Take a picture...

...and keep it in your mind.

I've been thinking a lot lately about family and friends.  I think that is fairly  normal when going through a...what would you even call this.  A family illness?  Sure.  Anyway, the other day I noticed: when I hear the name of someone I know, my mind flashes, not just to their face, but to an image of them doing what I most associate them with.  Basically, my mind automatically puts them in the place that I consider that person the most themselves. 

For instance, this is what comes to mind when I think of Kaylee.

This has interesting implications to me and, being vaguely narcissistic, it makes me wonder where other people picture me, where they would consider me most myself.  Of course, I'm sure my image of myself probably differs from how everyone else sees me.  And everyone has a different perspective on everyone else.

So, for instance, when I hear Tyler's name, my mind flashes to him surrounded by his friends and laughing, maybe while in a kitchen covered in flour.  My strongest images of who Tyler is have to do with what a social person he is, what a loyal friend, how he loves taking care of people (often by filling them with food).  Obviously, there are hundreds of other components that make up who Tyler is, but this is how my subconscious most strongly sees him.

My subconscious also sees him shaggy-haired and bearded, but, alas, he believes in shaving now.

My sister, Becca, flashes to my mind telling jokes, making faces, and surrounded by people laughing, probably with our dog in her lap.  Abby is surrounded by books and artwork, smiling her wry smile at me about some inside joke.  My mom is smiling and talking to people, so happy to be around people, listening to them and exuding warmth.  Dad is sitting in his big chair at home, cracking jokes and teasing the family and playing with the dog.

My mind doesn't flash to everyone in a good light.  There are some people whose names I hear and my mind instantly goes to them yelling or angry or cutting and sarcastic (granted, these are generally people I don't know very well and have had mostly unpleasant interactions with).  I would be horrified if that's what people flashed to when they thought of me.  But I think that we most associate people with the emotions or the images they most frequently display around us.  So, if I don't want people to think of me as an angry person, I need to make sure I am infrequently (or never) angry to people.  Rarely unkind.  Almost never rude or condescending.

This is some serious motivation for me to behave better, to not write off my bad moments as "normal" or "human", to not constantly excuse myself and shirk responsibility when I snap and hurt people.  Of course, I'm not perfect (and, as I've learned lately, not always as patient as I could be), but I can at least make effort and, when I fail, make amends.

Anyway, ending this on a lighter note, you should shoot me an email or comment if you are curious about my flashes of you.  I have very pleasant ones about most people I know.  Also, please indulge my curiosity and tell me what flashes into your mind with me.  Because I am just that curious.

Love you all.

I'm not dead!...

...but it has been way too long.

In my defense, I couldn't get access to the blog while in China.  However, the Tyler and I have been (quite unexpectedly) back in the states for...about a month now.  And I have not updated.  Because I am a slacker.

The totally stable face of a slacker.  No crazy eyes there or anything.

Our plans were thrown into chaos after we had been in China for about three weeks.  We were going about our teaching as usual (Tyler's students loved him.  Like, LOVED.  As in, would beg to sit with us at lunch so they could talk with him more) and nothing had happened beyond the usual and expected travel illnesses.  I got food poisoning at the end of our second week, Tyler got it in about the third week, then it went away.

Or so we thought.

Then some pain started.  First in his shoulder.  Then his ankle.  It got so bad he couldn't make the forty-minute walk in to school.  We headed to the doctor across the street from campus after class to see if she could give us some crutches and, like a good doctor, she took his temperature.

And promptly sent us to the emergency room.

After several hours and many unnecessary tests, we ended up in a hallway.  Tyler was sleeping on a gurney with an IV in him and I was in a chair by the foot of his bed squishing the roaches that wandered too near him from their nest in the wall.  Three wonderful people from the school we worked at (two teachers and a student) stayed with us the whole night, waiting for news and making sure we weren't alone.

The next day we were moved to the very nice and longer-stay portion of the hospital (we found out later we were in essentially the party leaders' hospital.  And we got our own room!).  Tyler was seen by several doctors each day and always had between three and five bags of IV fluid put in him.  The pain had shifted to his knees and wrist along with the ankle and shoulder and he was running high fevers nightly.  He couldn't move much, so we spent most of our time trying to entertain ourselves and desperately trying to understand the Chinese soap operas on tv.  I think one character has a disease that keeps her crying at all times.  I never saw her dry-eyed.

