Ugly Truths

On The Power Of Intention

2011-08-07T16:36:00.001-04:00

It was nearly two years ago when I sat in a D.C. hotel lobby with a handful of my dearest childhood friends. We sat chatting, laughing and reminiscing. But one among us, my cousin Damon, was future focused.

In the next couple of years, I’m ready to find my “good thing”[1], he told us, more seriously than normal. I rolled my eyes thinking to myself: “It’s not that easy.”

Within the past two years, he’s done exactly what he said he would. Yesterday, in the company of those same friends, he married his “good thing”, and my beautiful new cousin, Kristin, as we witnessed a sweet, outdoor ceremony in Marion, Indiana.

I was reminded of that moment a few weeks ago as the excitement for their upcoming nuptials bubbled over onto their Facebook pages.

For me, there was a lesson to be learned here.

I am quite intrigued by the power of intention. I find it similar to prayer; a public expression of hope and faith. And this is why so many of us shy away, keeping our intentions and hopes to ourselves. Because what if it doesn’t work? What if we fail? Then we’re left to face the embarrassment of public failure.

But, what if it does? What if we dare to tell the world that we’re reaching with all our might toward something we may never grab hold of?

I’ve just started reading Eat. Pray. Love. I’m late, I know. I tend to rebel a bit against overly popular things as such, but after falling in love with the movie, I decided to pick up the book at last.

I don’t want to spoil the story for those of you who haven’t read it, because you should. But in the midst of a nasty divorce, Liz decides to petition God to see its end. She writes out a prayer, or statement of intent, if you will, explaining to God just why her divorce should end quickly. She signs it, and begins to call out the names of her friends and family that she believes would sign it on her behalf. After an hour of calling out names from her parents to Ghandi, she falls asleep. She awakens to her ringing cell phone, on the other end is her lawyer telling her that her husband has just signed the divorce papers that he’d refused for the past several months.

Was it coincidence, or is it that easy? I guess that is something that can only by tested by your own statements of intent.

This passage pierced right through me because Liz’s petition to God, though she was unaware, is scripturally sound[2] and something I was taught to do in my early and eager years as a young Christian.

It seems, though, that Liz and my cousin Damon, may have tapped into a universal law and moved beyond the silencing fear of the many “what if’s” and entertained just one.

What if it works?

So wherever and whenever this blog post finds you, may you raise your glasses, for the newlyweds and for you my friends: To the power of intention.

[1] “He who finds a wife finds what is good and receives favor from the Lord.” Proverbs 18:22, NIV

[2] Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” Phillipians 4:6, NIV

The Act Of Creating

2011-07-10T22:41:00.002-04:00

I’m surrounded by creators.

That’s been true for several years now, but only recently, after a few years of writing in public have I found the confidence to count myself among them.

I had a moment of clarity just a few weeks ago after an evening spent with my cousin Damon and dear friend Shayna. It was well past midnight as we sat in Damon’s home studio, sipping coffee and eating cookies while listening to a sneak peek of Damon’s new mixtape.

We bobbed our heads to the beat, threw ideas around and talked about our inspirations.

Once the coffee was gone, we’d eaten too many cookies and heard several of the new tracks, it was time to go. But I didn’t want it to end. I was inspired, uplifted and excited.

Their creative energy feeds my own. I need to write like Damon needs to make music and Shayna needs to get lost in a character.

“All of my closest friends are creators,” I said to Shayna as we drove off into the night. “And so are you,” she answered. “Like souls attract like souls.”

And yet, for the past few months, I’ve been stuck. I’ve found myself consuming more than I’m creating and feeling overwhelmed by the pressure to write something better than my Invictus piece, in order to prove that I’ve grown as a writer. I finished my last story knowing that I need to write, but not quite knowing how. To avoid the sting of failure, I’ve written a little here and there but spent the majority of my free time looking at my options and carefully planning my next steps.

What story will I tell next? Should I venture into fiction? Playwriting? Do I need a MFA degree to further my writing skills? Where will I find new inspiration? How can I build a life around writing?

That night, as I sat around with my friends and fellow creators, a calm washed over me. The answers to my questions were suddenly less important.

The act of creating is what’s important.

Next month marks my 1-year anniversary at the PR agency gig. It would be safe to say that the real world has swallowed me up. With frequent early morning events, long days, night meetings and weekends spent trying to get ahead; I’ve struggled to find the time and energy to write.

It was a choice that made sense in my head, but betrayed my heart, my passion: To take the business route just in case the writing wouldn’t carry me. And I’ve found myself empty and frustrated, filled with the what-ifs and regrets that I’m still young enough to rectify.

I’ve been putting my energy into the wrong places. It took being around my friends, who are busy creating, to realize that.

When I write, opportunities come. When I don’t, I find myself trying to force open closed doors and fretting over logistics.

The truth that hit me in the wee hours of the morning was simple: When I’m in the right space, surrounded by the right people, focused on creating, the answers to the questions will come.

The gift will make a way for itself.

P.S. Soon, I'll be revamping www.tiffanyholbert.com and making that the new home for my musings, so go ahead and drop that link into your Google Reader :)

Letter #4: Letter To Your Siblings

2011-01-17T22:45:00.000-05:00

Dear Riana & Langston,

I’ve tried and tried to think back to our most memorable times together. There are but two that I can remember tangibly. They don’t include the awfulness of the fire or the divorce.

The first predates those markers in our history.

It was our ritual in the old house to have our own little party when Mom and Dad went out with friends on a weekend night. Already in our pj’s, we’d say our goodbyes and wait just until the garage door had closed behind them to assume our respective positions in the den.

Riana, you were always the DJ, the only one allowed to touch Dad’s stereo and the stacks and stacks of albums we had in the house. Each of us manned with our own makeshift microphone, we’d sing and dance for hours with breaks only for Pizza Rolls and Hawaiian Punch.

You guys died laughing when I made my own dance, “The Boo-Boo Dance”, as you call it. It was the only one I did in our line up for years. Untill you guys taught me the butterfly, that is. Together we marveled at the brilliance of Michael & Janet, tried to pull of the Boyz II Men harmonies, and screamed at the top of our lungs to Whitney Houston classics.

We spent every minute of the two or three hours that Mom and Dad were gone in that den together. Singing, dancing and laughing our heads off. Those songs hold our memories, I’ll never forget how good those times were.

The second came after the fire, the divorce, my beautiful neice and nephew and all of our moves to and back from Florida.

Lang, I loved that you chose your sisters to be your guest at Jay-Z’s Blueprint III concert in Indy this past summer. It had been so long since we all spent time together, which is probably why we spent a ridiculous amount of time posing for pre-concert pics, (one of which is still my Facebook profile picture).

I’ll never forget how you grabbed our hands and pulled us through the overly-crowded downtown streets, sure that we’d all make it together. And then there was the look on your face when Jay-Z, who I’d listened to you imitate for years, took the stage. “That’s Jay-Z,” you said with childlike wonder.

Together, we danced and sang along for hours, just like the good ole’ days.

We dubbed ourselves “The Bratpack” that night, and I can’t wait for our next adventure.

Let’s do it big.

Love you both,

Tiff

Day #3: Letter To Your Parents

2011-01-16T00:35:00.001-05:00

If I'm honest, there is only a small window of time in my childhood where I saw you two as a unit. I learned too early that you were two separate people, with two separate lives.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved you in different languages.

Dad,

I remember all too vividly my first few weeks at my new high school in Florida. I shrank in your absence. It was then that I realized just how much influence you had in shaping my self-esteem and building my confidence. I had always been your little girl. Mom still tells the story of how you wouldn’t let anyone hold me as a baby. There were no special exceptions for family or close friends. “You can look at her from right there,” is what she says you’d say.

As I grew, I became your buddy. You took me everywhere. Believe or not, I was so proud to be known as Mr. Holbert’s daughter.

But here, all of this was null and void. I wasn’t anyone’s little girl. Here, I was on my own.

I missed you more than words, matter of fact I only spoke when spoken to. I’d never known so much uncertainty and instability. Our new relationship consisted of Sunday evening phone calls and summer visits.

My first summer back home you arranged for me to have my wisdom teeth taken out. You took such good care of me. I didn’t even know you knew how. Mom was always the one I cried for when I was sick. I guess we both learned something new that day.

I love the carefree spirit that returned to me as soon as I was back home. All I had to worry about was what my friends and I were doing later that night. I had no doubt that you’d take care of everything else.

Six years later, after enduring the biggest heartbreak of my young adult life, I came back home indefinitely. To be taken care of. To heal. While you were unaware of the circumstances that brought me home, you made me smile and laugh, just like you always had.

You would leave a box of my favorite candy with a smiley face drawn on the front. We spent weekends going on bike rides, watching too many movies and eating chili dogs from Gene’s.

Thank you for loving me and letting me be a kid. I know that letting go isn’t easy.

Love,

Tiff

Mom,

We never bonded more than the years of just you and I living in the sunshine together. I couldn’t fathom up and leaving you when it was time for me to go to college. Thankfully, USF was right down the street.

We took care of each other. Every night after classes and coaching, you’d find me sleeping on the couch with unfinished homework on my lap. You nagged me to sleep and save my homework for the morning. I nagged you to eat something other than just a bowl of cereal before bed.

We enjoyed the beach on the weekends and extravagant lunches after church on Sundays. After all, it was just the two of us.

But, we’ve had a rocky relationship as mothers and daughters often do. You got the brunt of my anger and pain once it finally surfaced--because you were there. I can only thank you for enduring that, and forgiving me once I finally came to my senses.

When I decided to leave the nest, I broke your heart. I’m sorry. I’ve become all to familiar with the loneliness you must have felt with too many hours to fill each day and no one to share your time.

But you came through it. I’m incredibly proud of your strength and resilience as a woman. If you came through it, I will too. I am my mother’s daughter.

I’ve found myself needing you now more than ever. I call just to be comforted by your voice, to ask why my coffee is never as perfect as yours, or what color Maalox to buy when I’ve got an upset stomach.

Your visits are too few and far between. I never want you to leave. I’m looking forward to my visit in June. You’ll spoil me like you always do, and I’ll let you because I miss you like crazy.

Love,

Your baby

Letter #2: Letter To Your Crush

2011-01-15T12:01:00.000-05:00

Dear Jackson,

The first time I saw you I was just waking from a nap that lasted a little too long. My eyes fell upon your face, that beautiful face, and I couldn't help but stare. You were gone after a few short minutes, leaving me wondering who you were and when I'd have the chance to see you again.

I never napped again on a Thursday night, instead I restlessly hoped for your return. Much to my delight, you stood before me once again. I grew to anticipate seeing your face on Thursday nights along with the others. It became my ritual to watch you quietly, hanging on your every word.

I've always had a thing for guys like you. I just can't shake it, and trust me I've tried. You're hard working, kind-hearted, charming and oh-so-gorgeous. What's not to love?

I'm pretty sure I'm not your type, I'd peg you as a tall, skinny blonde-loving kind of guy. I am certainly not that girl, but I'm also pretty sure you'd love me.

What do you say, let's see more of each other?

xoxo,

Tiffany

Letter #1: A Letter to Your Best Friend

2011-01-13T22:49:00.001-05:00

Dear Shayna,

I’ve only carried only a few true friends with me into adulthood, but you were the first and for that you hold a special place in my heart.

I remember the first day I saw you. You were sandwiched between your parents on the pulpit at Sherman Street. Before the end of their set, you picked up the microphone and sang “I Am”. I wanted to dislike you because I was 13 and insecure and you were effortlessly beautiful, charming and talented. While I can’t remember our first conversation, I also can’t remember a day after that one that we weren’t the best of friends. Where there was one, there was always the other.

You came into my life at an interesting time. My world was falling apart and I was holding a smile, hoping it would be enough to make it all go away. It wasn’t. But thankfully you were there. Day after day, phone call after phone call. You made the smile real, often times turning it to pee your pants laughter.

A little over a year after we met, my parent’s finalized their ugly divorce and I was on a plane to Florida. The hardest part about leaving home was leaving you. From 1,000 miles away, I used a borrowed, pre-paid cell phone to sneak chats with you from my closet at the end of the each day.

The next time I came home for the summer, you were already in Maryland after being accepted into a top-notch performing arts high school. Already chasing down your dreams. Before long, we were living our own separate lives again. Our relationship consisted of yearly visits at the NIYC convention and random phone calls.

Nevertheless, we remained close enough to hold a conversation for hours, sharing our secrets. You have always been safe. Around you, I open my mouth without hesitation.

On a whim, I decided to take you up on an offer to visit you in New York City while we were both enjoying (or enduring) our last year of college, you at The Juilliard School and me at good ole’ Ball State University.

The hour bus ride back to the city was the most awkward we’d ever shared. We literally spent the time trying to figure how many years it had been since we’d last seen each other. I can’t remember the answer to that, only that it was too many. After some Spanish food and a few of Harry’s margaritas things got back to normal. Although some re-acquainting was in order. Your voice had a more serious tone; you were living on your own in the City, doing laundry and cooking. You were a grown up.

The memories I have of that week are among my fondest. I still laugh out loud when I think of ripping my pants in Central Park, the disappointment I felt when you told me you didn’t eat hot dogs as we passed Gray’s Papaya, the happy hours spent in serious (albeit tipsy) conversation at Harry’s and the night before I went home, when I sat down on the floor and let you cut my hair. All of it.

I returned home the next morning, overjoyed to be reunited with my best friend. I’m proud to know you, blessed to love you and grateful to call you friend.

Now, if we could just fix this long distance thing... 

 I love you forever,  

Tiffany

A New Challenge

2011-01-12T22:17:00.001-05:00

I've neglected this blog lately for two reasons: 1. I've been pouring all of my writing energy into the Invictus Writers book project (which I'll tell you more about later) and 2. I've found it much harder to write my truth in public now that I'm a member of the real world.

I've been told that I'm a very private person, and I would agree that I am. I realize the irony of that as I write a very public blog post on my ever so personal blog. But, I'm a writer by nature and have been since before the life of this blog and the other social networking sites where I choose to my life in public.

It all seemed much less intimidating when I started, a college kid shuffling around on campus with 22,000 other kids. But fast forward to 6 months post-college and I'm a professional (though I can't bring myself to say that in real life), surrounded by clients, colleagues, bosses, endless responsibilities and overwhelming pressure. Needless to say I've found myself retreating back into my little shell.

But, I've been lurking as always because the blogosphere is still my home. When my friend Ashley or @SmashFizzle (her Twitter handle since we've never met in person), started 30 Days of Letters I gushed with excitement. And when my brilliant former classmate and friend, Megan, joined in I knew I couldn't resist. Another friend, Sierra, said that if I'd do it, she would too.

And so it begins again, my first challenge since the 90-in-90. Starting tomorrow I'll be writing 30 letters for 30 days in the company of some amazing women.

It feels kind of Ya-Ya sisterhood-ish. In a good way. My letters will be posted here, but be sure to keep up with Ashley, Megan, and Sierra as well.

30 Days of Letters

Day 1 — Your Best Friend
Day 2 — Your Crush
Day 3 — Your parents
Day 4 — Your sibling (or closest relative)
Day 5 — Your dreams
Day 6 — A stranger
Day 7 — Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush
Day 8 — Your favorite internet friend
Day 9 — Someone you wish you could meet
Day 10 — Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to
Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to
Day 12 — The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain
Day 13 — Someone you wish could forgive you
Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from
Day 15 — The person you miss the most
Day 16 — Someone that’s not in your state/country
Day 17 — Someone from your childhood
Day 18 — The person that you wish you could be
Day 19 — Someone that pesters your mind. Good or bad
Day 20 — The one that broke your heart the hardest
Day 21 — Someone you judged by their first impression
Day 22 — Someone you want to give a second chance to
Day 23 — The last person you kissed
Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory
Day 25 — The person you know that is going through the worst of times
Day 26 — The last person you made a pinky promise to
Day 27 — The friendliest person you knew for only one day
Day 28 — Someone that changed your life
Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to
Day 30 — Your reflection in the mirror

Until Then

2010-12-01T22:29:00.003-05:00

It’s painfully still in this downtown apartment. Hours pass before I blink and wonder what’s next. I’m comforted by the sound of cars whizzing by and airplanes roaring overhead as the smell of smoke rises from the jazz lounge on the first floor.

It’s just enough to remind me that I’m not as alone as I feel up here, away from the small town homeliness I’m trying to forget.

I had myself convinced that this place would be everything I needed to shape the life that I wanted. It all made perfect sense just a few short months ago. I’d be a young professional in the city with a PR/advertising gig by day to pay the bills while the nights spent writing in the coffeehouse on the corner would keep my soul alive. I’d become friends with the single strangers in the quaint little cafés on Saturday afternoons. I’d be busy. I’d be full. I’d be content.

But.

It’s empty. All of it. And harder to fill than I ever could have imagined.

I’ve had trouble finding the words lately. The feelings. I know they’re there, but I can’t reach them.

Until then, it’s just me, the sounds and the stillness.

When It All Stays The Same

2010-11-21T20:31:00.002-05:00

Sometimes it feels like a punishment.

This aloneness that follows me everywhere I go. From one side of the country to the other, from adolescence to young adulthood.

The story remains the same.

The long weekends of silence once the busyness of life has slowed. The phone that doesn’t ring, the knock that doesn’t come.

And so I stay locked away inside myself.

I spend more time in this apartment than I should, fixing carefully crafted meals for one and turning into bed early; an attempt to escape the crushing loneliness that has permeated this space.

I lie down and dream that maybe tomorrow there will be someone who wants to stick around for a while. There’s got to be someone.

I told myself long ago, there will either be a time when it all changes, or it’ll all stay the same. It seems that the latter is true. Maybe this is the thorn in my flesh, the ache that I’ll be reminded of daily in the midst of joyful moments and contentedness.

And because I can’t spend my life waiting, I go looking for those moments in places where it feels ok to be alone. These have always been my favorite, the bookstores, cafés and darkened movie theaters, where I can busy myself without a companion.

Today, while my dinner was simmering in the Crock Pot, I lunched in a place that’s frequented by friends and lovers. Alone.

I forewent the security blanket that is my laptop. But I did bring along a hearty novel, just in case.

I swooped in and took the only table for two left. The place was packed; the chatter and laughter of friends and young families surrounded me.

I ordered quickly and opened the book, hiding my face until my plate came. When it did I looked up to thank my waiter and spotted at the very back of the restaurant an older man, with a long salt and pepper ponytail resting on his neck. He held a book in front of his face, looking around at the flip of each page.

I caught his eye for only a second, which was long enough to get me wondering whether this was his joyful moment, or the end of a long string of mornings waking up alone.

Once More, With Feeling

2010-08-22T22:41:00.002-04:00

August 21, 2010

I turned 23 today. And it was a little disappointing as birthdays and other so-called monumental occasions tend to be. As there is often the absence of some feeling we were desperately hoping to feel again or for the very first time.

For some reason, I thought spending my time here in Tampa would feel less lonely, but the loneliness is within—that’s always been the problem.

However, after eight days away I’m refreshed enough to go back to Indiana with a new attitude to accompany my new job. A new start to a new life, hopefully something a little more like what I’ve always imagined.

Soon, I’ll have my own place. Somewhere that feels like my home again. It’s been too long.

There are so many changes on the road ahead. I’m overwhelmed by the thought of it all. I spent my whole summer trying to get ahead and now I’ve got to catch up to where I’ve gotten.

How it’s all going to happen—I’m not sure. But it’s got to.

All of it.

The weight has got to come off. It will require all of my strength and discipline, considering the circumstances. I’ve got no other choice when I think of it every day and feel ashamed of my body. It’s time. I’m secretly hoping the physical changes will attract the man I’m waiting for. Whomever he is.

That, without a doubt, violates some self-love law, but it’s my truth.

There are other grown-up things to deal with—skeletons to evict, dreams to chase, loves to let go. You know, the gut-wrenching things that are impossible to prepare for.

I told a friend the other day that I’m almost happy. A little more than yesterday and even more tomorrow, I hope. Maybe it’s a natural progression, something I’ll work my way into when the time is right.

Or maybe it’s one of those feelings.

The Summer I Fell Out of Love

2010-07-18T15:01:00.000-04:00

It’s taken me months to get through this in my head.

Months to regain some sense of sanity and control over my emotions towards this person that I’ve known all along wouldn’t take the risk and love me back.

It’s been a long, quiet journey. One I haven’t shared here one the page, my most sacred of places. Nor have I even uttered a word of it to my closest friends.

It was silent misery, the tears on my pillow every night when I thought of him before drifting off to sleep.

All I wanted is to not love him or for him to let himself love me back.

And there were many a times when I thought I saw the latter happening. When he looked at me with eyes I’d never seen and lost his words mid-sentence, recovering only after looking away for a long moment.

It was the kind of love that I fell into on accident. Gradually the crushing became a little less cute and carefree. I found myself vying for his attention, his adoration.

And I got it. And, of course it left me wanting more. All of his attention and adoration.

And that’s what never came.

