an apartment and it’s pretty and I love it.
I have furniture and it’s heavy and hard to move.
I have clothes that overflow from every dresser and closet and plastic bin.
I love this and I hate this.

The life I’ve made for myself here is valuable and valid. It’s evidence of my existence, of my efforts to create a home.

And yet, watching you climb out of my car that morning, all limbs and luggage, it seemed so unfair.

You are quick to make friends, quick to build experiences, and quick to create stories, but you never knotted yourself to me. You made it easy to pick up and take off and start anew.

You left me behind. Saddled now with not just my life, but pieces of yours; your boxes and our memories and a check to cash when your bank account was full again.

Musings on Self Worth

At summer camp when I was ten, I won a lot of medals. It was a big deal at the time and all the girls used to keep track of how many we all had to see who was in the lead. A medal meant you were eligible for the grand prize at the end of the summer in whichever category you medaled in. Basically, if you were a decent canoe-er, you’d be recognized for your talent and then the best canoe-er at the end of the summer would win the final canoe-ing award. Simple.

So when I was young, these many medals implied that I was well-rounded, generally athletic, and could carry a tune. I was proud of my faux-gold prizes (completely oblivious to how ridiculous I looked with them all dangling around my puny neck) and felt a burst of pride when others commented on how many I earned over the course of camp.

At the end of each summer though, my medals never seemed to lead to anything more. After two consecutive years of above-average medaling, I failed to earn a single one of the coveted “best” trophies. I felt robbed.

Today, I feel like not much has changed. There are lots of things I enjoy. I like reading and baking and running. I love playing guitar and singing and writing. I’m well-rounded, sure, but I’m not spectacular at any of these things, and my hobbies are just small ways to pass the time.

Running, for example, is the perfect way to stay in shape, meet people, and make friends with those who share a similar interest. But, my snail-like pace and inability to actually make it up a hill force me to stick to my solitary running routine every morning. In addition, I don’t have any burning desire to run a marathon and races in general feel like an imposition with their early morning arrival times and other unfortunate characteristics (port-a-potties, lack of parking, crowds, etc). Real runners want to race. They want the challenge and the personal satisfaction. They want to share their passion with others. I just don’t have the drive.

Ditto with guitar. Sure, I can play some basic chords and write cheesy lyrics a-la-taylor swift, but I’ll never be good enough (nor would I want to practice enough) to try out my music at an open mic night. Or even play live for people at all. The thought terrifies me.

This concerns me because it makes me feel like everything I do is a waste. Like, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear, does it make a sound? If I’m good but not great at a bunch of things, are they even worthwhile talents to possess? 

Sometimes I wish I’d focused on one thing – dedicated myself to an interest or a hobby when I was younger and really just run with it – so that today, I’d have something to show for my effort. If I’m not the smartest, or the prettiest, or the funniest, I’d like to at least be awesome at something.

Or maybe I’m just still figuring out what I have to offer the world. I guess that’s allowed.

I Wish I Were a Crazyyyyy Girl

Am I TOO normal?

I've always kind of pictured myself as the girl-next-door type. Someone laid back and easy going who's cute enough to show off to your friends and sweet enough to bring home to your mom, but lately I've been feeling like maybe that's a bad thing.

Watching some of the girls around me, I'm amazed by what some of them get away with - and how guys don't even bat an eye at their appalling behavior.

I've watched girls go ape-shit crazy on their bf's over the stupidest things ("you emailed your ex-gf something totally harmless and non-romantic?????!! We're DONE!!") and the guy quickly apologizes and backs down and pledges his undying love for crazy betch.

Or, when some girls feel sick and demand to be taken care of and pampered and brought soup and comfort food, and guilt their boyfriends into taking a sick day too so they can properly take care of them. And guys seem to eat this up. They want to swoop in and save the day.  They want to feel needed and appreciated. I guess in the modern world of dating, bringing tea to a vomming girlfriend is one way to achieve that?

Sometimes (and here's the cliched situation that we all know too well) girls take hours to get ready for a night out. They agonize over the perfect outfit, trying on option after option. They shower and blow out their hair and do a full face of make-up and nails and toes and self-tanner and perfect their appearance from head to toe. And their boyfriends patiently wait because if it takes the girl two hours to look hot - it's worth the wait? I WOULD NEVER DO THAT. You'd think guys would want a low maintenance girl but it seems like they prefer someone they have to work to maintain.

Guys put up with SO MUCH BS from girls on a regular basis and it shocks me. Why do males endure the crazies? Do they stick it out because they're in love? Or because it's easier to stay with someone and all their issues than it is to turn around and start over with someone new? Do hormones and brain chemistry keep them tied to these girls?

All I can say is...watching the relationships around me, it makes me want to be a controlling, psychotic, over-emotional, high maintenance girl just so I can get some god damn attention.

BUI: Blogging Under the Influence

The maroon 5 / wiz kalifa song that’s out right now is an excellent break-up anthem.

I love when beautiful people, celebrities, rock stars, and models are dumped because a) it normalizes them and b) it definitely motivates them to produce some of their best work. So thanks hot victoria secret model for breaking Adam Levine’s heart and spawning this song.

This is corny but I just read something by one of my favorite authors that really stuck with me. When asked how she managed to write a book every year she said simply “Write everyday. You can’t edit a blank page”. That really resonated with me.

Even if you write the shittiest thing imaginable, you can ALWAYS change it. Writing is a shifting, transient art and there’s no harm in editing and re-editing and undoing what you’ve written until it perfectly reflects the words in your mind.

Probably time for me to look over this word-vomit blog post and edit accordingly…

The Worst Part about a Break-Up (and a mini rave about Girls)

I love Girls so much. And not in the lesbian way (not that there's anything wrong with that...) but in the can't get enough of Lena Dunham and her quirky brilliance kind of way. If there are any mid-20-year-old girls currently living in a major city who don't find this show appealing, you're crazy.

In general, I'm not the most opinionated person, but I can honestly say I LOVE THIS SHOW. There have been some complaints about the white-ness of it (literally not a single black/brown/asian person in any of the 8 episodes so far), but for people like me (sorry, I'm white and privileged) the show really hits home.

It does a good job of highlighting how trivial 20-something's problems are without being condescending. One character, Marnie, breaks up with her boyfriend of four years and spends the next few episodes moping around and wallowing in her misery. She is really, really sad even though it was HER decision to break up with the guy.

I can completely relate to this. Just because you don't want to be with someone anymore doesn't mean you don't feel sad about being alone. Marnie had a constant companion and built-in best friend for four years. Losing that is like losing a family member. Or a limb. Or something equally monumental. When the ex-bf shows up at a party two weeks after the break-up with a tiny, new, adorable girlfriend, Marnie is crushed. Partly because the girl is cute and it's clear the boyfriend has moved on, but partly because she wanted to beat him to the punch.

When you're the breaker-upper, you usually assume you'll be the first to re-find happiness. When that doesn't happen it's confusing.

Break-ups completely suck. That's easy enough to conclude, but lately I've been thinking what's so terrible about them isn't losing a boyfriend. It's losing the friendship you created with someone over the time you spent together.

And even if you can truly be friends with an ex, it's never the same. You will never be as important to each other as you once were. And to me, that's the saddest part about it. Becoming less important to someone who was, at one time, the biggest part of your life.