We were informed it is actually a Korean show, but it was on Chinese television.

We lived at that hospital for almost two weeks.  The doctors would tell me that they were testing for increasingly more terrifying diseases.  We called our parents.  A lot.  We went from fear of bacterial meningitis to tuberculosis to bone cancer to yellow fever and no tests came back with any answers.  We were losing it.

We finally got an unofficial diagnosis: reactive arthritis.  Turns out, Tyler's body really does not like any sort of strange bacteria and will attack his joints when they find one.  He has now had arthritis for about a month.  Some days are better than others.  Some days he needs his dad to pretty much carry him up and down stairs, most nights he can't sleep from the pain, and days are generally spent on the couch, the chair, and the bed.  If he is feeling good and very ambitious he tries to take the dog on a walk, but generally it lasts about ten minutes.

O yeah.  And we now have a dog.  Our baby.  Her name is Layla and she is a beautiful little German Shepherd.  She is also trouble, but with us as parents, that's not so shocking.

Behold, the cutest dog in the world.

Anyway, we made it back to the states and are currently living with Tyler's parents in Colorado.  I am studying for the LSAT and Tyler is doing his utmost to train the puppy and keep on top of his pain.  Hopefully it fades soon.  I really, really hope so.

In the meantime, we have no choice but to have a sense of humor about the whole thing, as much as that is possible.  Tyler has decided not to swear in front of the puppy (she's just a baby), so his go-to expletive is "SWEET MOTHER OF FLUFFY".  Thanks for that, Kirsten.

Love you guys and sorry I was out of the loop so long.  I will try to keep this updated.  You are all fabulous.

Talk to you soon.

leaving on a jet plane...

...guess I'll be back again eventually.

Whelp, this is it.  The big leap.  The great adventure.  The realm of terror.  In just days. I get on a plane, fly for several hours while my husband tries to slip me sleeping pills to knock me out, and arrive bleary-eyed and, assumedly, extremely confused in China.  It's going to be awesome.  And exciting.

And I honestly can't tell if the feeling I am feeling is abject fear or manic excitement.

Knowing me and my life, it's probably going to be a combination of both.

We are off.  To teach English for a year and learn...just a lot.  About the world.  About life.  About ourselves.  It's all happening.  For real.  This is not a drill.

I will miss so much, including many of you, but I head off into adventure and turmoil, hopefully much of it to be relayed here.

I wish you luck in all of your adventures and I will update life when I get to China.

thoughts on days of sadness and joy...

...even joy of the fairly strange kind.

I woke up last Friday to texts from friends making sure I was not near the horribly sad events in Aurora and to news stations filled with stories of carnage and horror and broken-hearted people.  All of Denver was thrown into a state of confusion and panic.  We were devastated while hearing about all those who were hurt and killed in the attack.  We were confused and angry, wondering how and why anyone would want to inflict so much pain.

The question that comes up whenever we are faced with tragedy is "what do we do now"?  No one can plan around the choices of a madman.  We can't insulate ourselves from all possibility of danger without cutting ourselves off from society entirely.  The sad and frightening truth is that life is fleeting.  Life is fragile.  So, beyond remembering those who were lost, praying for those left in pain, and making effort to love and appreciate friends and family, what do you do?

Turns out, in our case, you go to a renaissance festival.

The ale flowed and the bosoms heaved.

We had planned to go this weekend anyway.  Our friend was having a birthday and it sounded fun to go out and take in the fabulous strangeness.  Though it felt strange to go to something so light-hearted after something so dark, we thought it was necessary.  It was almost like defiance against the sadness.  A passionate "screw you, I say this is not going to take the joy out of life.  I say we are going to go amongst the renaissance folk and have fun!"  And fun was most definitely had.

It is fun to drink beer in hundred-degree heat surrounded by men in chain-mail and women dressed like fairies.  It is funny to walk past the shops full of chalices and war-horns and wonder whether the people in metal or black wool or animal skins are feeling the heat quite as much as you are.  Watching acrobats drag your friends on stage so they can wear tutus and participate in stunts is wonderful (it looked great on you, Todd).  And getting to revel in my own nerdiness by being able to readily identify Link and Zelda or various Game of Thrones characters?  It was great.