Then the anger set in, the bitterness.

His every word, even the ones I once thought were sweet and charming made my blood boil.

In my anger I began to wonder, is this what I want? To convince someone that I’m worth their love and affection. To tell them that I’m okay to love?

Of course not. So I took a step toward real love–which starts with me–and let the agony go.

As for him, he’s just a small part of a much bigger lesson.

Scavenger Hunt

2010-06-07T20:19:00.004-04:00

I spent yesterday with a friend doing a random assortment of things including but not limited to: picking out a bike (for her), geeking out an old car show, and scavenging through the Goodwill for books and decorative pieces.

Throughout the day—and night— we laughed and talked and laughed some more.

The theme of the conversation that broke our fits of laughter: Restructuring.

Newness has enveloped us both. As twenty-somethings there are constantly gains, losses and unexpected transitions.

And sometimes on a Saturday afternoon while rifling through books at the Goodwill you realize that your life is not what you expected. That you are not quite who you want to be. (Which is not a dig on used-book hunting, that will continue.)

Life has a way of breaking the fits of laughter, it seems. Whether it is in the form of an emotional upset, over-packed schedules or the aforementioned gains, losses and transitions.

At some point, though, there is a sense of urgency to get things back in working order.

I’ve reached that point.

It’s time for me to make a constant effort to be who I want to be. To make my life what it should be.

I’ve settled into my internship now, and I love it.

But, the 9-5 life or 7:30-6:30 life, actually, has consumed my energy. My creativity has wane, which is the most frightening thing for me.

As much as I enjoy my internship, I am incredibly frustrated by the lack of dimension in my life. The same was true of being a full-time student. And I feared the emptiness that I’m experiencing now.

It’s time to make my life full.

And so a new adventure begins, one with much more purpose than so many of my others.

I’m off to rifle trough the monotony of life in search of those precious things, people and places that will keep me happy, inspired and full.

Simple Words And Melodies

2010-06-06T03:36:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I wish that someone were here with me now.

A warm body to brush against. Breathing, other than my own, to fill the silence.

And I’m sure that just being here would be enough.

That anything more would be too much.

***

In 2006, my already fragile world was destroyed. In a matter of minutes.

I fainted at first. Then, I laughed out of shock. Then I defended the betrayer, at my expense.

It was—is—far more than I’ve ever had the courage to explain. It is something I dread explaining to the person that’s around long enough to deserve an explanation

That’s how the chips fell. It was my trust that was irreparably damaged. Four lonely years later, I know for sure it was, indeed, irreparable.

My only confidante is this page, full of the words I wish I could speak to that warm, breathing body. Which sometimes, in a moment of bravado, with trembling hands and a sour stomach, I have the courage to share with strangers and associates and friends.

***

Other times not.

The nots are not good for my sanity. I am eaten up on the inside. And I lay in this room with simple words and melodies playing on repeat.

And I pray for sleep. Or the courage to speak. Or to forget.

All of my excitement about this new life complete with my own place and agenda are tainted by the right now. These reality pangs.

No matter how great the day, there is always a lonely night with more longing than I can handle gracefully.

***

Sometimes, I wish that I were full.

That the nights were as pleasant as the days.

That I knew which parts of me were real and which are just remnants of the destruction, waiting to be sifted.

Nots

2010-05-25T21:20:00.001-04:00

Life is an interesting hue these days.

I can't say exactly what I expected, only that this is not it.

Some things, like the internship, have worked out brilliantly. I fretted for an entire year about securing an internship. Sweated, nearly had anxiety attacks and doubted myself each time one of my fellow students came back with their exciting news.

Just in the nick of time, though, I came back with my own exciting news; securing a full-time internship at an advertising and PR agency and another at a social media and marketing company. I accepted the agency internship and I just hoped that I'd enjoy my summer. And that I'd be busy. And that it would all be enough.

Thankfully, I absolutely love the internship. And I'm busier than I could have imagined; exhausted by each day's end.

But it's not enough. There are things—people—missing.

This is what I've always feared. In that irrational way that only makes sense because I feel it. It is the kind of fear that only slips out in my writing. The kind that people, who don't know me the way they think they do, question.

Those people don't know the stories that feed the fear. That just tonight, I nearly begged a friend to hang out with me this weekend (and after typing that I'm confident that won't be happening again, weekends on my own aren't THAT bad).

This wouldn't be honest writing if I didn't acknowledge the resentment I've felt the last few months. I've never had many friends, but when I have them, I am a friend.

As it turns out, I define that differently than a great many of the people I've met. There are some, a precious few, that understand that word in the same way that I do. It has never failed, though, that life pulls us a measurable and tangible distance apart.

Maybe that's the way it's meant to be.

Or maybe this is the voice of fear, not as removed from me as I expected.

The Awfulness of Endings, Surprises and New Beginnings

2010-05-16T00:35:00.002-04:00

I live my life quietly, most of the time.

Until the silence begins to eat away at my sanity, stains my cheeks with unexplained tears and weighs my breaths with heaviness and anxiety.

And so here I am.

I’ve been busy these past few weeks, finishing up the last classes of my undergraduate career, enjoying my mom’s graduation and then my own and getting my feet wet with a full-time internship at a full service PR and advertising agency.

There hasn’t been time for silence or stillness.

***

This is my first free weekend in a long while, the second night that I’ve found myself laying silently in my bed, thinking.

I think it’s safe to say that I’ve now made it through another ending.

There is a bit of sadness, as there always is; disappointment, as there always is; and surprise, another constant element in the midst of change.

These are things that I’ve ignored, refused to acknowledge, through the slow-down that preceded the end and the quick pick up that was the new beginning.

Endings are terrible. I dread them with reason; the goodbyes that only one of us knows is the last, the unmet expectations, the longing that I’ve learned will never subside.

***

And I’d like to skim over the details: the tears that I refused to cry, the people that broke my heart by not being there, the words left unsaid.

But silence makes such skimming hard, if not impossible, to do.

It’s been a much smoother transition than I expected; my first steps into the big wide world.

Even still, I’ve found myself hurting and longing, disappointedly.

I had a bit of an outburst while on the phone with a friend the other day, after which I was able to process all of the emotion that is now making its way to the surface.

***

It comes down to letting go. Something I’ve got to do. The sooner the better.

To wave goodbye, as I nearly shouted on the phone, to those that have decided that they don’t want to be here with me as I expected them to be. As they said they’d be.

To stop loving the boy that I keep letting break my heart with his indecision.

To stop hoping, waiting, foolishly for the things that I know will never come.

***

There were—are—however, some beautiful surprises in the midst of all the shuffling.

There are some people that I’m not saying goodbye to as soon as I’d expected. And others that have found their way back in my life- even if only for a catching up of sorts

I got a kick-ass internship, something that I worried anxiously about all semester. And I’m enjoying it much more than I thought I would.

I participated in the commencement ceremony with the people I’ve spent the last two years with and grown to love. It’s a memory we can all share, sitting out on the quad chatting (during the commencement speech) and laughing that last time before we scattered off to find—and make— our own places in the world.

These are the things that I’ll hold on to, open-handedly, of course, as I let go of the gut wrenching awfulness that I expect at each end.

It is the surprises that will usher in the new beginning.

Elements Outside My Control

2010-05-05T01:34:00.002-04:00

I’ve anticipated this week for months.

I’ve dreaded the emotion— or lack of— that I associated with these last days. I’ve been too busy for it though.

Until now.

It’s finals week, and as a senior my remaining obligations are ones I am left to manage on my own. I’ve got one paper left to revise and another yet to write.

I’ve spent the entire day at home. I’ve busied my mind with cleaning, organizing, planning my summer and collecting recipes, pages and pages of recipes. No paper writing, as my motivation is wane and my mind already past this point in time.

***

I’ve spent a lot of time envisioning what my life will look like after these next three months.

This move home, though purposed, assailed my independence in a way I didn’t expected. Which is the main reason that I considered packing up once again and getting on a plane back to Tampa immediately following graduation.

It wasn’t at all the way it was planned. I’ve taken care of myself since I was 14, when I had to just figure it out step by step and keep moving. Since then, I’ve worked to make it work. No questions asked.

I am proud of my independence during that time; the courage I had to navigate a new city and build a new life away from everything I knew.

I’ve always had an independent spirit. I try to live with as few attachments as possible, something that’s hurt a few people along the way.

I can recall countless conversations I've initiated about establishing boundaries and holding on with open hands. I am overly protective of my freedom and my time.

***

All this because I know that once I’m in, I’m in. With my love and affection, I am relentless.

I am attached now. My heart has been won, it seems. It’s beating for more than just me, aching for more than just me, leaping for more than just me.

On nights like tonight, when I’m enjoying my aloneness and the solitude that comes from being disconnected, I hate this.

This reminder that my life is never entirely my own. That I am loving right now.

Something that I wish I had a little more control over.

But, I haven't fled and I haven't shut down. When it comes to the things I can control, I'm figuring it out.

Disappointment

2010-05-02T23:14:00.004-04:00

The memory of my 14^th birthday party has been swimming in my head for the past couple of weeks.

My family doesn’t do big birthdays. Not that I can remember. Then again, the memory of my life at home breaks somewhere after early childhood at about five or six years old to this adolescent stage where I was anticipating my parent’s divorce and then dealing, as best I could, with the aftermath.

That year, though, I decided to plan my own party. I began telling my Mom exactly what I wanted a week—maybe two— in advance.

Even then, in the time when we are trying desperately to impress our peers, I had an appreciation for the simplicity of things. I wanted a small get-together at my house with grilled hot dogs, my mom’s macaroni and cheese and my godmother’s famous baked-beans.

I invited three of my closest friends from school, my new best friend from church and her parents, my youth pastor, and my extended family. We sent little invitations that my Mom wrote up, and I was excited.

My birthday was on a Sunday. We went to church as usual and came back to my house afterward. The majority of those invited went to church with us and followed us back to the house, changed out of their Sundays’ best and settled in for the party.

Everyone was hungry, as people generally are, after spending the morning in church. My mom and godmother finished preparing the food in the kitchen and everyone lined up at the counter ready for the food that was assembled buffet style.

My Dad scolded me when I jumped to the front of the line and told me that guests eat first. (I will let my kids eat first on their birthdays, but it was a good lesson in hospitality.)

Embarrassed, I sat down at the table and waited for my friends from school to arrive.

And waited.

There was laughter and movement all around me when my world stopped.

I remember trying indiscreetly to get my moms attention. When I did, I whispered in her ear that my friends hadn’t shown up and no one had brought any gifts or cards (except my godmother). To the first she told me to call them and to the second she said something to the effect of so what, before she went back to being a good hostess.

I grabbed the phonebook before I sat back down at the table searching for phone numbers. I couldn’t reach anyone.

They never showed up.

***

I was popular growing up. People always knew my name, adults because I was the daughter of a teacher and administrator and kids because I was athletic and tried a bit of everything as a kid.

But, I’ve never had a lot of friends.

Quality over quantity became my motto somewhere along the way, when I started having to explain.

This isn’t always an issue though, until the three don’t show up.

***

I’ve been arguing back and forth with my Mom this past week over the phone and this weekend in person.

I’m one week away from graduation now and I’m anxious.

Both about the actual graduation ceremony—I’m a little paranoid that they won’t call my name because this May ceremony, much bigger and more celebratory than the July ceremony isn’t really mine, since I have yet to complete my internship requirement—and my post graduation celebration.

When I got permission to walk in May, I told my mom that I wanted a small get-together after the graduation; just my family and close family friends together for an afternoon at park with hot dogs and hamburgers.

My mom got my grandma on board with the planning and addressing of the graduation announcements and invitations.

My grandma is a socialite and its spun out of control now.

While I have no idea who will actually show up, very few of the invitations have been sent to people that I actually know and feel close to.

Last night at dinner, complete with the divorced parents, my grandma and step-grandpa sister and niece and nephew, I lost it.

“I never wanted it to be something you guys would have to fuss over, I said.” Hot dogs and hamburgers at the park, I continued. That’s all I want.”

That’s all it is, my grandmother said. You can’t just do these things without any planning.

It’s not fun for me when I’m surrounded by strangers, I continued, this frustration that’s been building now overflowing.

Well, you haven’t told me any of the friends you want me to invite, my Mom said.

“I don’t have friends to invite, I keep telling you,” I snapped back.

***

The word friend is something pretty weighty to me, granted to only those that I know will show up.

I’m in another one of those weird transition phases with my friendships. My closest friends are in Florida, living their lives. Our communication is almost nonexistent now. Our lives are going on, moving further from the time when we were bonded so tightly.

And I’ve made a few connections here, people whose company I enjoy. But the timing, as it often is, is bad.

It’s the disappointment I’m worried about. Sitting at the table waiting while the party continues around me.

Those that do show up, however, will be greeted with a smile, warm hug, and genuine thank you. Another lesson in hospitality I’ve learned along the way.

Scarlet

2010-05-02T00:35:00.001-04:00

I find myself here on nights like tonight when I'm holding back. Stuck in a loop with this song that doesn't make much sense unless it resonates. Which, for me, it does.

90/90

2010-04-29T00:07:00.000-04:00

The end is never quite what I expect it to be. But, we know what they say about expectations.

I’ve been anticipating this end for 90 days. I assumed that there would be this huge exhale, an incredibly satisfying sense of accomplishment, that I’d celebrate somehow, even.

As it turns out, I’m laying in my bed trying desperately not to fall asleep.

It’s not that I’m not excited or proud of this accomplishment, I am. But, the most powerful part of this process happened on some unmarked day along the way.

***

My professor and mentor, Brad, threw down the challenge 90 days ago. 91, actually.

On Day 1, Brad, Megan and I were sitting around drinking coffee, eating blueberry pancakes and talking writing; something we did a few times throughout this journey.

I remember the panic that washed over me when Brad asked if we were in, if we’d commit to writing and publishing every day for 90 days. Here I was sitting with two writers, who in conversation reference writers that I’ve never heard of, let alone read.

Publish every day, I asked back nervously.

I knew it only be a matter of time before I was found out. Words weren’t made for hiding.

Mine has been an unpursued passion outside of the pages of my journals and unofficial “blogs”. I’ve toyed with the pursuit many times over, never quite sure how far I could go, choosing to stop before I was crushed and devastated.

***

I didn’t think I could do it. I thought sure at some point, far before 90/90 that I’d run out of words and creative energy.

And I did, several times. It’s evident in the writing, the peaks and valleys, excitement and misery, assuredness and angst. It’s all there. Because I kept writing.

I stopped staring at the screen while entertaining my fears and started writing.

I’ve got no doubt that the crushing devastation will come, sooner rather than later. I expect that.

At which point, I’ll remember the 90 posts in 90 days where I learned that I must write on both the days that I feel like a writer and the days I feel like a fraud. I must write on the days when the words bubble up on the inside and explode on the page and the days that I force them, letter by letter. I must write when I am empty and when I am full.

I must write.

And I assume that this ending is empty because it’s actually a beginning.

On To the Next (89/90)

2010-04-28T02:24:00.002-04:00

I started working at 7 p.m.; hunkered down, turned my phone off and began plugging away.

I got lost in the moment, which ended up lasting over four hours. The only other time this happens is when I’m writing. Really writing. Last semester many a Thursday and Friday nights once the hustle and bustle of the week settled, I’d write and re-write and write some more, losing hours without an ounce of regret.

But, that hasn’t happened at all recently. The stress, anxiety and exhaustion of this last semester have kept me grounded. Always right here, consciously pushing through every single minute.

So despite the amount of work that awaits me still at 1:15 a.m., I feel good.

I spent the evening working on my social media project. There were—and still are—a lot of logistics to work out but people have begun to share their stories and pictures and it’s been thrilling to say the least.

It was refreshing to get outside of my head and focus my energy on something bigger than me.

The 90 in 90 challenge is just about over now.

And throughout these 90 days I’ve worried about the end, as I always do. The warm-up period, as I dubbed it, is over and it’s time for the writing to become something more.

Thankfully, my social media project, presents the perfect opportunity to develop my first real writing project. I found that the recurring theme in the meta-monologue that has been my writing thus far has been an exploration of identity and appearance.

The site asks one simple question: When was the first time you were made aware of your appearance? I think that all of us has one very memorable, often times painful or uncomfortable memory of that moment.

As I share, I’m asking people to share with me. It is through these stories that I’ll embark on the first of my adventures in storytelling.

Little Breakthroughs (88/90)

2010-04-27T02:24:00.002-04:00

I used to cry when I got my hair cut at the salon.

Actually, I’d be my sweet little self in the chair, holding my tears, disappointment and frustration until my Mom picked me up. I’d always ask her to do the talking before she left me sitting there in that chair in the hands of some adult that I was too shy to speak with.

Tell them not to cut it, I’d remind her naggingly.

Sometimes she would, sometimes she wouldn’t. Sometimes they’d listen, sometimes they wouldn’t.

I’ve always had healthy, strong hair. Which for me meant that I had no qualms about abusing it through excessive heat and color treatments (once I was old enough). But, the heat and chemical damage would always catch up with me.

I’d cringe as I watched my hair fall from my head, to the apron tied loosely around me, to its final resting place on the floor, snipped quickly and carelessly by the stylist.

Still, I’d sit with my book in my hands, pretending that I wasn’t even fully aware of what was happening. I’ve always tried extremely hard not to be difficult, even if it meant I’d have to cry later. Once the stylist was finished and handed me the mirror I’d glance too quickly to see anything. Then, I’d smile, give a nod of approval and push the mirror away.

My mom would breeze in and begin laughing and talking with the stylist, the way that she does with just about everyone. I’d grow irritable and anxious as I sat waiting to get in the car to whine and complain and figure out how to work with what had just been done.

***

I’ve never been one for change when it comes to my appearance. I’m a minimalist; I find basic pieces and styles that work and add personality with (still very basic) accessories.

And pull it all together with the hair. I allow the hair, more than the clothes, to speak for me.

When my team for my capstone class decided to add a little flair to our professional dress to match our fashion forward retail client, I immediately said, I’ll blow out my hair, but that’s all I got.

And so I finally went through with it for the first time. I blew it out that morning and rocked the big hair and a little bit of attitude. Of course, it was a little uncomfortable, but it was because of the big hair that day that I felt as fashionable as the girls that accessorized our all-black attire with fancy make-up, shoes and other bright jewelry.

***

In the year that I’ve been natural, I’ve done little by way of maintenance to my hair. Aside from being busy and a little lazy there’s a lot I’ve still got to learn in terms of caring for natural hair.

Needless to say, I’ve gone without a trim the entire year. My hair has been shedding and knotting like crazy and, as I’ve read on the natural hair blogs, that’s how you know it’s time. Past time, actually.

After a few days of the blow out I decided to give the trim a shot. Myself.

I held small sections between my fore and middle fingers, pulling each one straight and trimming all that I could see through, as I’d inconspicuously watched the stylist do to my relaxed hair for so many years.

It took double the time I thought it would—two hours— and I needed to trim more than I anticipated. I didn’t fret too much about the length because one of the great things about natural hair is that it grows like weeds. It’s already longer than when I cut it last year.

But, I did hold off bringing the curls (and shrinkage) back to life with a fresh wash.

Until tonight, specifically because I knew I was in for a shock. I’ve got so much thick, fluffy hair that it was hard to tell any difference when it was still blown out. But I knew the trim would be apparent after the wash.

And it was. My hair feels much better and was easier to detangle, which was the point.

But, I can’t look in the mirror. Not for long. Still, I’ve decided to skip the whining and complaining and go straight to figuring out what can be done with what I’ve just done.

Beyond (87/90)

2010-04-26T02:45:00.005-04:00

There is but one week left of classes now, plus a few last obligations during finals week. There are only three days left of the 90 in 90 challenge (though I’m over an hour late on 87/90 now) and I’m looking ahead.

I hope to spend the summer interning in Indy though I haven’t been offered an internship yet. I’ve just decided, within the past month, that I’ll stay here this year instead of returning to Tampa as I had considered. I think it may be good for me to be still for a little while and try to establish myself as a real grown-up.

I’m too worn out to panic over how quickly these last days are passing. Instead, I’m reveling in each moment spent with the people I’ve grown to love and planning the summer and next few years ahead.

Depending on how the internship prospects play out, I may get a part-time job at one the malls in Indy and try to save every penny that I can (which may turn out to be a problem if I get a job at a bookstore, like I’d hope to) in order to get my own place as quickly as possible.

Outside of the internship maybe part-time job, this summer will be all about the writing and the reading. As I said in the beginning, where the 90 in 90 ends, the real challenge begins.

It’s time to start developing the first real writing project (and handing the work over for critique). I’m excited about incorporating stories from my social media project, but first I’ve got to really ramp it up on that spend a lot of time building that community and finding the stories that I want to tell.

I’m excited for the time I’ll have to read non-assigned books. I’ll start with the four books that have gone untouched on my nightstand since the middle of this semester and then tackle the reading list that I’ve begun to assemble with some classics that I’ve yet to experience and some more modern creative non-fiction.