But beyond the moments of vague mockery, revelry, and the occasional judging (if you are a sixty-year-old woman, you should not be wearing just a bedazzled belly-dance bra.  And, no, the fairy dust does not make it better), there was a strange sense of joy in all of the dirt and sparkle and madness.  Despite how ugly the world is sometimes, we are still free to laugh and eat and dance and drink and let those freak flags fly.  We get to enjoy the sun (scalding though it may be), and the music (though it may come from pan-flutes), and the sights, and most of all, each other.

When we step away from all the very real ugliness that exists in the world, we remember that there is still beauty and light and warmth out there.  We remember that when life seems most fleeting and fragile, the very things we fall back on are what makes it worth living.  We find ourselves surrounded and supported by love and faith and the belief that the good in the world and in the people around us still outweighs all the fear and evil that we may see.

For everyone hurt and confused and angry and broken and still recovering from the tragedy in Aurora or any other of the very real tragedies, big and small, that we face in our lives, know that there are people around you who love and care and understand what you are going through.  And I hope that some day you will come out the other side of it and be able to see the wondrous and beautiful and incredibly strange things in life that can bring back joy. 

Until then, you are not alone.

you can take the girl out of montana...

...but then she will just be strange in other places.

Sorry I have been slacking off on the writing.  I totally thought I would be updating frequently this summer, but I find I have far less motivation than I thought I did.  Whoops.  I have been being productive in other ways, though!  I have helped fix irrigation and build brick steps in the backyard, I have (successfully!) helped cook spicy Thai shrimp, I have climbed sand dunes and eaten yak tacos, and just yesterday I became an official resident of Colorado.  I am registered to vote, my driver's license says I belong here, and I have a library card.  So it's legit.

Behold, the completely stable face joining your state, Coloradans.

While Tyler is celebrating this cross-over with various victory dances and renditions of "Rocky Mountain High", I like to think that moving does not change me much.  I grew up in Montana and the things I learned there don't leave easily.  They've become ingrained in me, shaping who I am.  And I want to be sure I hang onto all of those things no matter where I go (including China soon!).  So, to hold onto my link to the best state ever (sorry Colorado, but I love my Montana) here are some things that make me Montanan*.

*note that not all Montanans have all these characteristics.  I am quite sure that some of them are just reflections of my own neurosis.  Do not judge my state by my strangeness.

 I firmly believe that unless I am going to a wedding, funeral, or fancy party, there is no reason not to wear jeans.  A nice shirt and jeans can go anywhere.

Hey, if Gaga can get away with wearing this...

Always keep a jacket in the car.  Sure, it may be seventy degrees and sunny now, but things change.  It could be snowing in the next hour.  Seriously.

Yeah, I know what the health magazines say, but I have no problem with red meat pretty much every day.  Steak and potatoes, hamburger in pasta sauce, meatloaf, steak-and-ale pie, meatballs, burgers...I will eat them all.  And I probably won't be sorry.

Don't pretend you don't want it.

I don't really do manicures.  I definitely don't do pedicures.  And my mom has been cutting my hair almost my whole life.  Salons and spas are foreign territories to me and I am fine with it.

Teach your kids to make friends with librarians.  That is how I got out of going to recess all through middle school in fifteen-degree weather.  Reading saved me from frostbite.

They would be playing tag, but they can't see each other.

The best work-outs are when you make a day of it.  Hiking through Glacier Park, swimming and boating in the lake, biking twenty-two miles over Hungry Horse Dam, or just long walks work great for me.  I get so distracted by how much fun I am having, I don't realize how sore I am until the next day.  To be honest, it's one of the only ways I can get a decent workout.

Fall in love with the cold.  I can handle bundling up to keep warm, but if the weather starts out hot, I melt.  Denver is gorgeous and wonderful, but the heat here makes me inert and pathetic for most of the day.  I will always love chilly Montana.

 It gets to 90 degrees and I think I am here.

Watch out for bears.  And mountain lions.  And, for God's sake, do not come into Montana and try to get a picture with the wildlife.  I saw tourists trying to put their five-year-old on a bighorn sheep so they could take a picture for their Christmas card.  Unless you want junior in a hospital for a good while, don't do that.

Big cities are nice.  Montana does not have them.  We get lots of space instead.  I will take my space and lack of people over the terrifying traffic and pollution of cities.  I don't think I will ever feel comfortable with these crazy ant-hill crowds, but I had better get used to it before China.

Boots are much less about looking fancy than they are about trekking through several feet of snow without slipping.  Always keep dressy boots separate from boots to be used in snow.  And never wear Uggs with a mini-skirt.  Ever.

 Please.

Just because I know how to ride a horse does not mean I owned one or rode them around town.  I just could have.  Because I lived across the street from a ranch.  And that was totally normal.

I honestly can't tell if my affinity for flannel comes more from my hipster tendencies or my hick-ness.

Also, braids.  I really like braids.

 *DROOL*

I will never understand how anyone could pay more than...say...fifty dollars for a purse.  Ever.  Designer labels and such don't make any sense to me and I just don't get it.  Clearly, I do not belong in big fancy cities.  Or near the East Coast.

Sweats.  Own them, love them, wear them through the house until they loose all semblance of elastic stretchiness, and then buy some more.

If I am several states away from the ocean and I say "I am going to the beach", I mean the lake.  That's a beach.  For me.

 There's my beach.

...what is a prep school?  Seriously, I don't understand.  Boarding schools are things out of fantasy books and I am almost certain the entire Gossip Girl universe is completely made up.

Rocky Mountain Oysters are bull testicles.  You season them, slice them thin, and grill them.  And they are delicious.

I danced at my wedding reception barefoot.  And I loved it.  Barefoot is wonderful.

If you have not been to Montana, befriended a Montanan, loved a Montanan, or experienced the state in any way other than through a TV screen or a book, get thee hence.  Seriously.  And I hope all the other states that you may belong to treat you as well.

Days of failure and defeat...

...mixed in with light and occasional victory.

Being home is both wonderful and strange.  It's a place where I can immediately sink into old patterns of sleep and tv and scrounging through the kitchen.  However, it's also peopled with folks who care about me.  And about my continued self-improvement.  Meaning they actually say something when I move in and the only exercise I do for the first week is walking from the couch to the fridge and back.  Being the wonderful, sweet, caring family they are, they could not let that stand.

Behold, my nemesis.

 

So I have been forced back into the world of workouts.  I didn't think it would be that bad, seeing as I was a kick-ass kick-boxer not two weeks before.  I was strong.  I was powerful.  I was athletic...

...at pretty much one kind of workout.  Turns out I can muster strength and competitive urges to make it through a class full of other people, but some things I am not so great at.  My mom wanted to go running.  Have I mentioned how passionately I hate running?  Too bad it's one of the best exercises for you.  My mother would have me run with her and I would spend almost the entire time thinking with every single step of another reason to hate it.  Two minutes in and I am always panting and winded with a stitch in my side and aches in my joints.  And whiney.  Running makes me whiney.  Or maybe that's just how I am.

While I like to think that my stamina is improving, the events of last weekend just showed me that even though I may be making every effort to be fit, athleticism is always just out of reach for me.  Like that rabbit they have out in front for greyhound racing.

Yeah, it's bizarre.

 

My mother and I went for a bike ride into town on Saturday.  Getting there and back is about fifteen miles so we figured it would be a decent workout (and we had done it before).  Since being home, I have gone on several successful (and rather impressive) rides so I thought this would be fine (well, I thought they were impressive).  Turns out:  not fine.

My bike is down in Denver right now, so I was on my sister's road bike.  It had served me well before, but this time it decided to turn on me.  I was following closely behind my mother and not paying much attention when she told me to turn, so when I looked up to see her turning in front of me, I was forced to slam on the bike brakes, flipping over the handlebars, skinning my knee, and losing the cute little basket attached to the handlebars (don't worry.  It snapped right back on).  While my bloody knee made me look super hard-core, the fall seems to have damaged the bike, a detail I did not notice until we had turned toward home and the chain slipped fully off the gears and into the spokes of the back tire.  Did you know a bike will stop abruptly when that happens?  Because it will.  And you will be left sitting on a curb with a broken bike and a bloody knee, feeling like a sad little child at twenty-four, waiting for your dad to come save you.  It's a very strange feeling (and the residents of the neighborhood you are curb-sitting will give you strange looks).