To fuel this writing, reading, interning filled summer, I’m going to try to give up red meat come and stick to a core-foods diet plan. I’ve also got four new Jillian Michaels hard core workout DVD’s in addition to the several others that I added to my collection last year when I was obsessed with the weight loss. I want it all to feel less like a punishment this time though, so I’m trying to figure that out. And I’ve contemplated starting a weekly weight loss vlog for accountability’s sake. We’ll see.

I think I’m nearing the point where I’m ready to close this chapter and begin the next; life beyond college and writing beyond the blog. I’ve got no choice really, that point is nearing, whether I’m ready or not.

Blue-Gray (86/90)

2010-04-26T00:32:00.001-04:00

I’m not quite sure what to do with myself right now.

I feel a bit unsettled and antsy. This is a night that if were in Tampa I’d take a long drive over the bridge, surrounded by only the blueness of the water and the grayness of the sky.

There is no distraction for a nagging heartache. And as much as I want to go, somewhere—anywhere— I know that it is inescapable.

I’ve thought a lot about my disappointment over this finality that fully realizing now and I think it goes beyond him and us.

***

My hope has been ashamed. Which of course makes hope feel, well, foolish.

I am always ill prepared for endings. Not because I don’t anticipate them, but because I’m always holding out hope for some huge transformation. One that never really happens. And I know that. But I hope.

***

I’ve spent nearly the entire weekend in, something I denied myself the past few months.

I’ve made a few associates over this last semester ones whom I’m comfortable enough around to spend long periods of time. And I’ve tried to become more social. But, as evidenced by the irritability after too many weekends out and about, I am not a socialite. And I’m allowing myself to realize that I never will be.

I needed this weekend alone desperately; the time to clear my head, to be still and quiet. And for the first time in months I feel ready for the week ahead: the last of my undergraduate classes.

Still, I am without contentment. Longing for someone here that gets me. Someone that I needn’t perform for.

***

There’s something that my old pastor used to say over and over from the pulpit, and I’m not sure if it’s meat or bones, but it’s stuck with me: People change, but not that much.

Herein lies the disappointment. It is with me. Not with us, or the end of the idea of us.

This is my life and I’m always hoping for huge transformations that just aren’t happening.

My move here was multi-purposed and it’s hard to explain it without explaining the year that preceded it. But, I set out to add some dimension to my life. I stopped living in and for church and planned on finding and indulging in things that would fill me back up and consume my time.

That first year back was the loneliest, emptiest year of my little life.

I didn’t gain the friends that I convinced myself would be so easy to make, the Midwestern boys didn’t fawn over me the way that my mom assured me they would and I didn’t have the courage to fully pursue this dream.

I remember the lunches by myself day after day where I hid in corners and tried not to cry or stare at the people around me doing—being— everything I said I would.

This, all of it, is not turning out the way that I expected two, five, ten years ago. It’s emptier than happy-endings and new beginnings should be.

And besides hope for some huge transformation, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.

Fool That I Am (85/90)

2010-04-25T01:22:00.003-04:00

There was an unfortunate happening last night that sucked me into a whirlwind.

I shouldn’t even call it a happening, really. It was just a conversation that I witnessed online. Which is the ironic thing about the amount of time that I spend behind my computer, away from the world— I still don’t miss much.

And the little pings back and forth in cyberspace are no different than the subtleties that I am never able to miss in real life, because I’m far too observant than I need to be.

I dreamed about this day, a little over three months ago. I remember waking up feeling exactly as I do now; torn and broken but ready to move on somehow. So, I wrote. I’ll share bits and pieces of what was too raw to publish then and still is, because maybe this is the somehow.

***

I woke up from a dream this morning that I keep convincing myself was just a dream. It was one of those that lingers, stays with you all day heavy on your heart, but it’s hard to recall the details with your head.

I remember that it broke my heart because it still feels broken although I know it wasn’t real.

We talked last night, intimately, in the way that we do when we’re not crying from laughing too hard. And I felt exhilarated. I remembered thinking, now if only any of the ones after me now could talk with me like this; this is a conversation worth having.

As we said our goodbyes he said: Don’t go too fast, I want to experience some things with you.

And I let my heart get excited, as I wondered exactly what he meant.

I dreamed that finally, he was with me and I with him. The happy ending that I’ve always hoped for. That’s until I saw his phone, and his plans to rush off and be with her.I thought it couldn’t be real. I would have even chosen to believe the “we’re just friends” lie again, but instead he confirmed my fears when he said: “I want to be with her, I choose her.”

And what can be said to that?

I’ve got no defense for my selfish love; one that fills me, but keeps him from what—whom— he really wants.

***

I spent last night and the better part of the day trying to determine why this story is one that keeps repeating.

I’ve always been described as loyal, and I am to a fault. My heart is won over too easily and I never walk away when all the warning signs say that I should.I keep telling myself that I’ll soon reach the point where those things will work in my favor. But that hasn’t proven true just yet.

Because for me, it means something when he feels comfortable enough to talk to me through the night and into the morning, quiet only once he lays his head in my lap to sleep. But all that was really meant by that is that I was a comfortable, safe resting place.

Which isn’t what he wanted after all.

This is number three of such happenings, though. All within different contexts but devastating just the same. For the past several years my life has been full of these almost, should be, would-have-beens.

And it’s the almosts that are the most crushing and humiliating, because like that conversation that I witnessed last night, they never happen quietly or with any intention of secrecy.

I’ve grown tired of it all, really.

I feel these breaks happening every time. It’s time that I stop waiting for the crumble to realize that such happenings aren’t actually so unfortunate.

Pressure (84/90)

2010-04-23T19:48:00.002-04:00

I get sick at the end of each semester. It's something I've come to expect, beyond the exhaustion, it's the mere result of running my body into the ground for 16 consecutive weeks.

The week before my 100-page research paper was due last year, I was derailed by a stomach flu that had me stuck in bed for five whole days, unable to keep my eyes open for longer than thirty minutes or move—at all—without getting sick.

But it's never quite at the end, truthfully. It's always right about now when I need all that's left to carry me through to the last day of finals. And this time that walk across the stage.

Yesterday, after my interview and time spent laughing with my sister, niece and nephew and before I got in bed, I had a sudden bout of ear pressure. Like the moment that you reach the surface after being underwater, immediately jumping out and leaning your head to each side to let the water drip from your ears.

Only, there is no dripping this time. Not yesterday, not yet. Just pressure. My head has spun a few times since then, my laptop screen bouncing and fuzzy as I stare, although I am still.

***

Everything is beginning to run out now, it's just that time. Among them: patience, motivation, energy and my health insurance.

That last one is something I haven't thought much about until now. For whatever reason I thought there would be a seamless transition, but it doesn't look like there will be. I'm thankful that the long overdue health care bill was passed, which was actually the topic of aforementioned 100-page paper. Still, there will surely be be some bumps in the road over the next year or so for me and several years yet until the full implementation.

I don't go to the doctor on my own, I am almost always forced. But, being without the comfort to just up and go makes me more than a little nervous.

***

I've feel the shift happen in my body when I've pushed it right up to the breaking point; a confirmation that it's trying to keep me balanced and well. It's happening now. The coffee starts sending me to sleep, no matter how strong I brew it; I'm losing my appetite and craving only natural foods when I am hungry, the ones I've been depriving myself of while living on-the-go.

I've got to start doing better, and I always say that. All the while avoiding my mom and grandma's questions about the amount of sleep that I'm getting and if I'm cooking more. But, it's especially important now that I start taking better care.

Another thing that will be running out here soon: the excuses.

I think I'm too far gone to expect any dripping or slow, gradual relief. Instead I'm convinced the pressure will cause a burst. And though it will be messy, at this point, it's exactly what I need.

The Ache (83/90)

2010-04-23T09:36:00.003-04:00

I've started this post over at least four times in the past two days.

On these days—weeks—I long only for the journal; the smeared ink on my palm and the ache between my thumb and forefinger. The ink reminds me that I’m writing; the ache confirms there is something worth writing.

Even when it takes pages and pages to realize what that is exactly.

***

I've been wondering how many times I can rewrite the same thing; if I can say it differently enough to fool you, and myself, into thinking that it is, in fact, different.

It’s not. It hasn’t been for the past several weeks. And I’m not sure that it will be any time soon. This isn’t something that I can rush through.

It is the best of times and the worst of times. I was only prepared for the first part.

It’s hard at this point not to assess the past four years of my life. I’m looking around at what I’m walking away with, and what I’m not.

***

My life, on the whole, is not what I thought it would be. And each new realization brings its own pangs of disappointment.

I thought sure that I’d be one of the girls engaged; planning my wedding upon graduation. In reality, I’ve gone all four years without a college boyfriend. The processing on that fact stops there, though, lest I drive myself mad.

It’s been a much lonelier journey than I anticipated. While I’ve made some lovely associates over the past two years, I don’t have the Sex and The City clan; that tight-knit group of college friends that your supposed to share your life with every step of the way. And I can’t help but wonder whom I’ll call when it’s all over and there’s a step worth sharing.

I’m not in love with my major choice of study, which I realized too late in the game. But that’s turning out to be less of a problem than I anticipated; I’ve just got to get in

where I fit in. It’s finding the fit that’s a bit of a challenge.

***

It is exciting at times, but angst-filled mostly. If there’s one mistake I’ve learned not to make again, it’s to build these expectations of what life will be and instead just let it be.

In the meantime, I find solace in the writing; the smeared ink on my palm and the ache in my fingers.

There’s something to be found I’m sure, in the turning of the pages.

Interview Hair (82/90)

2010-04-22T10:14:00.001-04:00

I've got another interview this afternoon; one that I'm really excited about. I really feel like this opportunity may be a perfect fit for me, so cross your fingers.

Outside of the whole selling myself thing, sometimes--okay, 99 percent of the time-- I worry about the first impression; how the interviewer will sum me upon first glance.

Before the last interview I worried a lot about the clothes, knowing that I probably should have been dressed in an all-black professional suit. But after an unsuccessful and discouraging search for new business attire I went without the jacket and wore just the button down and slacks.

The problem: that attire doesn't feel like me. Which is weird because I live in patent leather loafers and cardigans. And that feels like me. But, the traditional business suit just doesn't, which when I think about it, has a lot to do with my body and trying to fit it into a traditional business suit and still look and feel good. I'll have to be okay with that for now, until I figure out what feels like me and still looks like the company that I will represent.

Today, though, I'm worried about the hair. I don't have interview hair.

First, I forgot to mention that I did it. I finally did it; I made good on my promise and wore my hair fro'd fluffy and free. And the freedom of it did feel good. I was proud of myself, especially that by the end of the day, when it had expanded from the heat and humidity to three times the size it was when I left the house, I let it be, resisting the hair ties that I'd worn around my wrist and the headband I'd tucked in my bag.

But mostly I was vulnerable and uncomfortable, as I expected. I want that to feel like me though, because it is me and my hair in all its glory.

Still, I worried about what I'd do with it today come interview time. The girls in the office all gasped at the idea of straightening it, but agreed that I should put it up. Somehow. Because as much as it's not a political statement or an act of rebellion, it's also not interview hair. Not yet. Not for this internship that I want so badly.

I've only begun fighting this battle in my personal life. I'm not even sure where to start in my professional life.

I guess I'll search for one of those interview hairstyle guides, and hope that there's one for the girls with big, fluffy, 'fros.

Losing Things (81/90)

2010-04-20T18:49:00.000-04:00

I don't lose things.

Well, almost never. And that's only because I have a mild case of OCD and am constantly checking to make sure I have the valuables: my wallet, my keys, my phone and my iPod. And by constantly, I mean at least once every hour when I'm out and about. Additionally, I have a spongy memory and an annoying attention to detail, which makes it hard for me to lose things.

But on those rare occasions that I do, I panic. Which is always an ironic experience because I recount in my head all the times that I’ve talked my friends through the panic that accompanies that feeling of loss.

“Just slow down and look,” is what I’d tell my friend Marissa, who would always panic when she couldn’t find her keys immediately. (They were always in the bottom of her purse, by the way.)

I heard those words and my own calm, gentle tone in my head today when I checked my wallet before running downstairs to buy a mid-day caramel macchiato. I always do that too; check to make sure I’ve got my debit card before I jump in line to make a purchase.

But, I knew I hadn’t lost my debit card. Because I don’t lose things. And so I began to panic. I felt my cheeks get hot and my stomach turn.

My debit card has its place just like all of the other valuables. When it’s not in that place, something’s wrong. I didn’t need any help recounting my steps this morning; spongy memory. I bought gas before I left Anderson this morning and a quick and unhappy lunch at Burger King on my way into campus around noon.

I remember the blonde manager handing me back my receipt and I tucked it into my wallet. Her white shirt was open too far and her tie hung loosely around her neck. I assumed that she’d just started her shift and so I sat patiently in my car bobbing my head and rapping along with The Jigga Man as I waited.

But I couldn’t remember the hand-to-hand pass off of my debit card. I thought first that maybe I was tired and hadn’t stuck my card back in its spot. Unlikely, but maybe. So, I ran out of the office and made the trek through campus back to my car.

I peeked through the windows and underneath the car before I unlocked it, sat down and felt around. No card.

At this point, the panic dissolved; completely left my body. I knew either it was gone for good, that I’d dropped it in transit, or it was at the Burger King.

Because I don’t lose things.

I walked back from the commuter lot to the center of campus, grabbed that receipt and called the number on the front.

“I bought food there a few hours ago and I’m not sure that I got my card back. Do you have a debit card there by chance?”

“What’s the name, the girl on the other end asked back” and I knew it then, it was there.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” she mumbled. “Bring your ID in and I’ll give it to ya.”

“I knew it!” I said as I grabbed my things running out of the office again. “I don’t lose things.”

Except for that hour-and-a-half that I spent running around, feeling a lit bit crazy.

Worry (80/90)

2010-04-20T02:24:00.003-04:00

For the past two years, school has been my life. My entire life.

It’s only this last semester that I’ve started doing non-academic things outside of school. And I’m not sure that you can call study sessions that sometimes turn social and reading groups non-academic, the most consistent of my non-academic activities.

But, I’ve said yes to a few invitations to dinner breaks, margaritas after classes and weekend get togethers; offers that I refused for a whole year-and-a-half.

I’m finally comfortable here. But my stay is almost over, and when it is I’m not sure that I’ll know what to do with myself.

***

The year break that I took between high school and college, for various reasons that I won’t get into now, was one of the worst years of my life; second only to the year that followed it, my first at USF.

I was vulnerable and directionless.

In the time that everyone around me was beginning to “find” themselves, I was wandering about, eventually losing myself in murky waters while searching for something–anything– to consume me.

***

I don’t know how to live my live unengaged. I need to be all in, all the time.

Thinking of the emptiness that will fill the weeks ahead nauseates me. With only an internship, which I’ve yet to secure, I’m sure to have free time. Too much free time.

Of course, I’ve got the blog, two of them actually, to keep up with. I’m also starting a summer reading list; a mix of classics that I’ve yet to read and a lot of modern creative nonfiction.

And I’ve picked out a healthy cookbook with recipes for one that I want to cook through since I’ll have the time and I’m ready to get back on track with my lifestyle change; complete with more cooking, less processed foods and consistent workouts.

But, that’s all I’ve got. And I worry that it won’t be enough.

Sticking Around For Goodbyes (79/90)

2010-04-18T18:56:00.002-04:00

Today was another first of the lasts.

I've just settled back in after enjoying the Cardinal Communications end of the year picnic. Though a little chilly, we gathered outside at a picnic nook on campus to enjoy hot dogs and hamburgers, lots of sweet treats (my favorite was Kellie's fruit pizza) and each other's company.

We sat for a while chatting about internships, jobs and all of the projects and assignments we've got left to wrap up. And then we got awards. Most of which were pretty funny, but I'll have to say, mine is strikingly accurate.

"Unable to Function Without A Steady IV of Coffee and Twitter"

I mean, as was mentioned, I did put my friend in charge of my Twitter account while I drove to Chicago for our agency visits. Because four hours is too long to go without a Twitter update. And, it's true it's not often that I am seen without coffee, and there's a reason for that.

It was a fun afternoon and I found myself sticking around longer than I normally do. I even wanted to give everyone a hug as I left. But I didn't. I simply said my goodbyes in passing instead, assuring myself that we'd all see each other again. And we will, we've got two more weeks to spend in the office together, doing a little work while sharing stories, music and giggles.

But I'm bad with goodbyes that way. Most of the time I pretend they're not happening. That we'll see each other again soon, although I know that's often unlikely.

When I left Indiana for Florida, my youth group had a big party for me. Let me first back up and say that I never told anyone that I was leaving. Not one person. I didn't want to acknowledge it, so I didn't. But, it was a messy situation and world travelled fast anyway.

We sat in a big circle in the church annex and each of my friends said something nice about me. Some were funny, some were touching. But, through it all I sat there smily and emotionless. I made jokes as I walked out the door that last time, refusing to be flooded by the reality of the moment.

The same thing happened when I left Florida. I told only a few people and exited as quickly as possible. There was a big party at the gym complete with cake and presents. There were tears, but not mine. One my last day in the gym I laughed with the girls and gave them big obnoxious bearhugs.

It's always a see-ya later with me. I like to believe that soon enough we'll fall right back into step with each other.

But, my experience has proven that to be a rarity.

So over the next two weeks, I'll slow down and try to do a little better with my goodbyes.

Tomorrow (78/90)

2010-04-18T09:32:00.006-04:00

I’m trying to write this before I take another dose of pain medicine and fall back asleep because the past few days have left me with some catching up to do.

But I’m not sure that I’ll make it.

I convinced myself that today would be better. Upon opening my eyes this morning, I realized that it won’t. Which may sound premature, but I know my body. Nearly eight years into this struggle I know that this is as good as it’s gonna get for today. At 9 AM I already know that getting to the mandatory "social gathering" I’ve got in Muncie at 2 PM will be a struggle. But, I’ll make it there, and I’ll be as much myself as I can.

I’m lying in bed with my heating pad turned up to high, burning my back. But it’s not helping. It hasn’t been this bad in a while.

I was certainly caught off guard.

I’ve stuck to my guns though. I didn’t call my mom—okay I did but hung up after a few rings knowing there was nothing she could do or say to help me— and I didn’t curse my doctor under my breath. I did cry, the one thing that by 10pm I couldn’t keep myself from doing.

I’m trying not to let this derail me though, as it so often does. My tenacity is born of anger and frustration. I’ve got to get through; to keep making it work because is no end in sight. I’ve got no other choice but to work through it.

There’s no probable solution.

Especially not for a 22-year old without a significant other and any plans to have children within the next few years. No good doctor wants to touch me; to start surgeries that would be necessary every couple of years without any real promise of a remedy.

And so I just hold on and convince myself that tomorrow will be better.

I hope that it actually is.

Grateful (77/90)

2010-04-17T14:35:00.000-04:00

I've been in bed since I got home from a great day at IPRLS last night. And I'm pretty sure that I'll be in bed for the remainder of the day. Which is fine, because I've learned to make this work.

I've been trying to decide all morning, though it is now afternoon, whether I should be really open and write about what's real for me right now. I'm a pretty open person, I don't have many qualms about sharing things, even very personal things.

But this, especially on the blog, feels weird for me. Which doesn't mean that I think it shouldn't be shared. It should. Because this is how I get through; finding and clinging to those that share. The struggles, the triumphs, the brokenness. The process; the reality of it all.

Yet, I still haven't decided, really. For today anyway. But I did decide against crying, calling my Mom-because she would worry, and muttering expletives under my breath about my new doctor.

In the meantime, I've been searching the blogosphere for the words that have already been written. And surprisingly it didn't require a lot of searching. For that, I am grateful.

So, I started a new folder in my google reader full of voices that will help to get me through when I can't find comfort anywhere else. And until I'm ready to share more, I'll share that.

Time (76/90)

2010-04-15T01:16:00.002-04:00

It's been a one-day at a time kind of week. I keep convincing myself that I’ll make it. Through this week, and the next, and the next.

I've spent nearly two hours tonight just sitting in my room, doing nothing but bouncing around the Web. Catching up on my friends Tweets, status updates and blogs. I also listened to an interview on social media and marketing while browsing the sites of some local communications firms searching for internships and jobs.

I imagine that once this is all over in a few weeks this won't feel like wasted time. It may just be a normal grown-up night.

Just a month ago I would have withered at the thought of such uneventful evenings. (Because staying in the library until 3 a.m. accompanied by only by my Pandora station is so much more appealing.) Now, I can’t wait to have the time to do these little things without feeling rushed or guilty or wasteful.

I can’t wait until I’m free of the things that have lost my interest completely yet still require so much of my time and energy.

I’m starting to feel a little resentful, to be honest. So I’ve started saying no, without any hesitation, to the extra, last minute requests. Which is kind of a big deal for me. Especially if I keep it up after the stress begins to fade.