This is pretty much the level of pathetic I felt.

 

The next day, my family wanted to hike the mountain I live by (creatively named "Big Mountain".  Any attempts to change the name have been staunchly ignored by locals because we like our big mountain, damn it).  There is a hiking trail running up it that zig-zags back and forth all the way up to the summit.  My father was feeling like a rebel and decided that we should ignore the hiking trail and just climb straight up the mountain face.

Do you see that incline?  We hiked that.  For an eternity.

 

Have you ever climbed just an obscene amount of stairs?  You know how your thighs and calves start to feel like they've been set on fire?  Combine that with blazing sun and an elevation gain.  Then add to that a competitive spirit mixed with a weak body and a sister who runs track and thinks nothing of sprinting up mountains and you have a recipe for disaster.  It was bad.  We started stopping every twenty to thirty steps to "see the view" (read: give Calli a chance to breathe so she doesn't fall back down the mountain and die).  I was very quickly stripped of the false hope that I was in anything resembling impressive physical shape.

Now, these are sad stories of my workouts, but I have also had success stories.  I have been working out five to six times a week for about a month now.  I completed a twenty mile bike ride that was virtually all hills.  I have been on some gorgeous hikes and watched some cheesy tv from the safety of my elliptical machine.

And today I made cookies.  It may not be in the same category, but it is still a success.  You've got to take them where you find them.

 I regret nothing.

Tomorrow, I work out with my sisters again.  If I die, know that it was in the pursuit of victory.  And probably because of an over-developed sense of competition.  It's an illness.

On moving and madness...

 ...and why I seem to have an infinite supply of stuff.  Make it stop.

The boy and I have been packing lately.  This time (like every single time before it), I was sure that it would be simple.  I have moved so many times in the past few years (to college, home from college, to college again, to a house, to home, to the apartment...you get the idea) that I just figured I must have been cutting down on my clutter as I went, right?  I distinctly remember giving things away.  I think...yes!  I left my boomerang with my little sister!  I gave clothes to a thrift store!  I even threw away the random pictures that had covered my college walls (though it pained me to do so)!  Surely my mass of stuff would be so low that packing would be simple!

No.

On the bright side, I am pretty sure I could make a kick-ass maze with these boxes.

See, I forgot that, while I was progressively getting rid of things, I was also collecting things.  I was essentially trading things for more things.  All those clothes I gave away?  Doesn't make a difference because I bought more.  Remember that marriage thing we did?  That came with lovely, expensive gifts that now need to be re-packed.  If anything, packing is more complicated now, because instead of throwing away stuff at a whim, I have to check with the boy.  Half the stuff is his stuff and while I may think that the newspaper clipping about the Denver Bronco's team from last year does not matter, he needs it.

Packing takes forever.  Partly because I keep running out of boxes and scavenging for more, and partly because everything I grab to pack has to be looked through or tried on or remembered in about a million ways.

High School yearbooks: thumbed through.  Completely unexpectedly, I actually got nostalgic and happy looking through the little notes and pictures and memories.  Then, of course, I laughed a bit at how over dramatic we were and at some of the horrible clothing choices we made.  And make-up choices.  And hair choices.  Mistakes were made.

Though, to be fair, I regret nothing about this picture.  Dead Poets was the best.

Grandma's old music box: sat listening to the song over and over and remembering twirling in the bedroom in big skirts and being obsessed with tea sets.

Stuffed otter on the bed:  started laughing while cuddling our memento of St. Cuthbert (apparently otters blew on his feet to warm them.  Saints get cool stuff).

Pictured: St. Cuthbert and his otter foot-warmers.

Mop:  wait, we had a mop?  All this time, we had a mop?  If I had known that, I might have actually cleaned the floor.  Or maybe not.

Hand-me-down skirt from early high school: it fits!  Holy crap, it actually fits again!  Unfortunately, it still looks hideous.  Maybe I should let this one go.