I, like many of us, have an issue with saying no. I offer more of myself than I am really able to give, and once committed, I find a way to give anyway.

And the problem with that is there’s never quite enough left for me.

I realize that this sounds a bit ridiculous and whiny, which wasn’t my intention. So, let me try to clarify.

The most precious thing we all have to offer is our time. When we go to work we are paid for our time. It is our livelihood.

Several years ago I read a book called The Five Love Languages, which helps readers to determine the way that they express and interpret love. The five love languages are: Words Of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service and Physical Touch.

My love language, of course, is quality time. When someone takes time for me, it means the world. I value others’ time so much because I realize that when someone gives time they’re giving something that they can’t get back. They are, in essence, offering up a piece of their livelihood.

And that, to me, speaks volumes over the other love languages.

But that’s the thing; we’re not all speaking the same language. And I have to remember that.

The past couple of weeks I’ve just about given every free moment of mine away. Which leads me to two hours of nothingness during a busy week. This weekend though, I’ll be planning some time for me.

On the agenda: cooking a few healthy meals, reading (no textbooks), writing before midnight and maybe even some kickboxing.

It’s about time.

98 Percent (75/90)

2010-04-14T02:24:00.000-04:00

I'm swamped tonight, and I haven't much time or energy for a whole lot. Which doesn't mean that I have nothing to share. I do.

I'm finally finishing up my 12-page campaign critique for Dove's Campaign For Real Beauty. Which, for the most part, I love. Dove's mission: To make women feel more beautiful every day by widening the definition of beauty and inspiring them to take great care of themselves, is one that I can totally stand behind.

For the past four days I've been reading poring through the research of The Real Truth About Beauty study, in which Dove sought to explore what beauty means to women and why.

And the findings, though somewhat expected considering the overwhelmingly homogeneous portrayal of beauty in pop culture, were heartbreaking.

Dove collected data from a global study of 3,200 women aged 18-64.

One of the statistics that has been swirling in my head since I read it this weekend is that only 2 percent of women felt comfortable choosing the word "beautiful" to describe their looks. And I was disturbed by that fact until I wondered more about it and became angry.

Not being comfortable describing one's looks as beautiful is not the same as not feeling beautiful.

Comfort, in this case, is an external factor. It is my assumption that only 2 percent of women choose the word beautiful to describe their looks because 1. they look similar to what is what we are quick to call "beautiful" by societal standards, or 2. they are not afraid of the judgement of those that don't stand behind their personalized ideal of beauty.

And both of those things are great. But, the other 98 percent of us have work to do. We can only sit around and wait to be represented for so long. We must represent, proudly.

One of the things I really appreciate about Dove's Campaign For Real Beauty is that it calls on real women to redefine and widen the definition of beauty.

So it's up to us. And time is of the essence.

"It Could All Be So Simple" (74/90)

2010-04-13T00:13:00.001-04:00

Mondays are the long days; 10 hours on campus plus another hour and twenty-five minutes for the commute.

It’s a little after 11 now and I’ve been home for less than 20 minutes. But, I’m already in PJs and under the covers, which really means nothing considering I’ve still got three things to work on before I give in.

I’m not complaining though, because it’s been a good day.

The stress and anxiety that held me last week has released its grip. There is still stress and anxiety, but there is also excitement; a palpable excitement, and that makes everything a little—a lot, actually—better.

I found myself enjoying the little distractions that kept me from my to-do list today, knowing that they would only add to my time working tonight. But they were worth it, each of them. From the chats with friends, in real life and on the social networks, to the long walk for my spinach salad at lunch to catching up (a little at least) on my Google Reader.

I’ve learned that I can’t cut out the simple pleasures, the ones that on weeks like these I find hard to justify, because they take time that I don’t have. But, they keep me sane, and they keep me pleasant. Both of which are very important in the grand scheme of things.

And I’ll need them this week especially.

The week is full of deadlines. On Wednesday is the 12- page campaign critique which I’ve yet to finish but am feeling pretty confident about. Then I’ll switch gears and start the 6,000-7,500-word Marketing paper due on Friday. Which brings us to IPRLS, the event that my Cardinal Communications team has been planning all year. I won’t include the meetings and other smaller assignments that will fill in the gaps.

The graduation planning is off to a great start. I did a lot of running around today searching for the cap and gown and graduation announcements, calling my Mom at every stop. Which is something new for me, calling and asking for help. Letting her help. I’ve even begun to wonder if we’ll start talking every day. Something we’ve never done, even when we lived together.

But, I digress.

On the last call, she informed me of the list for the announcements that she’d built with my grandmother. Zero to 40 in 20 minutes, not including the “& family” added to the names of the matri/ patriarch or the people that I may want to invite.

My grandma also suggested that my picture be on the graduation cake, which I think is tacky and refused for five minutes while on the phone with my mom.

“Just give a little, bend a little,” she replied.

Which means I lost that battle.

But it wasn’t a battle really, because my mom was right. NOT about the cake, but about the giving and the bending.

Which is how I’ll get through this week, and the next three weeks. And I’ll be counting on the excitement, and the distractions.

What It's Supposed To Feel Like (73/90)

2010-04-11T22:39:00.006-04:00

After too much thinking and flip-flopping on my decision, I received permission to walk in the May commencement ceremony this morning.

Which happens to be only 28 days from now on May 8.

This is what I wanted but thought I couldn't have because of my internship credit which I've still got to complete in the summer. But when I learned the option was still open to me on Friday night, I was filled with excitement and made the decision to give it a go.

Although there were, and still are, logistical issues to be worked out. First: permission from the associate dean.

Even before that though, I had to call my mom to ask if she'd still be in town for the week following her Master's commencement ceremony on May 1st. But she won't. And she should have been frustrated me with me, considering she pushed me to make this decision weeks ago, instead she was calm and supportive.

"You walk when you want," she said. "You know I won't miss it."

And so I went ahead and sent the necessary e-mail on Saturday while sitting with friends doing homework.

Instead of keeping my focus on the 12-page campaign critique I was writing I kept checking my email, distracted by the prospect lingering in cyberspace.

When the Gmail notification blinked on my phone this morning while I was sitting in church, I hesitated for a second; deciding whether to open it right then on the 3-inch screen or wait the two or so hours until I'd return home. The day of waiting was similar in angst to the waiting I'm doing about the internship interview I had on Wednesday.

But I opened it right then, after adjusting the brightness of my screen so as not to distract the other churchgoers.

And I got permission, in a simple 3-line e-mail signed "Congratulations".

My mom is just as excited as I am, maybe even more. When I called her tonight she bypassed the small talk and got right down to business asking me to send a list for graduation announcements and which park I want to hold "the reception" at, although I keep reminding her that it will be just a small get-together filled with only familiar faces.

She's already called my grandma to get on-board with the planning, which if I know my grandma has already called the entire brood.

And there are things that I'm worrying about on my own, like how I'll get all of the natural glory under that cap or if I'll twist or straighten it instead. And of course I've already begun online browsing for the shoes and the dress.

I've only got 28 days to pull it all together.

But this is what it's supposed to feel like; dreaming excitedly of sitting out on the quad with my peers while only half-listening to the commencement address, celebrating the beginning of an education and life lessons.

Residue (72/90)

2010-04-11T01:06:00.002-04:00

My niece and nephew, the little people, as I like to call them, walked in after I’d been home only a few minutes tonight after spending the afternoon out and about with their PaPa. They saw Alice In Wonderland at the theater, which the 6-year-old was less than impressed by and the 13-year-old said was "a little scary".

They're less and less little every time I see them now.

The 6-year-old's mouth is half-full of holes and half-full of big people teeth and there’s a constant stream of new words added to his vocabulary. Some I like and some send me on a rant. The 13-year-old is tall and beautiful with a charm that is loved by all she meets. She's got a cell phone now and best friends that just happen to be boys.

Despite my horror at how quickly they're growing, watching them become is fascinating.

***

I mistakenly allowed my mind wander last night to back to an awful season in my life of which the residue is still dripping through me.

All my hope, love and identity were wrapped up in another person. A person that eventually broke me in a way that I didn't know was possible, because I couldn't bring myself to let go.

To untangle myself and move forward unfettered.

I spent what must have been hours lost in several emails. None offered apologies instead only countless thank -yous for my kindness and support. Words that soured my stomach because of the context that forced them, confirming that my love was—is still at times— too much and easily taken advantage of.

***

I’m finding myself open again in a way that I don’t think I’m ready to be.

Several times in the past few months I’ve asked myself what it is that I’m doing. But it’s too late now, I’m moving through this pain that I put off facing for as long as possible.

And the residue must drip until it is gone.

My mind wanders back too often to that time and I swear that there are times that I smell it, I see it and I hear it. And I’m startled by this stain on my memory, so connected to my senses making that time in my life inescapable.

***

Yet and still, I am open. Loving too quickly and severely, just as I did before.

And I am scared. Worried that I’ll find myself entangled again, unwilling to let go and move forward as will be necessary over and over again, I presume.

If I will learn to do it. Which I must, so as to preserve the growing. The becoming.

The First Of The Lasts (71/90)

2010-04-10T01:39:00.004-04:00

Tonight as I sat at The Louie Awards, which are hosted annually by the Ball State journalism department, I realized just how quickly everything is about to change.

I was among several of the people that I’ve been surrounded by for the last two years of my life. This has been a special time for me, one that I wasn’t sure I’d get to experience after transferring from USF, which is much larger and less personal than the mid-sized Midwestern university that is Ball State.

But I’m grateful that I have. And now I only worry that I’ve become attached.

***

Three weeks.

That’s what was repeated from the lectern several times over. Three weeks left of the semester. Three weeks left of undergraduate classes and late nights spent in the Cardinal Communications office and library study rooms. Three weeks left of this particular crunch time stress that is giving me a blinding headache even as I type this. Three weeks left of my life as a pseudo grown-up.

Three weeks.

And tonight, as usual, I found myself slipping in and out of the conversations and interactions taking place around me. In to catch the tail end of a joke and share in the burst of laughter, out to retreat in my head with long moments of silence and reflection.

I found out tonight that one of my favorite professors at the university is leaving, going back to Maryland to spend time with his family and take on new endeavors. During my second semester at BSU after a rougher transition than I anticipated he was the first professor to recognize potential in me and admonish me to always do a little more.

And while we don’t have a close relationship, I am grateful. Forever grateful. Those little talks always stay with me, the little nudges that remind you there’s something there to believe in, worth pushing a little harder for.

So it was jarring for me to hear. And I fear this is how The Leaving will be.

***

The drift has already begun as we’re all scattering off in our own little ways; chasing our various passions, lovers, dreams and opportunities.

The general sentiment is that it’s been a long time coming, and we’re ready to hit the ground running. No looking back. I haven’t quite reached that place yet myself although I’ve almost entirely withdrawn my energy from mundane class assignments and busy work focusing solely on my major projects and internship prospects.

The things I can take with me when it’s all over.

Tomorrow I’ll meet with friends for a day of homework over coffee. This first will also be a last. And I’m sure that I’ll slip in and out over the course of the day, the way that I always do.

As I worry that I’ve become attached.

These Are The Moments (70/90)

2010-04-09T01:42:00.006-04:00

I got to spend an hour with my family tonight, (minus my Mom whom I spoke with on the phone and my brother) and it was everything I needed.

But, I almost didn't make it. This week, just as the several before it, has been hellacious. My schedule, or the stress of my schedule and deadlines, has allowed me little wiggle room, time to relax or even see my family. And that's one of the primary reasons I came here, almost two years ago. To be close enough to my family so as not miss the moments like those tonight that fill me up.

Today, (yesterday now) was my nephew's sixth birthday.

Though he celebrated with friends on Saturday at Chuck-E-Cheese I hoped I’d be able to make it to Indy to spend the evening celebrating my little man with dinner and cake while also enjoying the company of my sister and niece.

But, I was tied up on campus until seven and considering the hour drive I thought sure I’d be too late to join the fun before the little man’s bed time.

I called my sister to tell her that I wouldn’t be able to make it and see how the little man’s day was going.

“Wait ten minutes,” he said from the background as he played with his new toys.

“Get over here and talk to your Aunt Tiff,” my sister replied.

“Happy Birthday,” I said my voice bubbly and full of excitement when he answered the phone.

“I got a bike,” he said with just as much excitement, his raspy voice melting my heart.

"Did they sing to you at school," I asked.

"Yeah, will you,"he asked back.

And so of course, I did.

We continued chatting about his new bike and his day at school and then it happened, the crushing moment.

“So you’re having a good birthday, huh” I asked him.

“Yeah, but no one’s coming over,” he said slowly and clearly.

My heart sank, absolutely sank, and I was unable to find any words.

“I was going to come over but I’m still at school,” I told him before I realized that those words were both empty, unable to be understood, and full, communicating what can only be felt for a 6-year-old.

I’ve heard those words: “I was, but…” We have all heard those words, and I’m not sure that they’re any different at 6, 16, or 60. All I know is that I had just let him down. I knew it. I felt it. And it was insufferable.

“I’m going to come see you this weekend,” I told him. “I’ll bring you a gift then and maybe some cupcakes, you want cupcakes?”

“Chocolate chip cookies and Bakugans,” he said.

I agreed quickly to the terms of the deal and before I knew it he was telling me he had to get back to his bike.

“Ok, I love you,” I said.

“Love you, bye” he said back before he handed the phone back to his mom.

“Do you think it’s too late if I come now,” I asked her.

“No, she said laughing”

Ok I’m leaving now, I told her.

When I hung up with my sister I called my dad.

“Where are you, what are you doing now,” I said without any greeting.

We have to go to Indy now, I said before sharing the crushing moment.

I raced from Muncie to Anderson and then back to Indy again, not reaching the final destination until 9 p.m. where we stayed for only an hour. But it is only these moments that are of any real immediacy.

For me there is nothing more rich than this.

Or this.

And I’m not so naïve as to think that I won’t let him down again, only that it should be avoided at all costs.

These are the only moments where there is perfect clarity. Everything else is trivial at best.

Writing And Wrestling (69/90)

2010-04-07T23:32:00.002-04:00

It's been a tough day; one where the writing stirs all of the emotions bubbling just under the surface that I've been trying to keep from spilling over me.

And I'm proud of my decision not to go after chocolate cake and ice cream or any other ridiculously calorie-laden junk food seeking comfort.

But I don't feel much like writing tonight. Which for me really means that I don't feel like wrestling with myself.

Instead it's easier to simply justify my heaviness by the sleepless night, the stress of a pressure-filled day and the worry that gripped my heart as I thought of my Mom lying in a surgery room far from my reach.

And that is justification enough, I think.

But it's not like me to be so fragile. To have to fight tears that crept up on me three times today without any real reason or forewarning.

And the writing won't allow me to hide that. Trust me I’ve tried. I’ve got four different Word documents open each with blog posts started on some triviality of the day. But it just won’t work.

It won't allow me to lay here comfortably in my bed, the heater whizzing beside me, without searching for an explanation or seeking a resolution.

This is just a hard transition, I keep telling myself. One that is impossible to feel prepared or confident through.

This is one that will, indeed, require lots and lots of wrestling.

Seven Seconds Or Less

2010-04-07T00:50:00.000-04:00

The past two days have been sprinkled with excitement, just enough to keep me pushing forward. Today's exciting news was the call for an internship interview.

And despite all of the things I should really be thinking about, like getting my portfolio in order and going over interview questions and you know, sleeping, I'm sitting here fretting about my outfit for tomorrow.

Which sounds ridiculous. But is it?

They say it takes about seven seconds to make a first impression. Within that seven seconds I'll smile, shake the interviewers hand, say hello and take my seat. But let's be real, there will be an initial judgment made based solely on the first glance.

I haven't built my professional wardrobe just yet, and the church wardrobe is no longer sufficient.
This morning I spent too much time at home pulling all of my options from the closet and trying on each one before deciding against them. All of them.

Tonight, I went on a desperate search for something that felt and looked more like me.

At the first stop I tried on two dresses. One that wasn't as flattering on my body as it was on the mannequin. The other I fell in love with right away and stood in the dressing room with it on for what must have been at least 15 minutes. But, it didn't look like any of the pictures of professional attire I've been shown over and over and I didn't have anyone to consult, so I said my peace, parted with it and moved on.

At the next stop I tried on another dress. And I loved it. I stood with it on for another 15 minutes. Just as I was about to take it off and prance proudly to the register I decided to see how it looked when I sat down. And that was the end of yet another love affair.

At the last stop I called my Mom to get that advice that Mom's give in crunch time.

"I think my body looks best in dresses," I told her.

"I like you in suits," she replied.

"I hate the way I look in suits," I said.

When I come home I'll help you shop, she told me. Which was sweet and I need her help, but that was not a resolution for the moment. I hung up the phone with her and tried on yet another dress that was enough to make me call it quits.

And I left the store empty handed, thinking all the way home about what I could work with in my closet and wishing I had the time to drive to my sister's house to raid hers.

I think I've finally decided on a button down and slacks, sans the suit jacket. Because, again I hate the way I look in suits. And how I feel about what I see will matter just as much as what they see at first glance tomorrow.

And after I get myself an internship, I'm going shopping for dresses.

Moving, Always Moving (67/90)

2010-04-05T23:52:00.000-04:00

It’s just past 7:30 and I’m sitting at Panera Bread carefully eating my broccoli cheddar soup, so as not to spill it on my white shirt, as I write this in my little journal.

The writing here, in this journal, has become more a comfort than a place to store the ideas that crop up at inopportune times; like at the movie theater last night minutes after the movie I’d been waiting to see for months started.

But, the pages are nearly full now and I’m not ready to move on. This may be one of the only journals I’ve ever stuck with, refusing to rip the pages of mistakes and failed attempts, of which it is half full.

When I’m feeling particularly bold, which I am tonight, I can say honestly that I am a runner.

I leave. (I want to clean that up and say that I don’t leave people, but if I’m being bold, which I said I was, it’s only right to count withdrawing as leaving.)

And when I am uncomfortable I move. I am constantly moving.

In a state of unbridled restlessness today, I’ve found myself in transit for longer than I’ve been still.

I bolted from campus after my first class ended at 12:15 with intentions of walking down to the financial aid office to figure out how to pay for my summer internship. Instead, I found myself in my car driving past the financial aid office and on the state road that leads me back home.

Once there, I sat still for about two hours doing nothing at all but breathing comfortably, just as I am here and now away from the hustle and bustle on campus.

Matter-of-factly, I arrived here unintentionally as well.

What started as just going to the library for some quiet after my meeting turned into just moving my car from the far lot on campus a little closer to the building to sitting ten minutes from campus at a little table for two by the wall in Panera.

It’s been one of those days, one of those weeks that I feel I’ve been dropped here from some other planet. Unable to fit comfortably into any of the spaces where I find myself.

And so I keep moving, exhaling on the way to the next stop where I hope I can sit still. Or at least entertain the idea of sitting still, unashamed by the pages of mistakes and failed attempts, of which are filling this life.

White Space (66/90)

2010-04-04T22:08:00.001-04:00

I’m feeling the withdrawal happen.

Right now, as I type this I’m thinking of the little nooks and crannies where I’ll spend my week. Away from everyone. There, alone, I’ll feel like myself again. At last.

It’s an unsettling acknowledgment for me to come to: The thing that I’ve cursed for as long as I can remember is the very thing that I’m craving now.

Since I started this blog, seven months and 90 posts ago, it has bled of loneliness (especially here, here and here.) What I thought was the result of too much time spent alone, sitting in little nooks and crannies, away from everyone.

***

But what I’ve found over the past several weeks without nearly any alone time is that this quiet emptiness is a part of me, rather than a condition that can be cured with company, as I’d believed.

It’s something that I need for my sanity.

I’ve found myself being someone that I hate, agitated by the littlest things. Surrounded by people, drifting off into my own world. There’s just been way too much noise lately. I’ve been unable to function, unable to feel, unable to think.

I pride myself on being acutely tuned in, all the time. And it’s gotten so loud that I’ve been forced to tune out.

I need the quietness, the white space.

***

This weekend I’ve been dreaming of The Beach House; the one that doesn’t yet exist outside of my imagination. But, it’s as real as any of my other dreams that are far off and laughable.

It is serene, quite and empty. The are floor to ceiling windows, the rooms are white with blue accents. It is mine, and mine alone. It is of minimal design and decoration.

It is just enough of what I need and all of what I want.

It may seem strange that I’m dreaming of this place, this imaginary space that I’ve never seen. It may seem juvenile, even. And it probably is, but my admittance of that fact doesn’t lessen my longing for it. Not one bit.

I haven’t been able to figure out why I’ve been so drained lately. Absolutely wiped out, with no real reason. But, I think I just need my time. My space.

That quiet emptiness that makes me feel sane.

Failing Words (65/90)

2010-04-04T15:38:00.000-04:00

As much as I love words, I struggle with them. A lot.

Communicating is always--always-- frustrating for me.

And interestingly enough, for as long as I can remember, I've always been voted the spokesperson. I've been speaking in public since I was little. Because my love for words was apparent and I had the ability to mask my shyness, I was the one set before a crowd with a microphone in my hand.

You'd think that over time I'd become more articulate and less uncomfortable.

Not so. It's been exactly the opposite for me, actually.

I cringe at the thought of speaking in front of people, formally or informally.

Matter-of-factly, in my marketing class it is required that we act as the spokesperson to the class after our small group discussions at least three times in order to get full participation points. The answers don't really matter as much as the communication does. In 13 weeks, I've spoken only once thus far. The thought of it alone makes my stomach turn and my chest tighten.

What's worse is failing with words in front of those far more precious than a classroom full of strangers. More often than not I feel misunderstood, and I'm quickly coming to realize that issue is mine alone. There is no one to blame or feel frustrated with but myself.

I spent almost an entire year in silence after I moved to Florida. I felt that my speech at that time in my life was wholly inadequate. Instead I was never without headphones or my journal. I lived in my own world, locked away in my head.

And there are days when I wish it was that easy again. That I could be silent for long stretches at a time. Avoiding the miscommunications that leave me feeling involuntarily locked away in my head.

The Disconnect (64/90)

2010-04-04T15:36:00.003-04:00

It's Easter Sunday and I'm sitting in church beside my Dad.

Writing in my journal what those around me think are sermon notes, I'm sure. I feel like I'm missing something here. None of this makes sense to me the way that it used to.

For some reason I can't remember last Easter but I assume I was here, in the church I've grown up in. But the several years before that I was at the USF Sun Dome with thousands of other people running around serving the mega-church. Doing administrative tasks and being an "armor-bearer".

That was my life. The serving. And as with everything else in my life I gave until I was empty.

And here I sit, back for the first time in over a month feeling disconnected from it all.

As I pulled up to the church this morning I was greeted by my uncle who was serving as an usher at the door. He looked at me with surprised eyes, then gave me a kiss on the cheek.

"Hello dear, welcome home," he said.

Though without mal intent those words were loaded.

As I walked up the stairs to the narthex I realized that I have become the person I used to judge: The bi-annual churchgoer sitting in the pew totally preoccupied and unashamed.

Sitting With Rosie (63/90)

2010-04-04T09:21:00.000-04:00

I spent a little over an hour sitting with my grandmother last night.

I didn't call before I dropped by, and when I got to her door she looked a little confused.

"What are you doing out? Don't you know the games are on," she asked.

She's a basketball fanatic, you see. It's always a talking point with her, no matter who you are or where your interests lie.

I admitted that I haven't been keeping up with the games. She giggled and shook her head as she hugged me and welcomed me in.

We sat chatting in the kitchen for a few minutes before she turned the Butler vs. Michigan State game back on.

In between catching me up on what's going on with everyone in the family she pointed out which players were exceptionally cute.

"He's good looking Tiffy, don't you think," she'd ask.

Most of the time I'd agree that the player was, indeed, good looking. Sometimes I'd really agree, lose my train of thought, and we'd sit just watching until she filled the silence with something new.

"Have you been cooking a lot," she asked concernedly.

"I hate to admit that I have been eating almost all of my meals at school," I told her, deciding against making a joke about the weight I've gained. But adding that I have salads for lunch most days.

She went on to tell me that I could make my own salads for a week with what I pay for my daily salad at school, to eat lots of small meals and not after seven.

We continued talking about the family and then a little about Oscar De La Renta and Whoppi Goldberg before I told her I should get going, that I had plans to get my eyebrows done. She asked me for details and cringed when I told her of the threading process.

"I don't want any of that done to me when I die," she said. "No plucking, none of that."

"Grandma," I said, my voice high-pitched and anxious.

I'm going to tell the girls, [my mother and two aunts] when I go to see them in May that I don't want any of that stuff done, she said.

I can't stand to hear anyone that I love talk about death, not even jokingly. Especially not my vibrant 70-year-old grandmother, who spends her evenings yelling at the TV screen, actively watching her games.

She stood and hugged me again as I headed slowly toward the door.

"So you can tell them if they try that I don't want any of that," she said again.

She was giggling again by the time that we reached the door, seeing me out the same way she'd welcomed me in. When I got to my car, I'd decided that I wanted to stay, but I went on anyway, my heart filled with a dull ache.

Burn Out (62/90)

2010-04-03T10:41:00.013-04:00

I started this post, before it got deleted, by saying I think this is what burnout feels like.

Now, after I've spent 15 minutes huffing, cursing and trying to recover it instead of just re-writing it, which I know I can from memory because I've had to several times before, I know this is what burnout feels like.

Everything is a push. Nothing is quite as satisfying as it should be. Even the writing is tough right now, I've written two posts today (not including the deleted one) that I won't publish; just in attempts to get the words flowing.

I'm empty. Spent. Drained.

And the real problem in that is I haven't made the time to replenish myself.

There are so many things that I want to do for me that I just can't rationalize right now. Like diving into the pile of books that await me on my night stand, or taking time to pamper my hair with the all natural shampoo and conditioner that would take me an hour to prepare.

And when I do rationalize it, I feel guilty.

I've gotten back into the gym over the past two weeks and at some point during every work out I break my focus by looking at the clock and get all worked up about the time, knowing that my workout just cost me two hours of homework.

But I've let it get to the point now that I just want to blow it all off. All of it. To take the week to catch up on the the things that keep me happy and full.

Unfortunately, I'm far too responsible to do that. But I also know that I can't continue on like this.

So maybe I'll take 30 minutes a day to blow it all off. Heck, maybe even 45.

Choices (61/90)

2010-04-02T11:12:00.002-04:00

I had a chat with my Mom tonight on the phone as I was making the drive home from campus. She asked about Chicago, and without thinking first I told her it was great and that I think I could live there.

There was a long, empty silence.

"Chicago is a big city," she finally said.

I'd like to say that I was calm, but I was not.

"No, unh-uh," I said before I could get my bearings.

"I've already compromised with you guys a lot on this," I said tensely.

"It's cold there," she said calmly.

"I know, it was pretty cold when I was there," I replied.

There was another long pause. She was out of arguments against the city that I've chosen to be my new home.

"I don''t want you to be so far away from me," she finally said.

This is the conversation that I've been avoiding. The one that we eventually laughed off instead of taking any further.

This choice is an unfair one; my love for my parents measured by the distance I set between us. If not with one or the other, It should be equal on all sides, is what I've been forced to feel. But we're talking geography here, not love or loyalty or affection.

Yet and still, I know what all of my moves mean to them. Both of them.

And I've done the best I can; I've been around for both of them. Seven years in Florida and then two years back here. Flip flopping at every break trying to make things even. But I didn't know what I was getting myself into. Because now, apparently this switching off thing never ends.

But I quit. I've got to quit.

I'm building my own life, wherever I want. Because that's what grown-ups do. Now, I just need to be free of the guilt of "choosing".

Damn you divorce.

People always said that it would get easier, and I believed them. Because distance and time heals things. Not so in the case of a kid with a heart split in two. The pieces separated by nearly 1,000 miles.

Not even when that kid grows up and finds the courage to build a life not quite in the middle of it all.

The Meat (60/90)

2010-04-01T10:29:00.006-04:00

I've never thought that college was overwhelmingly difficult. Until now.

It's just after midnight and I'm laying in bed where I've collapsed after a 13-hour day on campus. This has become the norm. And by the middle of the week, I'm done for. I've got nothing left to give.

Luckily, my schedule is front-loaded and I can always scrounge up just enough energy and enthusiasm to get through the end of the week without being a zombie dressed in sweatpants and sneakers.

And that's what I've always believed; college isn't overwhelmingly difficult in the long run. In the day to day, it just takes a lot of time and hard work. It takes the dedication of someone that's willing to keep giving when there's nothing left to give.

***

This is our story. The reason that we're counting down the 38 days until the end.

At this point it has become less about thinking and more about balancing our lives. We've learned some of the big lessons, the ones about professionalism and work ethic, the importance of thinking strategically and creatively.

The ones that are learnable in this bubble.

Now it's time to get down to the nitty gritty. Practical application. And not everything can or will be applied. That's the reality of it all; the one that they don't really mention until you've nearly killed yourself memorizing line after line of useless information.

But, those that are wise learn to take the meat and spit out the bones.

***

And in the grand scheme of things, there are a lot of those.

The meat, for me, has had little to do with my my major classes, coursework and projects. Although those things have been wonderful, at times.

The lessons that I'll be chewing on for a while are the informal ones. The ones that happened during late-night study sessions in the library, coffee on Friday afternoons and entire days spent in front of the computer, working.

They are about how to treat people and how to take care of yourself. They are about how to find a passion and have the courage to build a life around the things that you love. They are about being bold and fierce, kind and compassionate.

And the true test of those, won't happen until this is all over.

Role Reversal (59/90)

2010-03-30T20:22:00.003-04:00

My Dad has a lingering cough.

I've been hearing it for far too long. I started nagging him a while back, before I went to Tampa on break and after I noticed it wasn't going away.

It started out sounding like one of those coughs that just sneaks up on you after your throat gets a little tickled. But it happened often.

"What's with the cough," I started asking.

"I don't know," he'd say and that would be it.

But it continued and I started probing with more concern and urged him to go to the doctor. And he went and got the cold medicine that was supposed to remedy the cough.

It's getting worse still now, no longer dry and shallow but deep and mucousy. And every time I hear it I worry. And by worry I mean my stomach falls to my feet, my face gets hot and for those few seconds--or minutes if it is a fit-- my world stops.

When I am up in the wee hours of the morning working I hear him coughing down the hall, his sleep interrupted. I cringe, stop what I am doing and wait for it to be over, for the silence to envelop me again. And when it does, it brings with it a lingering fear.

I sometimes wonder when the roles reversed. But I can't remember a time that I haven't worried about my parents.

I remember waiting up for my Mom as a little girl. I'd be laying in my bed filled with panic waiting to hear the roar of the garage door opening and the back door swing open as her keys jingled in her hand. By the time she made it up the stairs I'd already exhaled, rolled over in my bed and was finally ready to sleep. I just needed to know that she was home and safe.

For some reason I always feared that she'd get lost or hurt and every night I had to make sure that my fears were, indeed, just fear and not reality.

I've never worried so much for my Dad as I do now, though. And I'm sure it's because now I'm watching his hair gray as he slows down. He used to run every day, come into the house smelly, dripping with sweat and make a smoothie or drink a Gatorade while he watched the news or a sports event from the couch.

Now, the arthritis in his knee won't allow him to run and he tells me to just walk on the treadmill because he doesn't want me pounding on my knees when I work out.

I've seen him be totally caught off guard by his own emotion as a tear slipped down his cheek and his voice broke when we were chatting one day. He stopped speaking for a moment and looked away before he finished his sentence, his lip still trembling.

When he was done, I excused myself and rushed to my room and crawled into my bed where I was flooded by my own emotion.

All of this in the midst of my excitement about the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. Only my excitement is drenched in heaviness and dripping with worry.

And I have to remind myself, that my parents survived this world without me for many years.

Cartwheels In The Park (58/90)

2010-03-30T00:30:00.003-04:00

Sometimes you just know within an instant, devoid of any reasonable explanation, the answer to the question that's been lingering unanswered.

I spent last weekend in Chicago with about 25 of my colleagues from Cardinal Communications. We drove up on Friday and spent the day touring a couple PR firms in the city. Later, we had dinner at Quartinos with some Ball State alumni and other professionals that we had the chance to meet earlier.

We had a full day on Friday and while most of us had planned to go out and enjoy the city when it was all over, we were exhausted and ended up staying in the hotel room for the night, just sitting around chatting instead.

On Saturday after checking out of the hotel, most everyone made their way back home. But, I decided to stay behind with a few friends.

I woke up early on Saturday morning, full of energy and excitement, which if you know me, is rare. I am not a morning person, and after several attempts to change that, I've resigned myself to the fact that I will never be a morning person. But, on this particular morning, I was awake, alert and happy by 7 A.M.

***

It's been a while since I've been to Chicago, I think the last time was when I was 14 or 15, for a church convention.

And I was enthralled then, but for different reasons than I was this time. We did some fun touristy things on Saturday, like taking tons of pictures at The Cloud Gate in Millenium Park (otherwise known as The Bean).

We must have spent nearly an hour in the park taking silly pictures and enjoying the energy of all the people surrounding The Bean. At one point I got so excited that I did a few cartwheels.

We walked up and down Michigan Avenue and Lake Shore Drive, stopping mid-day to have lunch at a little sandwich shop. For the most part it was pretty normal and relaxed; what I imagine a typical Saturday in Chicago could be like for me.

City life invigorates me. I love being surrounded by the diversity and culture and I love that there are endless opportunities within arms reach.

In Chicago I felt balanced. I was excited and invigorated but settled at the same time. I went to bed early on Friday and rose early on Saturday, both on my own will. That's a feat for me, but I don't think the credit is mine to take.

***

I've been searching for a home, a place to build my own life for years now; intensely contemplating where I want to be. In anticipation of the season that I'll soon be entering I've had many a conversations, made some visits and did some research. And it's been a long search with weighty considerations.

For a while it was New York, then San Francisco, then Destin. And there was a full list of other options. But Chicago never made it to the top of the list. Although when I was hellbent on New York, my Dad urged me to consider it instead. And I wouldn't.

But last weekend, I sent him a text saying, "I think I could live here."

For whatever reason, it just feels right. I can't explain it, and I'm okay with that. Because sometimes just knowing is enough.

And I'm not sure that I could go wrong in a city that causes me to leap from bed at 7 A.M. and turn cartwheels in the park on a chilly Saturday afternoon.

The Truth, In Bits And Pieces (57/90)

2010-03-29T02:26:00.007-04:00

Technically, it's Monday. But it's still Sunday in my head because I haven't slept yet. And Sundays have been weird in my head lately.

I wake up wondering whether I should stay or go; a question that I contemplate all weekend. I sleep on it Saturday nights and decide within an instant on Sunday mornings. I don't know if it's something that I'll ever feel settled with. It is only now, at 22, that I'm beginning to feel that the choice is mine to choose.

And that there is, indeed, a choice.

I've always been taught that we are chosen. And the right choice is easy when you know that you've been chosen: accept that you are chosen and live accordingly. Which for me meant a sacrifice of everything that made my life my own.

I'm a radical human being, I throw myself mercilessly into the things that resonate with me. I give myself completely. And that's been a source of great heartache in my life, I've been taken advantage of in the worst and most hurtful ways. But, I can't be any other way no matter how hard I try.

And I have tried. I am trying. To live a life that is balanced.

So on days like today, I struggle with the fact that there is emptiness where a routine has been for my whole life. I've missed church for five or six consecutive weeks now. I'm not sure what to put in its place, though.

Today and many Sundays it is studying. That is something beneficial to my week and fairly easy to explain. Because there are questions. I suspect that there will be questions for a while, if not always.

I avoid my Dad on these days, because I fear his disappointment. I remember as a child the days that I tried to skip church. When I was too young to understand the point or be interested in anything that came from the pulpit. I would pretend to be sleeping or sick when it was time to get up and dressed in my Sunday's best. I learned quickly that was not the best choice.

When we didn't go to church we didn't eat. Not the way that we were used to on Sundays. Instead of the family dinner out we'd be relegated to whatever we could scrounge up at home. Leftovers or peanut butter and jelly. There were no special provisions. This was a punishment.

One that still exists today only more subtly because I can feed myself now.

But there are still consequences. The questions that haunt me, and the judgement that is passed off as concern by wolves in sheep's clothing. These are things I can handle, though.

And when I am called on Sunday afternoons by various churchgoers, as I was today, and asked about my whereabouts, I explain that I am at school working, that I have more work than I've got time for and must spend every free minute plugging away at it and preparing for my tomorrow.

And that is the truth.

But not the whole truth.

Tiptoeing Around (56/90)

2010-03-27T10:46:00.001-04:00

It’s 11:33 P.M., Chicago time on Friday. I’m sitting at the desk in my hotel room. It is quiet.

I’m writing this in my journal, which I’ve learned to carry at all times, for moments like these. Two of my three roommates for the night are sleeping only a few short steps away from me.

I’m scared to wake them by writing on my laptop, as is my nightly ritual. And these hand written words won’t be typed and published until the morning. Plus, there’s no free wi-fi in the rooms at the Hyatt, and after the long shower I just took to clear my head I don’t feel like leaving the room.

***

It’s been a long, wonderful day. I’ve been up and surrounded by people since 5 A.M.

By the time we were halfway through dinner at Quartinos, passing plates back and forth, I’d reached my Social Output max. That may be a misleading statement because I absolutely love being with interesting people. And today I have been.

But I always reach my limit, and it’s never anything personal. But at some point I always turn inward, my thoughts become heavier and I get quiet. This happened last night while I was sitting in one of the rooms with 4 or 5 girls sipping wine.

It didn’t help that I was exhausted and full, and drinking. Thankfully though, the mood shift happened gradually today; I started out laughing and singing in the car on the drive to the city and remained pretty excited and social throughout. When we got to dinner though, I began to wind down.

I was beginning to long for a few long moments of solitude. For the writing.

***

It’s 9:22 A.M. Chicago time on Saturday. I’m sitting at Descartes, a coffee shop downtown, sipping a vanilla caramel latte. I’m sitting at the bar looking out the window watching the passerbys.

I found myself stirring in the bed far before everyone else. I slipped out of bed at 7:15, got dressed grabbed my bag, left a quick note on the desk, and headed out.

My friend Hannah just joined me at the café and we will soon be off for breakfast and some exploring.

“I saw you in the morning, and thought man, you’re serious about this writing thing," she said.

I didn’t set an alarm last night, again for fear of waking the others. But I got up energetically, hit the streets, and found my writing spot.

I may always be apologizing for my need to go off and write; tiptoeing around in the wee hours of the morning, and sneaking out, but this is my life.

I’ve always thought that I was made for the city.

Now I’m starting believe that I was made for this life, too.

Enough For Now (55/90)

2010-03-25T01:29:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I am drained.

It wasn't until I was leaving campus, chatting on the staircase with a friend after a full day, that I remembered how long last night was for me. I went to bed at 4 and woke again at 7. Surrounded by the things I have been too tired to run from; the overwhelming fear and the sudden sharp pains of anxiety in my chest.

Sometimes we needn't run, though. Sometimes one foot in front of the other is enough.

I called THE grad school today and left a voicemail for the director of the nonfiction program. His voice, what I heard of it on the recording anyway, was gentle and controlled, his speaking pace slow. But I'm hoping desperately that he is quick to call me back.

An hour or so later, I sent an email to the admissions office in case he doesn't. And I finalized the decision a bit later in the day that even if they don't respond either, I'll see the school this weekend.

I'll make my way there hurriedly after our scheduled agency visits while the others return to the hotel. I'll try to blend in with the other students, listen in on their conversations and feed off of their creative energy.

This tenacity came only after a meeting with my mentor, Brad, this afternoon, who has a way of pushing me through that overwhelming fear, far past my comfort zone and into that unfamiliar space, where I need to be.

I've finally come to the end of my whining about hating the countdown. There are 45 days until it's over. I am excited and sad. Actually, there are days that I am excited and there are days that I am sad. Those emotions don't coexist yet.

On Saturday, while still in Chicago, I'll wake up early and go out to find a coffeehouse to sit in for the morning while I apply for an internship, which is the next step beyond the 45 days. (It's technically not the end for me until I actually walk across the stage in July, but for all intents and purposes, it's over in 45 days.)

I can't lie. That number turns my stomach, and brings the sting of tears to my eyes.

All of the things that I'd hoped for when I moved her nearly two years ago are slowly but surely coming to fruition. And I'm not sure whether this timing is perfect or cruel.

But at some point, the night always fades into the morning.

New Adventures: One Step At A Time (54/90)

2010-03-23T16:30:00.001-04:00

It's 3:45 p.m and I'm home. Sitting at my desk where I've been all day. The panic of not being able get to campus after the car issue spilled over into today has settled a bit.

I missed my 12:30 test and my 3:30 class. But, I'm doing what I can here. And today, that will have to be enough.

My stomach is growling, and has been since 1:00. We get to the store sporadically and buy only what we need when we do, because we don't spend much time at home. There is chicken breast in the freezer and vegetables that I could have made for lunch, but I didn't want the spend time in the kitchen and lose the productive spurt that is happening at my desk.

I feel the pressure to be extra diligent since I'm not on campus. I don't want to get comfortable here and let the day slip away from me.

Yet, it's a nice day out and I keep finding my eyes wandering toward the window. I would love to walk to a cafe where I could sit outside, have lunch and work there for a bit. But there is nothing that close around here. .

I've always wanted to live in a city where that wasn't such a long stretch; to wake up on a Saturday morning, walk to the bookstore and then to the coffee shop and stop by the market on the way home. I can't wait to be in Chicago this weekend, walking the city and discovering my favorite little spots.

I've decided when the time is right, I want to sell my car and move to a walking city. This has always been a dream of mine. I'm a wanderer and I'm invigorated by city living. First I thought about New York, then Boston, and then D.C. But, I don't have to make any decisions just yet.