Anyway, the real thing that moving has made me think of is simplifying.  De-cluttering.  Getting rid of the things in my life that are not really necessary or really beautiful.  On my study abroad trip, I lived for four months with just the possessions I could carry in my backpack.  I miss that simplicity.  Until I have it. 

We are moving.  To China.  For at least a year.  And for that year, we are bringing over a suitcase of clothing.  Maybe two.  And our computers.  That's it.  That is what we are going to live on for a year.  In another country.  Simplicity will be achieved.  And I'm both terrified and crazy-excited.

 I am going to this land.  And who needs stuff when you have great walls?

At least I know that if I panic, all my stuff will be waiting back in America for me.  All that crazy, ridiculous stuff that I use to define who I am.  Stuff like all of our pictures from our wall of Bob Dylan.  Stuff like Tyler's record collection or my DVD collection.  Stuff like all our books and pictures and notebooks, clothes and jewelry from years ago, hats with logos from favorite sports teams.  It will be here.  Waiting.

And I am pretty sure that I won't even miss it.

To prevent getting older and boring...

...and just get older instead.

I am twenty-four now.  Twenty-four years old.  I have been alive for twenty-four years.  Strangely, I feel like this age is more real for me than twenty-three was.  I seem to fit into this age better than I fit into twenty-three.  I really don't know how to fully explain what I mean by that, but that's the way it is.  Though my time at twenty-four has been brief, it is already more comfortable than twenty-three.  Anyway.

I had some grown-up monotony set in this last year.  Not anything bad, just the slow, steady creep of  getting set into a routine.  I realized it when I was calling my family for phone-updates and found that when they asked "what have you been doing?" I had nothing to report.  My week pretty much consisted of going to work, going to the gym, and going to a friend's house for tv shows and dinner.  That's it.

Yeah, watching this is part of my week.

Some of this is inevitable.  As we become adults and have set schedules and responsibilities, we become a little more set in our ways, what we like and don't like, what we do with our spare time.  However, I don't think being adult or responsible means life has to be boring or predictable.  I spent most of high school and college terrified of becoming a mundane person and the thought of no longer being fun or spontaneous still fills me with dread.  To combat the onset of old-and-boring-itis, I have decided that I will set twenty-four goals of things to accomplish before I turn twenty-five.  Granted, I will be spending most of this year in China, so that will affect the formation of some of the goals.  I will update them as I complete them and be motivated to complete them so I don't face the shame of the internet community holding me accountable.  Anyway, the list!  It's coming!

1 - Learn how to use a camera and how to effectively use photoshop.

2 - Try at least thirteen completely new foods.

 Stinky tofu will not be one of them.  I am not doing it.

3 - Get a new stamp in my passport.

4 - Read thirteen books.
              -"Let's Pretend This Never Happened"

5 - Finally do the gum grafting surgery.
              -turns out, it's unnecessary.  Done.

6 - Learn extremely basic communication in Chinese:
              -how to order food
              -saying "hello" and "how are you"
              -asking for directions

7 - Get rid of anything from my wardrobe I haven't worn in a year.  And anything worn out.  And anything I don't wear but keep around because I think it might be cute someday (every woman in my family weeps for the state of my wardrobe.  About half of it is from thrift-stores and give-away piles or completely threadbare.  I have trouble getting rid of things).

Of course I wouldn't wear this, guys.  I don't even have cowboy boots.

8 - Actually wear my perfume.

9 - Learn to french twist my hair.

10 - Sketch.

This kind of thing should be happening more.

11 - Make and follow an actual cleaning schedule.

12 - Go for walks.  Frequently.

13 - Write.  A lot.  Set aside time for it instead of confining it to "spare moments".

14 - Make at least five new friends that I can hang out with on my own.

15 - Become flexible enough to touch my head to my knees.  Or do the splits.  Whichever comes first.

 This works too.

16 - Sing somewhere.  A coffee shop.  A show of some kind.  But I really want to sing again.

17 - Finish my tattoo design well.  And then decide if I actually am going to get it.

18 - Get a hat that does not look stupid on me.

19 - Memorize three good poems/speeches.

20 - Succeed at Baldur's Gate (meaning, stop dying every second mission).