For now, I'll take some time just exploring the options. I spent a few minutes looking at the 25 Best Walking Cities in America during a study break. And I was immediately enticed by the idea of Denver, Tucson, Portland and San Jose.

I want to explore them all and rank them myself. But maybe the city I'm after isn't on the list, or even in the states.

And that's the beauty of adventure.

Such Is Life Sometimes (53/90)

2010-03-22T22:18:00.003-04:00

Today's been a bust. A complete and total bust. And as of right now, tomorrow is not looking so good.

The day started the way that I thought it would. I got up early, got myself my favorite iced vanilla coffee on the way to campus and got to class. I wasn't bothered by the rain, even when my brand new umbrella failed me.

As soon as class was dismissed, I made the 40 minute drive back home for an appointment at Midas to get my car serviced before the Chicago trip. I got to the shop ten minutes early and sat down to wait. I was thrilled to find that they have free Wi-Fi and I could get some work done.

It was a good thing, because the Midas man was swamped, and has been since I made the appointment last week. I spent 3 hours and 20 minutes waiting to get a 45 minute job done on my worn rotors. That really wasn't an issue for me, patience is a virtue and I can always use more of it.

Less than thirty minutes in to my wait, though, I realized that I had left my flash drive, full of this entire year's work in the office I was working in last night. Still, not a huge deal. I knew exactly where I left it. But, there are lots of people in and out of the office and on the computers.

I started to freak out and felt totally helpless since I wasn't on campus and had trouble getting in touch with anyone that was. I damaged the flash drive that had all of last year's work on it when I dropped my computer and I'm still upset about that. So I was trying to prevent the loss and all of the hassle that comes along with it.

Luckily, I finally got a hold of a friend who got it for me and has it in safe keeping now.

And, my car was finished just in time for me to make it back to campus in time for my 5:00 class and grab a cup of coffee on the way. I got to campus, parked and pulled my bag from the floor to my shoulder and grabbed my coffee.

But when I went to pull the key out of the ignition, I couldn't. I made sure the steering wheel wasn't locked, that my gear shift was in the right position and everything was as it should be. No luck.

So, I did what I always do when I have car trouble: Call my dad. Even when I'm 900 miles away. God love him, after he couldn't help me on the phone he came to Muncie to see if he could get the key out while I waited in the car.

First he told me just to go to class and lock the doors and he would come check it out. I, of course, refused. I know it's small town Muncie, but it's not the 50s. When he got to the commuter lot on campus where I was parked he jumped in the driver seat of my car and jiggled the key. He turned the car on and then off, put it in neutral and back in park again. No luck.

He offered to switch me vehicles, which I also refused. By this time it was almost 6:00 and I'd missed the majority of my 5:00 class so there was no reason to stick around. When we got home at 7:00 we called Triple A and waited.

It's 10:00 now and the Triple A locksmith just left not long ago. He got the key out and then put it back in and it got stuck again. And again. It's out now, but obviously this is a problem. Something about the Solenoid switch.

Tomorrow I've got to spend more time getting it all figured out and hopefully still make it to my 12:30 test. I hate that these little nuisances have consumed my day and my energy and that I feel helpless. But, these things happen. Such is life, sometimes.

So, what I can do to make up for today and plan for tomorrow I am doing. Starting with a late night workout and my favorite concert DVD. Because there's much bigger, better things to be consumed by.

Lists (52/90)

2010-03-22T00:06:00.002-04:00

It's 11:30 p.m and I'm sitting in the Cardinal Communications office on campus. I told myself I'd be home by now and in bed by midnight so that I could be rested and recharged come Monday morning.

But, I made a to-do list.

Actually, I made the same list twice. I threw the first one out because my handwriting was ridiculously sloppy and I knew I'd be annoyed when I looked at it everyday. And now I'm obsessing, playing this game to see how much I can get checked off. I'm curious if I can push my body and mind through the "For Monday" section all the way to the "For Wednesday" section before I surrender to sleep.

On the bottom of each day's section written in blue is "blog post." Which I went back and added hesitantly after I'd already made the list and started in on the work. Because for me, it just feels wrong putting that on a list. Mixing the sweetness of the thing that I love with the tartness of all the other things that are just necessary.

And then I began to wonder, with worry and anxiety swirling in my belly, if this it what it will be like. Putting love on the bottom of the list, saved as a reward for the end of a day spent doing what will get me from Point A to Point B.

If I'll always feel betrayed by my body as I get overwhelmingly sleepy, just when I've hit my stride and the writing begins to flow.

Of course, I could always put love, this love in particular, on the top of the list. And I have. At the beginning of this challenge when I was trying to find out what works best for me, by way of copying the style and schedule of others, I got up and spent time writing before I set my mind on anything else. What happened, over and over again, is that I'd lose track of time, and spend hours doing what I'd alloted only 30 minutes to an hour for.

My mind would get stuck on the writing. I'd write and re-write and start over. I wouldn't have anything to show for my day, except for the writing, which often times wasn't even worth showing. But that was, and is, okay with me.

It's 12:05 now, and the anxiety in my belly is pushing me to wrap up and make the 40 minute drive home, where I have to get on with the list that will push me through the necessities of tomorrow.

A Night On The Town With The Brat Pack (51/90)

2010-03-21T13:46:00.004-04:00

Last night I experienced my first grown up outing with "The Brat Pack" as Langston dubbed us early on in the evening. But, that's unofficial still, because Riana thinks that we need something more original.

Let me back up a bit though, this Brat Pack that I speak of consist of me, of course, my 29-year-old sister Riana, and my 25-year-old brother Langston. And we all kind of do our own thing, independently of each other. And because our parents are divorced we don't all gather at Mom and Dad's ever. And since Mom lives in Florida, our family gatherings are relegated to Christmas, which we've held at Riana's the past few years.

But that's not enough. So we planned a a day of fun around the Jay-Z concert at Conseco Fieldhouse in downtown Indianapolis.

I can't tell this story rightfully without being honest about our dynamics, though. Growing up Lang and I went through a long drawn out case of sibling rivalry, and while Riana and I never had any problems, the age gap distanced us quite a bit. Add to that my nerdy nature and Riana and Langston found a lot more in common with each other than I did with either of them.

When Riana found out about the Jay-Z concert she immediately called Lang, who is a huge fan. Matter of factly, Jay-Z was all I heard blaring from his room when we were in high school. It was no doubt that they would be securing tickets for the concert. As an afterthought, my sister called me just before they bought the tickets to see if I wanted to go, though she doubted I would.

I've never been a huge hip hop fan, I spent my time in the house locked in my room listening to Celine Dion ballads and 90s pop songs while I was writing and reading. So, my sister was a bit taken aback when I said "Yeah, I wanna go," to the concert offer without a moment's hesitation.

1. It's JAY-Z and 2. It's a night spent with my big sister and big brother. Of course I wanted to go.

My brother and I decided to ride together from Anderson to Indianapolis. Among the first words out of his mouth were "Do you have any Michael Jackson in here?" You see, the M.J. love is a shared love in my family. My brother rifled through my CD book, found the Dangerous album and popped it in.

From that point I knew we were bound to have an incredible time.

When we got to my sister's place we had just enough time to play a bit with our niece and nephew and take a few pics.

We couldn't get Lang to take off the do-rag just yet. Something about his waves and the line that would remain on his forehead. But, it's a nice happy pic of all of us, I think.

Then, we all hopped in Riana's car and headed downtown. Before the concert we went to Scotty's Brewhouse for dinner and drinks and more photo opportunities.

Right after this picture was taken, Lang melted Riana and I's hearts. "I'm so glad I you guys are my sisters," he said. "You're very classy ladies." That was the sweetest thing I've heard him say, ever.

We continued to talk and laugh over dinner and drinks before walking back to Conseco where the concert was. Everybody and their momma was out to see The Jigga Man, so when we arrived back at the fieldhouse around showtime we were met by a line wrapped around the building.

When we finally got in and took our seats the excitement began to set in. By the time that Trey Songz opened the show the entire crowd was buzzing with excitement. My brother said on the car ride over that when Trey Songz took the stage he would have to go hit concession area to find some girls to talk to. But, when I looked over at him he was bobbing his head and enjoying the show right from the start.

He wasn't starstruck until Jay-Z took the stage, of course.

Halfway through the show he turned to Riana and I and said, "That's Jay-Z."

And boy was it. The Jigga Man put on an incredible show, even staying behind to perform an encore full of the old songs.

But, as amazing as the show was, for me it was all about this:

My time spent with The Brat Pack, and I can't wait to do it again. And maybe by then we'll have a more original moniker.

Excited Indecision (50/90)

2010-03-20T10:47:00.000-04:00

My sister wanted me to get a tattoo today on the fly.

I don't think that's going to happen. Four-plus years of thinking can't boil down to a snap decision. Well, it could and it has before, but that's now what I want now.

But if I do decide to get one, my sister wants to be there. It will be a bonding moment for us. I was there with her, along with my godsister, when she got her first. I watched as flipped through the design book, asked us for our opinions nervously and then teetered on her decision before finally sitting down in the chair. No turning back.

But I've never been as spontaneous as my sister. Especially when the decision holds permanency. She's tried to get me to just make a decision on the tattoo thing for years. But, I can't. Not in a hurry, anyway.

And I'm sure that I frustrate her because I so often entertain the idea. I love tattoos. Well, let me be clear, I love thoughtful, artful tattoos. And when she called me yesterday with fresh ink on her ankles, I was upset that she didn't invite me to go along. But that's just the thing, for her, it was a snap decision.

But I've entertained the idea for years. Never in a rush to decide. Because, like with many things in life, I think that I'll just feel when the time is right and when it is I'll know without a doubt what I want to be permanently etched on my body.

Until then, I'll keep admiring the ink on others and asking intrusively for the stories behind it. And I'll keep frustrating my sister with my excited indecision. Because I'm of the creed that there should be a story, or a compelling reason.

And so when there is, then I will be inked. And it may just end up being spontaneous after all.

Mentally Preparing (49/90)

2010-03-19T01:12:00.002-04:00

It's just past midnight and I'm laying in bed mentally preparing for the weekend. For the next two weeks actually.

I've made it through the first week back from break now. I knew it would be rough, as I didn't do any school work over break. At all.

So it's been a game of catch up. And I'm still not quite caught up, but thankfully my class tomorrow is cancelled and I don't have any appointments or commitments. So I'm on my own schedule, which is how I like it.

I plan to start my day with a workout. After a hiatus I am ready to get back in the groove. I'll begin with Jillian Michaels 30 day shred, which is beastly if you haven't tried it. But, I know that it works because it's whipped me into shape before. And this time around, I'm worrying more about how my body feels than how it looks. But I can't pretend like that's not something I'm still talking myself into.

Anyhow, I'll do the workout. And hopefully, I'll stick with it and incorporate other fun things like rollerblading, long bike rides and maybe even some tumbling on open gym nights at the gymnastics center.

After the workout, though I've got work to do; assignments to catch up on and internships to apply for, a community to start building around my social media project. And then it's a movie night with some friends, which I'm looking forward to.

On Saturday night, I'm off to see Jay-Z with my brother and sister. Our first real outing together as adults. It's been a long time coming, my sister is 29, brother is 25, and I'm 22. So, it's time. And it will be a good time I'm sure. My sister has taken the role of the coordinator, it's burden she bears as the oldest, I suppose. She's called me a few times this week in anticipation, first to ask what I was wearing, then to talk over plans, and then again to talk over the new plans.

I'm not as excited for the concert as I am for the experience with my siblings. Thinking about enjoying the concert reminds me of the nights we spent in that house on Eastern Drive, lined up in the living room with brushes for mics, dancing and singing as music blared from Dad's stereo.

And I hope we keep it up.

Then it's back to life as normal until next Friday when I venture to Chicago for the weekend with a group from Cardinal Communications, the full-service PR public relations agency at school. We'll be visiting some agencies in the city and doing other professional development type things, I think.

But, we'll also have some free time. Which means I'm going to find a way to take a tour of the top choice school. And then, on Saturday I've decided to stay behind with a friend to do what I love doing most, explore.

As evidenced by my plans and newfound excitement, my life is filling up in a way that I wasn't sure it would. And maybe I'm mentally preparing for more than just the next two weeks.

Sweet Surrender (48/90)

2010-03-18T10:34:00.002-04:00

I've been unable to fight my sleep lately.

Which is a good thing. Although it's almost 2 a.m. now and I'm awake only because I'm worried about all of the work I've got to finish up. For the past two nights I've been working on all of the assignments I didn't get to over break, searching magazines for a new blog series, scanning pictures and studying for tests.

But, long before I should be done for the night I get sleepy. At a normal hour, not the insomniac hour that I'm used to falling asleep in. And when I'm smart, I surrender and leave loose ends for the sake of my body.

I can't remember exactly when the shift began, but it's been shifting for a little while. A welcome respite from long, empty, restless nights. I've started sleeping earlier, and through the night. When I was in Tampa over break there were many a nights that I went to bed early; 10:00, 10:30 just because I was tired, which normally isn't reason enough for me.

I've never been a good sleeper, as confirmed by my friends after a late dinner out. They just shook their head at me, when at 1 a.m. they were going home to sleep and I was going home to write and find something to work on for four more hours.

But, the insomnia is calm now, coming only ever so often instead of night after sleepless night. I'm thankful for that, and scared to ruin it by pushing my body too hard and too long and falling back into the same vicious cycle.

And now, my eyelids are getting heavy, and instead of fighting, I'll let them close slowly over this night, leaving loose ends all around me.

Because this is not a fight worth fighting.

Finding Me In The Media, Part 1: Natural Hair (47/90)

2010-03-18T10:11:00.006-04:00

The influence of the media is powerful. Especially in our perceptions and attitudes about appearance. It seems natural to want to see a vision of ourselves represented in the media. It serves as some sort of validation, without which we too often go to great lengths to conform to whatever it is that is represented and appreciated, at the cost of the beauty that is our individuality.

I've decided to begin a search for myself in the media. I'm curious to see what aspects of my appearance are represented in the media, and which aren't and explore reasons why.

First up: Natural Hair.

I've pulled ads of several ads of people with natural hair from two issues of Essence magazine, a publication that targets African-American women. I expected that it would be easy to find representations of natural hair in an African-American publication. And it was.

Of course, there are still some issues. This ad, for example, is full of irony. Mizani is a black hair care line. In this ad, the featured product line is for natural hair. Only this model has a head full of weave, with a curly, kinky texture. What is that saying? To me it screams that real natural hair isn't good enough, not even for a natural hair product line.

Then I searched in five different mainstream magazines. And here's what I found.

I'm pleased with the amount of ads featuring people with natural hair, but again, I expected what I found there. It's a black publication and the advertisers tailor their ads for their target market, which are African-American females.

As for the five mainstream media magazines that I searched and found only two ads with natural hair, I'm disappointed. I think it's sad that I had to search several magazines and found only 2 non-weave, natural hair images. And I'm sure there are more, if I search. But should I have to search, becomes the question.

But this is only my experience on finding me in the media, what's yours?

An Uphill Battle (46/90)

2010-03-16T02:21:00.001-04:00

From the start of the day, I haven't quite felt like myself. That isn't exactly true, I've felt pretty good. I was surprisingly chipper and excited to be back on campus today after a wonderful Spring Break in Tampa that I wasn't quite ready to be done with.

But, I struggled this morning when I looked in the mirror. I fiddled with the hair for far to long, whether I should pull it up or leave it hanging and I just couldn't get it to look right or figure out what the problem was.

Then I fiddled with my earrings, trying on three different pairs before I went back to my big basic studs. This odd fidgeting happened all day, I found myself pulling at my clothes and feeling a little uncomfortable for no good reason.

But we all have these days, I think. Just off days where it's hard to even pinpoint the issue.

And then tonight, I watched this video that I made for my social media project that I've been worried about ever since I made it. I knew that I didn't want to see it before I made it, but of course I watched it anyway.

And I cried.

Which, although it's no secret that things like this tend to embarrass me, is not my typical reaction. I think it was just a big dose of reality for me. I tend to be avoidant at times, and this has been no different with my struggles with my appearance. I've been in denial about my weight, refusing to get on the scale, and refusing to deal with the awkwardness of my hair now. And I think the reason this killed me so much is that I've been trying to tell myself that I'm okay. That my weight is okay, that my hair looks good, that I look okay.

But what I saw in that video is just not okay with me.

Thankfully, I'm ready now to deal with this. Which for me means figuring out what will make it okay. Or how to be okay with it. External validation will never be enough. I've got to find a way, within myself, to really be okay with it or to do what it takes to make it okay.

The one good thing that came of this though, is that I know I'm in the right place with the writing that I'm pursuing, and the social media project. This is something I struggle with, and may always struggle with. But, the feedback that I've gotten so far on writing about the struggle, is that other people do too.

And I've always wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself, to share openly, the way that other people have with me, the things that make us human and relatable.

The first step I'm taking in being okay, in gaining power over this struggle, is finding little things to celebrate. I'd love for you to join me here.

Tomorrow, I'm celebrating with a post (and pictures) of natural hair in advertising.

In-Flight (45/90)

2010-03-14T22:57:00.003-04:00

I am on my way back to the IND now, literally. I am 32,000 feet up in the air, sitting uncomfortably cramped in seat 25A, beside the window (although the shade is down now to block the glare of the sunshine on my screen). The arm hairs of the man next to keep brushing my arm and we’ve bumped elbows a few times now.

It is an overfull flight, as we were told over and over, first from the gate and then when there was no space in the overhead bins for carry-on bags. I gladly checked the extra bag that I borrowed and brought along today; full of my Spring Break purchases, since all of the sudden AirTran was so willing to check it for free (and allow me to board the plane early for doing so).

It’s been a day full of these sorts of accommodations, though as I experienced my first travel SNAFU.

***

After a day spent shopping in Orlando, we got home around 1a.m. I had a 7a.m. flight to Atlanta, a one-hour layover and then finally a flight back to Indianapolis that would land at 11 a.m.

First, we lost an hour with Daylight Saving’s Time today, which meant I lost one of my precious three hours of sleep. I woke up around 4:00 a.m., which is when, on a typical day in my life is I would be going to sleep, and finished packing. My Mom and I sleepily headed to the airport around 5:30 a.m. We were stressed and somehow, made the 30-minute trip in 15 minutes.

When I arrived at the airport and tried to check my bag outside, I was told that the flight had been delayed until 10 a.m. Now, I am normally very collected, but at that point I unintentionally sighed aloud before I thanked the uniformed lady and headed inside.

When I got inside I was jolted by the incredibly long line, one that you’d typically see during the holiday rush. I stood in line for two hours behind an entire military troop, and in front of a fanatically religious trio, which made for some entertaining eavesdropping.

I was probably a little entertaining near the end of the two hours also, as I had already taken my Dramamine to prevent motion sickness on the flight and chugged an entire bottle of water. I was already sleepy and add to that the drowsiness of the Dramamine and the pee-pee dance and three bags to manage and I probably looked pretty silly.

When I got to the front of the line I was told there was no more room on the 10 a.m. flight and that I would be moved to the afternoon flight instead. At this point, I was just too tired to be upset, at all.

I had walked away from the counter with all of my bags still in hand as it was too early to check them, and called my Mom hoping that she could pick me back up.

While I was still on the phone with my Mom, the representative at the counter called me back over. She had forgotten to give me the free round trip, she told me. She handed me a white card, with a confirmation number written on the bottom, with which I can redeem a free round trip to anywhere that Air Tran flies.

***

When my Mom reached the airport again to pick me up she seemed as tired as I felt. She didn’t get much sleep either because she spent the wee hours of the morning helping me to get my laundry finished and packed.

I told her about my free round trip as an afterthought, kind of the way that that lady at the counter had offered it to me.

And she immediately perked up and suggested a trip to Hawaii, and I think that could be nice.

I’ve been flying alone since I was 14, shuffling back and forth between Tampa and Indianapolis and this is the first time that I’ve ever had a notable issue. And I’m not even sure that this is notable.

This is the best of SNAFU’s in my opinion. One that leaves you with less trouble on the ground and provides more airtime, for free.

So Long For Now (44/90)

2010-03-14T17:14:00.002-04:00

(Saturday March 13, 2010)

It’s my last day/night in the bay.

I’m sitting here reclined on my mom’s couch beside the porch. The door is open and I’m enjoying the breeze that still feels damp from yesterday’s rain. The neighbor’s wind chime is ringing, cars are whizzing by, dogs are out for their Saturday morning walks and many joggers have run past, huffing and checking their watches.

I have butterflies as I type this. I’m loving this moment.

Soon and very soon, I’ve got to get up, finish my laundry and get my suitcase packed. And I’m worried that the 41 pounds I came here with is over 50 now, thanks to the clothes that my mom had laid out on my bed when I got here and the outfits that I’ve picked up throughout the week.

Add to that the weight of whatever I will pick up today during a full day of shopping at the outlet malls in Orlando. I’d be happy to walk away with a new watch, some new spring flats, and a handbag. But, we’ll see what happens. I’m going with two women who love to shop and peer pressure and/or good deals may influence my purchasing.

I’m now convinced that I need to get a small carry-on suitcase to pack all of my new things in. If we could only go back to the days when life was good and airlines didn’t charge for absolutely everything, including our bags.

I’ve got a 7a.m. flight back t o Indianapolis in the morning, which I didn’t realize when I was planning, would actually be a 6a.m. flight due to Daylight Saving’s Time “Spring Forward”. It’s very likely that I will not sleep again until I am back in my other bed in Anderson.

There’s much to be done when I get back, all of the things that I neglected while I was here enjoying the city and the company of my Mom and friends. While I am stressed just thinking about those things, I’m also thinking joyfully on some other things that I’ve got to do.

I told my friend last night that I am determined to seek out the things that make me happy when I get home. All of those little things that make my heart smile and fill my stomach with butterflies; the cute little cafes to write and do homework in, the artsy events to watch and enjoy and the parks to sit and read in.

These are the places and things that keep me feeling inspired, creative and…happy. And I know they’re out there, and finding them will be an adventure of sorts.

So it’s so long for now. But there are new adventures before me, as there always have been. And now, I am more than ready for them.

But, here’s to hoping for a summer internship in the bay, under the sunshine, surrounded by the laughter of my friends, my Mom’s love and homemade cooking and many butterfly-filled moments.

It's A Celebration (43/90)

2010-03-14T17:10:00.004-04:00

Monday marks one year to the day of my life new life as a natural chick.

I’ve decided that this is a day worth celebrating. Actually, I may just celebrate all week. And I’m sure this seems silly to some, and I’ve decided not to worry about the some that don’t get it for right now. Those that do though, I invite you to celebrate with me.

And, let’s celebrate the newness of things in your life too, hair or otherwise.

I’ve come across several natural hair celebrations and they were an inspiration for me to continue through my journey from relaxed to natural hair and gave me something to look to look forward to once I reached the awful awkwardness that followed the first few days and months of my Big Chop.

Of the celebrations that I have seen so far the most common were video montages that chronicle the hair journey, length checks; which often times mean flat ironing the hair for the first time, adding color, or pampering the hair with special treatments like Henna and creating homemade shampoos and conditioners with all natural ingredients.

I think all of these are awesome ideas, and as said before they were inspiring to me during my transitioning stage and first months in the natural club. But, this is my celebration and I want to do something original and share it with you.

But what? That is the question.

I’d love to know what people want to see as I celebrate my first year natural. I’d love to answer any questions you may have about the hair or this natural journey. Also, what would you like to see/read/hear from me?

And, I want to know what you’re celebrating, so I can join you in your celebration as well.

Let’s talk, and CELEBRATE!

<a href="http://www.formspring.me/TiffanyHolbert">http://www.formspring.me/TiffanyHolbert</a>

"We're Falling Apart And Coming Together" (42/90)

2010-03-12T13:10:00.004-05:00

It’s almost 1:30 a.m. and I’m lying in bed fighting to keep my eyes open.

Generally, this wouldn’t be such a fight as I am a night-owl/insomniac/curious cat who is often up at all hours of the night. But tonight, I am exhausted. It’s been a full week, much fuller than I anticipated. I haven’t studied for the major test I have on Wednesday when I return, or applied for internships, or done my reading or any of the other things I brought along in my school bag, sure that I’d have time to get to them.

Still, I feel it’s been a successful break. I’ve been able to spend a lot of quality time with my mom and reunite with my friends here.

***

I’ve just gotten home from a night out with the girls, minus two. “The girls” are the girls that I went to high school with. There are five of us, and I’m not even quite sure how we bonded, as we are all so different, but we did.

Throughout high school we ate lunches together when we could, had sleepovers and holiday parties, and many a late night talking sessions. We went to homecomings and proms together and always came together when one of us was having a hard time, after a break-up or let down or even just to celebrate.

We are five years post high school now and we don’t talk often, but we have get-togethers whenever we can and try to catch up. Thankfully, I was in town this time and got a chance to hug my girls and hear about their lives now.

As it turns out, while our lives are all still very different we all seem to be in the same place.

Before I say all this, let me first say that we are a pretty awesome group of girls. Among us is the class valedictorian, two college grads, one of them a Duke pre-Med student, a soon to be teacher, and two who hold two jobs whilst going to school.

We are smart, hard working and determined.

But, because we are honest with each other it is also evident in our conversation that we are confused, broken, and scared.

Though we are finished or nearly finished with college we aren’t exactly sure what we want to do with our lives, or if we are, we aren’t exactly sure how to make it happen.

We are growing up. And we were unaware of how hard and unpleasant that can be.

***

Tonight I felt like I was having déjà-vu. I’ve been meeting with friends all week, and we’ve been having this same conversation, within the different contexts of our lives and relationships.

There wasn’t one person I talked to that had it all together, well, there actually was one but that’s just because they weren’t being totally open or honest. But when we are being real, the truth is that most of our lives are falling apart. Not in an end of the road, way but in a this must first be broken, way. Some of us have realized the beauty in that and have made peace, and some of us are still fighting the inevitable.

We are 20-somethings trying to feel our way through this world. We are torn between doing what’s safe and doing what makes us happy. We are ready for love and the heartbreaks and joy that it brings. We are frustrated by our opportunities and responsibilities. We are not who we thought we’d be, and we either are or aren’t okay with that.

We are all of these things that we couldn’t anticipate and aren’t quite sure how to handle. But the one thing that we are not is alone, unless we choose to be.

We are all in this together, friends.

In Anticipation (41/90)

2010-03-11T00:46:00.005-05:00

I’m sitting nervously at The Coffee Beanery, a quaint little café in New Tampa, only minutes from my house. And I can’t believe that I’ve never made it here before. It’s a nice spot for writing or studying; there is free WiFi, good coffee and decent looking food that I haven’t the stomach to try today.

My nerves have my stomach knotted in anticipation of the informational interview that I have scheduled at USF today with the graduate director of their Creative Writing program.

And truthfully, I’ve got no reason to be nervous. This is an informational interview, which means I’m not in the hot seat. I’ll be asking some basic questions about the program and their expectations and goals for their students. Logistical stuff, mainly. It’s a practice run for the interview at the top choice school and this particular program is not one I’m even seriously considering just yet.

But for me, it’s more than just an informational interview. It’s another step.

****

We’re nearing the halfway mark in the 90 in 90 challenge now.

To be completely honest, it just keeps getting harder. At this point I’m finding myself constantly searching for inspiration, just a spark to set ablaze a new fire within me. One that is fresh and ferocious and untapped.

I’m searching for some momentum to keep me from the long moments of stillness that break the flow of my writing and replace the rhythm of my fingers pounding on the keys with silence. Which, in this whole process has become more and more unpleasant.

Because creating, anything at all, is hard. Creating consistently is even harder. It is both a struggle and a joy.

And this is the life of a writer, I presume. This is the life that I want more than anything. It is the only thing that I can imagine pouring myself into day after day, for a lifetime.

***

I feel foolish daily. It happens routinely, right about the time that I click “publish”. I know the things that I will hear when I go to that interview: There won’t be room for many. Not everyone is cut out for this life. It is hard, lonely and arduous.

These are the words that I’ve heard over and over again. The words that have kept me from my love for so long.

But, here we are on day 41 and I’m sitting here preparing for an interview at a graduate school. Trying to build a life around my passion for writing. And I still don’t know if I’m doing it right. Or if I even have the ability to do it right.

But I’m doing it. And I’ll keep doing it.

Because despite the answer, the passion is in the doing.

Between Us (40/90)

2010-03-11T00:36:00.000-05:00

“It will just be until it won’t anymore."

Those were the words I uttered about this friendship while I was sitting at the bar among friends several months ago.

A bit of foreshadowing, it turns out.

Things are falling apart, not quickly though. Which is hard. It’s a slow crumbling. The kind that when you see it happening, you know there is no salvaging of the pieces, all of the little pieces.

***

The silence was almost unbearable today.

There was an empty space between us, one that no one else could have observed as we sat, chatting, and laughing over breakfast. But it was obvious to me, because it hasn’t always been there. And it felt, well, the way that emptiness does.

I know that we’re getting down to the end now.

There isn’t a timeline. But, I just know. Because I feel it. And there is no convincing me otherwise. More truthfully, I know because I’ve been on the other side of it. I know exactly how this works. I know what’s coming next.

And of the two options that I see, one being letting it fall apart, and the other being fighting to keep it together, neither one feels right.

***

Our worlds no longer collide. There is no commonality.

I walked away from the thing that made us the same kind of people. I broke the unspoken contract that friends enter into: I’ll be here, and we’ll be friends as long as you stay the same.

The hardest thing is that no love has been lost. None at all. But authenticity has. I’m holding back, watching my words. I’m scared to speak the truth that I know will in this person’s eyes, disqualify me from friendship.

***

One of my pet peeves, probably the biggest of them, is superficiality.

This is especially true in relationships. I can deal with most things, and I’m loyal to the core, but the one prerequisite I have is that we are allowed to move beyond the surface, to dig into everything. Fairly quickly, even.

I can’t help that need. That’s always been in me. The rudimentary things in life just don’t satisfy me. And it sounds pretentious, I’m sure. But I see it differently.

I don’t need things to be profound, mind-blowing, or sensational, just real.

***

But here I am holding back.

I’ve been trying to convince myself that everything will be okay. That sometimes things fall apart and then come back together. But this is not what I believe. I know that it will not be okay.

I just haven’t the courage yet to accept what I said on that night at the bar after one too many drinks: It will just be until it won’t anymore.

And that’s what’s real.

Invisible Fence (39/90)

2010-03-09T00:39:00.001-05:00

I’ve made promises that I’d start wearing my hair big. Because several people have asked. But, more importantly because I want to wear it big, in its natural state, which was the whole point of the chop.

I’ve made excuse after excuse, even going so far as to say that that I feel restricted because of where I live and the lack of diversity therein. And I even feel silly typing that. Because freedom is not predicated on one’s environment, although my perception has had me convinced me otherwise.

I thought for sure that it would be no big deal for me to wear my hair big here in Tampa. This city is truly a melting pot. I knew that there wouldn’t be the questions and the comments that I’m used to at home.

And on Saturday when I wore my hair big at the art festival, there weren’t. Only because no one was worrying about me. Or my hair. They were going on about their day, the way that people do.

But I fussed over it all day, and my Mom kept encouraging me to let it be. And I did, because I had no other option at the time, but I pulled it back before I went out to meet friends later that night.

The more that I type, the sillier I feel about actually having such a hang-up. But this is real. So, I’ll continue.

I’m kind of a control freak, and that manifests itself in every area of my life. Including the way that I wear my hair. Next week I’ll be a year natural, and one thing that I can say in retrospect, is that I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I don’t regret the chop. At all. But, it’s taken me a year just to adjust to the newness. And I can’t say that I’m fully adjusted. It’s odd to have a totally new head of hair. One that I couldn’t predict or prepare for after having my hair relaxed for longer than I’ve been styling my own hair.

Before the chop, I had my hair down to a science, no pun intended. But, I knew how to work it, how to get it to do what I wanted. I even had certain hairstyles for certain outfits. It was the way that I perfected my image.

And now, I am lost. Things don’t match up in my eyes. But I guess that’s okay. Because I know that we don’t see the same things anyways. I’ll never see what you see when you look at me. That’s my reality, and the reality of many I presume.

That in mind, it’s foolish of me to try to control what others see when they look at me. Or to blame my fear and discomfort on my environment. Or to hand anyone my freedom.

I can’t control this hair. And already, I’ve grown tired of trying.

It took me several years to decide to transition from relaxed to natural. I endured 8 months of said transition, and decided in a moment of bravado in New York City to chop. I’ve begun adjusting now after this first year of naturalness.

All that’s left is to let it be. Which for me, of course, will be a process.

Spring State Of Mind (38/90)

2010-03-08T23:17:00.002-05:00

I’ve done a little bit of everything today. I’ve been here there and everywhere. Enjoying the weather that is just beginning to warm up after a chilly weekend.

It finally feels like spring. I even spent some time shopping for some spring wardrobe pieces. Colorful flats and jeweled sandals, flutter sleeve tops and capris to replace the black cardigans, dark-wash jeans, and boots.

And it’s been nearly impossible for me to sit still. But now I am. Still. Beside my Mom on the couch with my feet up. And BJ, who has been around ever since we moved here, is lounging on the other couch. The TV is on and there is a constant conversation between us.

This is not how I typically write, it’s noisy and there is too much going on around me. But I just can’t bring myself to go sit alone in my room for a few hours, even though I know I need to.

***

I’m currently on Spring Break. And my routine has certainly broken as evidenced by the fact that I’m several posts behind on the 90 in 90 challenge.

Surprisingly, I’m not beating myself up over that this week. Although I did have a plan before I got here, to write early in the mornings before the hustle and bustle of the day at my favorite breakfast nooks and coffee shops. And tomorrow, I will do that, between the time that I drop my Mom off at work at 8 a.m. and the 10 a.m. breakfast I’ve got planned with friends.

But, the writing may be the only thing that needs to stay routine this week.

I was stuck in a rut at home. And I’ve only just now realized that.

***

I almost feel like a different person here.

Here, I am independent and sassy and strong. All of the things that this city, this life away from home, has required of me.

From the day that I got here I’ve been finding things for my Mom and I to do. Seeking adventures for us to get lost in. My mom has joked that everything that she’s tried to introduce me to I already know about; the park that I spent mornings walking in, the deals at the hole in the wall restaurants, the beach that is nice but never too crowded.

“You knew about all of these things and never told me, huh,” she asked jokingly.

“I just thought you knew Mom,” I said sincerely.

“I’m an explorer. You have to explore here,” I said.

“It’s not like home,” I continued. “There is always something to do, if you can find it.”

***

I like the way that I am here, which doesn’t necessarily mean that I need to move back. Although that is the thought that I entertain every time I come here and these things that I love about myself begin to emerge.

But the truth is that this is a state of mind. Which means it is a choice.

I haven’t been exploring at home. Searching for the things that keep me happy and inspired. And it’s not that they aren’t there.

Here I am not afraid to get lost. I’ve been lost many times, in the projects, stuck over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, navigating the one-way streets downtown, without streetlights in the country, but I no longer panic because I know eventually I’ll find my way. So, I just take in the scenery and enjoy the ride.

I haven’t had such confidence at home. Yet.

But, the season is changing. Spring is upon us.

A Weekend Of Festivals and Fun (37/90)

2010-03-08T00:27:00.007-05:00

The weekend is winding down. And it's been a nice one here in Tampa Bay.

I got into town in the late afternoon on Friday. I don't do well on flights, I almost always get a bit of motion sickness, which isn't enough to stop me from flying. But this time was a little harder than most because I had a connecting flight, with a layover in Atlanta. What is normally just a two hour trip felt like a day full of flying. By the time that we landed I was just ready to lay down for a bit.

After seven years of living here, I am still enchanted by this city. This beautiful sunset on the drive home fixed my flying woes pretty quickly.

Mom and I ate dinner at one of my favorite restaurants on Friday night. I had plans to go out and meet friends later, but I fell asleep on the couch instead.

On Saturday, I heard, via Facebook, that there was an art festival downtown. We decided to check it out. It was at the newly unveiled Curtis Hixon Waterfront Park which overlooks the beautiful architecture that is the University of Tampa, and the city's new art museum.

If the venue wasn't enough, the art was breathtaking and awe-inspiring. There was more than we had time to really take in. We spent nearly two hours walking through the the exhibits that were housed in white tents, exploring. We took time to express our appreciation to the artists for their work and spent too much time talking, especially when they were friendly.

My mom was really drawn to all of the jewelry and glass art, while I was especially intrigued by the sculptures, paintings, fiber, photography---ok, let's be honest, I was intrigued by all of it although the jewelry was the least exciting for me.

When the exhibits closed for the day, we decided to linger downtown for a little while longer. I introduced my Mom to Five Guys, because I was appalled that she had never eaten, or even heard of their burgers. She loved it as evidenced by the “Mmms,” and long silences at the table and the conversation about them again today.

Later that night I shared a fun but simple night in with friends, which ended with me beating them at a wildly entertaining game of “Things”. And I probably won’t let them forget that.

This morning Mom made a delicious brunch including Apple French Toast. After a bit of lounging around the house we headed to The Strawberry Festival. This was another first for us, though we've talked of going down to get our hands on the famous strawberry shortcake for a few years now.

This festival was overcrowded and the lines for the strawberry shortcake were outrageous, but we found other things to enjoy.

My Mom, B.J. and I decided to share some kettle korn. I can’t explain how funny this was, and I can only hope that the cell phone picture does it justice.

My mom is a stickler for a bargain, you see, and her explanation for this huge bag of kettle korn was that it was a good deal. We left a trail behind us as we walked back through the festival to the car. And several hours later, we've yet to make a dent in that bag.

We got home in just enough time to watch the Oscars and I enjoyed some more of Mom's cooking, an indulgent pasta dish this time.

The weekend is over now. But thankfully, we've got the whole week and another weekend still before us.

"Find Something That's Real And Make It Your Own" (36/90)

2010-03-07T16:08:00.000-05:00

It’s almost 11 a.m. on Saturday and I’m sitting at home in Tampa.

My mom is in the kitchen making a big breakfast. She’s spoiling me on my first morning back. If I’m telling the whole truth, I must admit that she’ll spoil me for the entirety of my trip. She’ll cook meals too big for just the both of us, take me shopping and wake me and tell me to get in my bed when I fall asleep on the couch.

I’ll have to convince her to relax, and remind her that this is home.

It’s hard for me to believe that I left this place where I sleep in my queen sized bed and wake to the warmth of the sunshine on my face, the birds chirping and the sound of a gentle breeze dancing through the moss hanging from the trees outside. And I wonder if there are things about it that I am not remembering. Things that made it easier for me to leave.

And I know that there are, although I’d rather not spoil the joy of this moment by searching my heart for traces of those things. The pains that pulled me back to my first home.

****

I remember my first morning back in Indiana. It was a warm July day in 2008.

The morning my Dad and I sat with my Mom at Cracker Barrel. And I, all of the sudden, was feeling sick. I didn’t get a wink of sleep the night before, as I was busy packing my belongings into boxes. I threw away many things that I shouldn’t have in my haste and I have been glad to find that my Mom kept many of the things that I left behind.

I remember my parents being worried that day. I could see it in their eyes as they sat on the other side of table. They couldn’t quite figure me out as I sat their sick, but emotionless.

It was a quick decision, I thought for only a few weeks, applied to Ball State in March, was accepted and moved by July. It didn’t really require much thought. I knew what I was after.

I was running.

I remember walking through the door after the grueling overnight drive with my Dad in my 2-door Cobalt with my belongings filling every inch of the back seat and trunk.

After a fever wiped me out for the duration of the trip, I drove us the last stretch home, from somewhere in Kentucky to the driveway. I remember being exhausted but excited for the newness before me.

The life that unfolded over the past two years was not the life that I imagined. Not the life I’d hoped for when I was longing for some sense of familiarity. It took a long time for me to settle in. from the little things like the bed that felt nothing like mine, to the much bigger things like the hauntingly lonely weekends.

Nevertheless, it became mine.

***

I’m not even two full days into a nine-day trip and I am sickened by the thought of going home. I love my home. Both of them, but for entirely different reasons.

One holds the memories of my childhood, the other the memories of my teen life and the beginnings of my young adulthood. Mom is in one, Dad in the other.

The city keeps me charged, inspired and sassy while the country makes me feel comfortable and stable. All of these things are necessary in my life, I have found.

It seems that while I am anxious about finding yet another home, one that requires less choosing, there is choosing still to be done. What I want is a fusion of these lives.

I don’t know where to find that. Or if it exists. And I know that there is only danger and disappointment in trying to recreate the past. The choice then becomes one between what I want and what I need.

And I think what I need is something entirely new.

Que Sera Sera (35/90)

2010-03-07T15:18:00.006-05:00

I'm sitting at the Indianapolis airport heading to Tampa by way of Atlanta. I'm sipping a coffee while I wait and am watching, as people are moving all around me. I'm listening discreetly, but unashamedly to conversations that I am not a part of.

The airport has always been one of my favorite places to be. There are so many stories here, so much to see. And there are stories that we miss when we aren't watching. Stories that are not offered up but just slip out

The gentleman sitting beside me is anxious. He is on his way to see his father in Florida who is, as I type this, having a heart catheter put in. He has made a few calls and on last one spoke with his pastor. When he did, he told him the same story I've heard three times now and then asked him to say a prayer. I watched as he closed his eyes and held his cell phone tightly to his ear. And although my prayers have been few lately, I said one for his father too.

There are babies that I want to hold and toddlers that I want sit on the floor and play with. A little blonde toddler is excited about the 'nana that her Dad just bought her, but her Mom who is holding a chunky blue-eyed baby girl, won't let her open it until they get on the plane.

But I must acknowledge that these are not their stories, this is only their now.

***

As a senior in college this could potentially be my last Spring Break. Unless I am accepted into graduate school, and I'm assuming that even if I am, that will be different. By that time I’ll be considered a real adult.

I'm not quite sure how I feel about that yet or if I should feel anything. Many of my friends here are not in school, so they are taking time from their schedules, which haven't broken, to spend time with me.

I wonder if when this year is over I'll ever have the time, or the means to come spend a week with my friends. I'm worried about how often I'll get to come and just sit with my mom. I'm convinced that relationships need visits. Face to face time, eye contact, affection. Phone conversations, Skyping and texting are all nice, but those things will never be comparable to sitting around talking with your friends, having a cup of coffee on a Saturday morning or catching a movie on a whim.

***

I will have nine days to enjoy in Tampa. I am excited and anxious and nervous. I’m not sure what lies before me in terms of the relationships that I cherish here. And the more I worry about them, the more I realize that I am wasting my energy.

What will be will be.

What’s important is that I want them to be, and for these nine days I will spend time enjoying them, nurturing them, holding on to them.

But I must acknowledge that these nine days are not telling of our story, they are only telling of our now.

I Will Let Them (34/90)

2010-03-03T13:12:00.001-05:00

My Dad brought me home a Snuggie last night.

He knocked twice on the door to my room, the way he does before entering, and plopped it on my bed.

"What's that," I asked.

He didn't answer. He was fishing through the white shopping bag he held in his hands.

"Is that a Snuggie," I asked.

"Yeah," he said looking up.

"Thanks," I said giggling.

He pulled a box of Mike and Ikes from the bottom of the bag and tossed them to me.

"You got me my own," I said jokingly.

"Yeah," he said." I didn't even open them.

"Thanks Dad," I said smiling.

Just yesterday he brought me home a bag of Skittles. Two weeks ago he brought me a pair of blue house slippers.

"Try these on," he said. Just as I walked into the house.

I looked at the box, and read that they fit up to a size 8. A size too small.

"These will be too small," I said.

"Are you sure," he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "They fit up to a size 8, I need a 9." I told him.

"Ok," he said quietly.

"Thank you though," I said as I walked toward my room.

The next night when I got home there was another box in the same spot in living room. They were the right size this time.

"Here you go Bigfoot," he said jokingly.

"That stuff is hereditary, you know," I said grinning. "I can't really help it," I continued, as I took the slippers to my room.

None of these are things that I've asked for. Nor are they things that I need, or that I can't buy for myself when I do. He knows all of this.

***

"I'm just calling because I want to see if you wanted something special from the store," my Mom said from the other end of the phone.

She was driving through sunny Tampa on Saturday on her way to meet friends when she called me. I was sitting in my room doing homework, with my space heater buzzing, snow just outside my window.

"No, nothing special," I said. "You know what I like to eat."

"Ok, she said," sounding disappointed.

"I have this new recipe I want you to try," she said, her voice perking up again.

"It's pasta with alfredo sauce and chicken or shrimp. You know I'll probably do both," she said laughing.

"Mmm, that sounds good," I told her. "I'm excited."

Just last week she was sending me pictures of the clothes and shoes she'd picked out for me at the new shopping center. I got a voicemail after I received a few of the pictures.

"Tiff, It's Mom. I sent you pictures of some tops and the Coach shoes I got you. You need to call me back and tell me if you like them, because I know you're picky," she said.

I'm not big on shopping, especially not clothes shopping. When I must, I go straight to the item I want, eye it for size and take it to the cash register. I've got to be in some special mood to peruse clothing stores for any length of time. I prefer buying jewelry and electronics, music and books. But my mom, she loves shopping. She loves taking me shopping. Clothes shopping.

I will take my favorite pair of jeans to her when I fly to see her Friday and ask her to patch the denim that is worn and starting to rip. She'll beg me to throw them away and let her buy me a new pair of jeans, or three. I'll just want her to patch the old pair. They're my favorites. And they're still wearable. But I'll have to convince her of this, and convince her that I don't need a new pair of jeans, or three.

***
But this is their way. This has always been their way. I just haven't always realized it.

I stood talking to my mentor, Brad, at Starbucks while waiting for my latte. We were chatting about my upcoming trip to Tampa.

When they try to do something nice for you, whether it's giving you money or something small, just let them, he told me. Realize it's the one of the last things they feel like they can do for you. It's them saying "I love you," he said.

"It's weird," I said inarticulately.

And it's not weird what they're doing, because this is what they've always done. It's weird that they are doing it with such intensity and urgency. And because I am just now able to see it for what it is: My parents pouring their love on me, every way they know how.

It breaks my heart to imagine what I know they are both feeling now.

They're losing their baby. A little more every day.

When I talk of moving far from them, chasing my dreams all over the country and overseas they don't express excitement. They are quiet, solemn.

They're trying to hold on. They're trying to let go.

But in the meantime, they're just loving me. And I will let them.

A Subtle Shift (33/90)

2010-03-02T19:16:00.002-05:00

Things are starting to come together in my life.

Or maybe just in my head. Which is a much needed change. And it’s enough for me to start making some moves. I can’t really explain what’s happened over the past few days, if anything. Nothing external, for sure. Something in me just feels different.

That probably sounds silly to some, and it’s an odd awareness to have without being able to pinpoint the source. I’ve noticed, on several occasions, that whatever the general sentiment is in my environment at the time, mine tends to be the opposite. That’s also an odd awareness to have and still try to fit in. But I’ve given up on the fitting in part so now, it’s just odd really.

***

It’s the week before Spring Break, and I think I had my meltdowns early, as evidenced here and here. And now, when everyone around me is about to burst, I'm breathing easy. I had an important test today and another one on Thursday as well as some other major assignments that I've still got to handle, but I'm just breathing easy through this last stretch.

It's quite possible that I'm just overjoyed at the thought of seeing my Mom and friends in just a few days and spending some time in the sunshine and on the water. I'm not really concerned with analyzing why right now. I'm just feeling good, and it's nice.

***

For the first time in a long time, I am excited by the things that just last week nearly triggered a panic attack. Again, I can't even explain what's made the difference. And it might not last, which is why it's important that I share these things now, while I'm still excited.

The Internship: I've got to have one of those to graduate and I've been procrastinating because I've been fearful that I won't get one which has kept me from applying for any. It's funny how we manifest our fears that way. But, for right now I'm more excited than fearful. I'm really hoping to find a firm that specializes in PR for the arts or a performing arts center. I want to send applications for 10 internships over break. 10, that's the goal. I need to get my resume finished and designed (and by designed I mean a decent looking masthead, and a functional layout) and start writing some cover letters. I'm aware that I'm behind on this, but right now I believe that it's all going to come together.

Informational Interviews: So, I've been assigned (despite my nerves, I'm grateful) to do two informational interviews as a part of this graduate school planning process. I got an email response today and it looks like at least one of those will happen this week at the USF in Tampa.

The Graduate School: I have my eyes fixed on one already. I need to do some additional research still on the professors and their work and I'll have time to do that next week. The next step then will be making a trip there. After next week I need to find a Friday that I can make a drive to Chicago and tour the school, talk to the advisor, the professors and the students. This will be the real first step in the grad school process; the visit to the first choice school. And I may find out that I'm not as in love with it as I think, and have to go back to the drawing board. But, I've got to find out.

***

I just feel like I'm in the right place at the right time.

I can't explain it. And I'm not even sure that it needs to be explained. Although, my guess is that for whatever reason I've just now gotten to the point that I'm more scared of not trying than I am of failing. I've failed before, and I'll fail again. But I know what failure feels like, and I know that it's survivable.

I know what not trying feels like too, and that's not survivable. That's the slow death of all that it means to be alive and well. To be passionate and hopeful and free.

I think I'm finally ready to fail. And that's a good place to start.

"I Know There's Something Better" (32/90)

2010-03-02T01:36:00.004-05:00

I am like the winter/ I’m a dark cold female/ with a golden ring of wisdom in my cave

I’m not good with dates. Numbers have never been my strong suit. I remember important dates though like birthdays and anniversaries, but that’s only because they are important to the people that I love.

Other than that, I’m not good with dates. I always marvel at girls that can tell you the date that they first went out with their significant other. And even the date of their first kiss. I will never be that girlfriend, no matter how sweet I think that is.

I remembered this on Sunday after I’d spent all of Saturday beating myself for the way that I went through the day.

If I had only looked at the date, I might have given myself a break for the way that I was. All I wanted to do was sleep or lay in bed on top of my heating pad eating chocolate chip cookies and Chex Mix.

Because it’s that time when girls get cranky, distracted and extra sleepy. It’s just that time. And that, I can accept.

And it is me who is my enemy/ Me who beats me up/ Me who makes the monsters/ Me who strips my confidence

But because I’m so terrified of slipping into a funk, I beat myself up for it. All day. And then, I woke up and decided to give myself permission to not have it all together. And because of that simple freedom, I had a great day. And got my work done. Not all of it, not what I’d planned. But enough.

And now of course I’m wondering why it took so long for me to give myself a break. To decide to stop beating myself up. But instead, to allow myself the failures, faults and flaws that are the essence of my humanity.

I’ve always been hard on myself, for as long as I can remember. Constantly going over in my head the things that I do wrong, as I do them. And long after I’ve done them. That, I’ve realized is what most often sends me into a funk. A tailspin.

I am walking over the bridge/ I am over the water/ And I’m scared as hell/ But I know there’s something better

This game of life is a constant striving to be better, to be more than what we are. More than we esteem ourselves to be.

I am striving, and I am failing. Again and again. Sometimes in small ways other times much larger, more substantial ways. I haven’t been able to figure it out. Nothing is coming together the way that I have expected it to. I have panicked and spent too much time beating myself up.

But, I have overlooked the date. I forget that I am only 22. And it just happens to be that time when 22 year olds are confused and broken and frustrated. It’s just that time. And that, I must accept.

It will pass, which doesn’t mean that when it does my striving will then lead me to success. What is important is that when it passes, I am still striving. And I must give myself permission to fail, because I will. But after I do, I must keep striving.

That is winning in this game of life.

Blessed Be The Ties That Bind (31/90)

2010-03-01T23:52:00.006-05:00

The amount that I miss my friends is immeasurable. I’ve been looking at their pictures, watching their status updates (or hoping for them). And I miss them more.

I’m dying to see them in the flesh. I cannot wait to tackle them with a hug. I need to hear them laugh and watch their eyes light up as they smile. I need these things, tangible things.

It’s been just shy of two years since I left. But only four months since I’ve last seen them. They are different. We are different. But we don’t talk much about that. We haven’t kept up the way we all assumed we would. Or maybe we didn’t assume that at all. Maybe I’d just hoped.

We move in and out of each other’s lives the way that long-distance friends do. A phone call every now and then, a text just to say, “I’m thinking of you, and I love you” a message on Facebook to share a funny story. It is all of these small things that I all of the sudden feel the need to hold on to. I’m finding myself saving them, and journaling them, fearful that they’ll slip away too soon and leave me longing.

These things remind me of the bonds that we’ve made over the years, now weakened by distance and time.

***

But there are things I am not saying. Because they are hard. And because I am scared. Yet, at the same time, I’m ready. Just a little more ready than I was yesterday, and the day before, which is enough for now.

There are five of them that I keep up with now. Or seven if I’m being all-inclusive. But we’re really not close anymore, not the five, or seven of us. Not even the three girls that I still think of as sisters.

Things have changed. We are changing.

***

We met in church, all of us. We were all the leadership of the youth group in a large, well-known church. A mega-church, as they call it. We spent more time with each other than anyone else. All day on Sundays, Thursday nights, Saturdays, Tuesdays. We were a family, in every sense of the word.

And unfortunately, we were broken together in that church. On numerous occasions, in ways that I am not quite ready to explain. I’m not even sure that I could explain, or that it would make sense to anyone outside of us.

Up until the last break, we survived. We endured together. As painful as some of those times were, there are sweet memories that I think back to on days like today when I miss them, when I miss us.

We were raw, exposed and vulnerable with each other, which is both incredibly powerful and dangerous.

I remember a time that one of those girls, who had by that time become like a sister, came looking for me in the back of that church that seats 4,500 people, for no reason. She sat down beside me, slipped her arm around me, her hand resting on my shoulder and whispered in my ear “You’re not alone, Tiff. You’re not alone” And then, she stayed there beside me, with her arm tight around me until I believed it.

We all camped out in the hospital room after one of us underwent emergency surgery. We’d stay late, way past visiting hours were over. We'd bring up grilled cheese sandwiches from the hospital cafeteria and sit there on the floor telling stories and laughing.

When we broke, we broke together. And when we healed, we healed together.

Up Until the last time.

***

We are not an us anymore. We will never be a family again. Some of us have come together again, though. In much less powerful, safer ways. But we slip into familiarity from time to time.

On my last night in town, just four months ago, a few of us were sitting around talking. After several hours had passed and we’d gotten reacquainted the walls began to fall.

And still, there are things I am not saying. Because they are too hard. Because I am too scared.

But one thing became clear, some of us were broken still while some of us were healing. Each of us on our own.

Searching For The In-Between (30/90)

2010-02-28T02:11:00.003-05:00

My Mom called me this morning, as she was on her way to meet friends for a get together.

"What are you doing," she asked.

"Homework," I said, without an ounce of enthusiasm.

"I'm done," she said excitedly.

She's just finished the last courses for her Master's degree. She's officially done. Over the past few months we've been commiserating over the assignments that require long nights of work and weekends spent in.

"How does it feel," I asked her.

***

I've been all kinds of up and down lately. And it's bothersome for me to acknowledge. Embarrassing, actually. Just yesterday my life felt full. Today it feels empty. There is no in between.

Yesterday was a great day, for simple reasons. Two great conversations over coffee during the day, and I watched one of my favorite movies while doing bits and pieces of assignments at night.

But, today has been miserable. I have spent the entire day alone in my room working on a paper and trying to find little moments of enjoyment in the meantime. This paper is not complicated, but it is long. Whenever I get around to finishing it, it will be between 15-20 pages. Nothing compared to the 100-page research paper I wrote on the health care debate a few semesters back. Yet and still, I'm struggling to finish it.

I'm learning that I can not multitask. Research has shown that none of us can effectively, but I really can't. I am too easily distracted. When I really need to get something done, and in a timely fashion, I need to be alone, sitting at my desk in silence.

Which, unless I'm passionate about the "thing" that needs done, is just unpleasant. Sometimes I get into a zone, and just lose myself in the work and before I know it 4 hours have passed. But, because I've been trying to fight myself and the way that I know I work, that just hasn't happened today.

Nothing has happened. I haven't relaxed and I haven't gotten my work done. I'm dreading Monday. There's much to be done yet this weekend and I don't want to carry any of it into a new week.

***

There is no balance in my life, I've never been able to find it. I wanted to spend this weekend playing. I wanted to find time to recharge before I run out of juice completely. But, from the looks of today I think I may already be out of it.

Which, as real as that feels, isn't actually an option.

Thankfully, the weekend isn't over yet. I've got tomorrow to figure out how to get all of my work done and hope that there is time left afterwards to play or just relax.

But this anxiety and frustration really isn't about the assignments. This is about trying to find the plains to stand on instead of the peaks and the valleys.

It's no secret that I've been dreading the end of college. I'm scared of what that end will mean for me. But, the end is sneaking up on me quickly. I know that there is much to be done still before I move on, and I don't want to carry any of it into a new season.

And that question I asked my Mom this morning, is one I've got to answer for myself.

"These Boots Were Made For Walkin" (29/90)

2010-02-27T00:33:00.003-05:00

I wanted to prance around in my boots all day today.

They haven't been out much, although I bought them months ago. I've worn them no more than three times so far. It was a split second decision this morning.

I've got only one class on Friday's which means I've got less walking to do around campus on slick, icy sidewalks which means I've got an even lesser chance of falling. And, despite the end of the week tiredness, I was in a good mood. So, on went the boots.

These aren't the every-day boots though. Not the black flats or the camel moccasins that I throw on for comfort and practicality day after day. These are sassy boots. A cross between riding and cowboy with a wedge and laces in the back. They're cute, if I can say so myself.

Today, they made me feel cute. I rely on these things sometimes. A lot of the time.

That last minute look in the mirror can be intense. It is often enough to send me back into my room to change my outfit entirely or tweak little things like changing the earrings or the shirt or throw on a bit of mascara.

This morning I stood realizing that no matter how much I'm trying not to think about my weight, it is now apparent that I've gained. I am as ok with it as I can be but it's uncomfortable, still.

I've been busy and let too much time lapse since my last eyebrow threading. They are one of the little things I like about myself. When I take care of them, like I try to, I am complimented often. They frame my most prominent feature. When I don't take care of them, I am uncomfortable. I want to cover my face or pull a hat down over my eyes.

A bit of anxiety crept up in me as I stood looking at my sweater pulling tight around my hips and the bushy brows that made me feel messy and unkempt. But then, I looked down to the boots. Oh, the boots. They were enough to get me out the door without starting all over.

Today I allowed the clicking of the boots to be my rhythm. The tone I was setting for my day echoing through the hallways, preceding me. Some days, when I'm feeling particularly shy, I can't stand that sound. I walk on the balls on my feet trying to be quiet, modest.

But, not today.

There's just something about a cute pair of shoes and the way they make you feel. Heels in particular make us look and feel instantly more attractive. Aside from the obvious height addition, which standing only at 5'3 I'll take any day, they lengthen the leg, thin the ankle, raise the butt and increase the sway of the back. Instant sex appeal.

I even noticed the glances from a few young men as I walked through the snow flurries tonight from one side of campus to the other. I hope they didn't notice the brows or the extra weight. I bet they were attracted to my butt or my lengthened legs or the sway of my back.

Or maybe, they just liked the boots.

Nostalgia (28/90)

2010-02-25T23:17:00.006-05:00

I’ve been feeling incredibly nostalgic lately.

I can’t wait to get to Tampa and have 9 days to enjoy there with my Mom and friends. The people, of course, are what I knew I’d miss. I didn’t realize, though how much I loved the city. I didn’t think I’d miss it, aside from the weather and the beach. But I do. I’m finding myself missing the city a lot and I’m longing to be at the places I used to frequent.

Passe- A-Grille is the beach where I spent almost every weekend one summer. Thankfully, it's not on the tourists' radar. On Friday nights I'd coach late at the gym, and then spend the night with friends so that we could head to the beach first thing in the morning. We'd wake up early, pack fresh fruit and water into the cooler, pack our beach chairs in the trunk and make the drive. Once we arrived, the first thing we'd do is take a walk along the length of the beach. We would pass the Ziploc bag full of grapes between us as we walked scanning the sand for starfish and the water for cute boys, talking and laughing all the while.

Xtreme Juice is one of the many amazing juice bars in Tampa. I know you're thinking, it must be hard to miss a smoothie. But, first, where are the smoothie joints in Anderson and Munice? Right, there are none. Second and more importantly, this was a bonding thing for my friends and I. We'd grab smoothies on work breaks or on Sundays in between church services when they were two for one. My favorite: Phunky Punch.

You Do The Dishes is a pottery studio where I'd spend Friday nights sipping coffee and painting ceramics with my girlfriends. This place is peaceful, artsy and inviting and makes you wish you could stay all night. I even celebrated one of my birthdays there with the girls. It's conveniently located within walking distance of our place in Tampa and I may have to make have to make some time for it this trip.

The amount of love I have for The Bayshore Boulevard is out of control. It has a special place in my heart, not only because it's beautiful and relaxing but also because I've had some pretty serious and memorable conversations there with friends in the wee hours of the morning. And some not so serious ones too.

Muvico is my absolute favorite theater. In my travels, (though certainly not extensive) I have yet to find one quite like it. It's huge, with roomy seats and an awesome concession stand. My Mom and I frequent this theater. We last saw The Blind Side over Thanksgiving Break we held back our tears as we sipped our sodas and shared candy and popcorn. Everything you could ever want to eat at the movies, they have. I like to get ice cream bites and a Diet Coke but they have everything from curly fries to shrimp baskets in addition to all of the usual items.

I miss Spanish food like no other. Tampa is full of authentic Spanish restaurants and Cuban cafes. Early on I fell in love with the chicken dishes with red beans over rice and a side of plantains. I could try to impress you the with the little amount of Spanish I've learned, but to be honest the best Spanish food I've had has been in my friends houses and when we go out they order for me so I don't embarrass them. I can't forget Cafe Con Leche, which is how I fell in love with coffee. Cuban espresso with steamed milk and a bit of sugar, absolutely delicious. These are cravings that can't be filled here in the Midwest where I was raised.

I could go on and on, but I'll share a bit more once I get back there. For now, I'm clinging to the memories I shared with my favorite people in charming little places and remembering that it's the simplest things in life that make me happy.

And that's the way it should be.