Yeah, I am not coming out of this alive.

21 - Get a scooter (ok, fine.  It's a dream).

22 - Keep a plant alive for at least three months.

23 - Buy a pair of red shoes.

24 - Be a good pen pal with at least three of my far-flung friends, communicating in short or long messages at least once a week.

Those are mine.  I will keep it updated as I succeed (or not.  I really don't know if I can ever become more flexible).

Until next year, goals.

I'm homesick for not being home...

...strange as that may sound.

I've been getting all wander-lusty.  I find myself reading copious amounts of Bill Bryson (a wonderful and hilarious travel writer, by the way), watching travel shows, and flipping longingly through photo albums from myself and friends in far-off places.  I crave all foods un-homey and unfamiliar.  I look back on old trips with a kind of fond nostalgia and swiftly leap to the defense of any country in which I have been lucky enough to travel (except maybe Hungary.  Budapest in November is bleak, gray, and depressing.  This may have been my fault for going there in November, but I am not a fan).  I need to be gone.

Not a black-and-white photo.  I swear, all color and warmth was absent in this city.

Now don't get me wrong, I am not anti-America.  I never quite understood why wanting to be somewhere new made people think I hated America.  It's familiar.  It's home.  And I want something new.  There is a whole lot of world out there and I don't want to miss seeing it just because I enjoy the country I was born in.  I love it here, but I don't want to stay here forever.

Some of my travel-longing could be a little rose-colored.  I know many people who respond to my gushings about the U.K. or Prague with a resounding "meh".  They bring up the wet, cold weather, high prices, and floods of tourists.  My history-major husband brings up their history of imperialism, the latent colonial mentality still occasionally evident, and the fact that they speak the same language as we do (when he wants to travel, he really wants to travel.  For him, it doesn't really count if we are all speaking English).  I understand the points they make.  I do.  But I was so happy there, I can never see it as anything but wonderful.

When I think of the U.K., my mind jumps to four years ago, studying abroad.  I remember chili sauce from kebabs staining my hands red as I wandered through Edinburgh searching for the next play at the theater festival.  I remember the surge of victory I felt when I realized that I knew exactly where I was going on the tube in London.

I even knew to mind the gap (without being told!)

I remember singing together in a packed pub in Galway.  I remember screaming along with the crazed crowd at a football match in Bath (and hearing some of the most eloquent profanity of all time from them).  I remember sitting on cliff-edges, my feet dangling over the sea far below, feeling wind and sunshine and sea-brine on my face at the cliffs of Mohr.

I've got a thing for adrenaline-inducing heights.

I remember running through crowded streets to keep up with my friends as we searched for our next hostel, the packs bobbing on our backs carrying all our earthly possessions for four months and tied with clusters of bandannas.  I remember kissing the husband (then "the crush") for the first time and slipping away from the group with him to wander aimlessly through British streets.

We stared in awe at works of art.  We braved fried haggis and mushy peas (both surprisingly tasty).  We paid our respects to Shakespeare's house (and immortalized the serious experience with a series of jumping pictures).

 

I find this properly respectful, don't you?

We walked through Derry with survivors of Bloody Sunday and cried.  We hiked through sheep pastures along Hadrian's Wall (and later ate their brethren).  We were led over perilously rocky shores and cliffs in Wales by kindly old folks who put us to shame with their stamina.

We explored beautiful, awe-inspiring cathedrals.  We spent hours in pubs, drinking and chatting with locals and calling it "homework".  We invaded Oxford and spent far too long in the hall that inspired Hogwarts.

 "Hoggy, warty, Hogwarts..."

We braved drenching torrents of rain and learned that getting wet is not that big a deal.  We wore our clothes threadbare in those four months and did not mind when we were mistaken for hippies.  We climbed cathedral ruins (and were chastised in no uncertain terms).

In our defense...there were no signs telling us not to climb the ruins.

Traveling is beautiful for so many reasons.  The memories of it can transport you to another time and place.  I can jump back to sitting in front of the astrological clock in Prague with a sketchbook and a hot cup of spiced wine.  I can close my eyes and feel sunlight beating down on my face in Rome as we explored the Coliseum.  I can feel my heart leap in my chest as we finally found the most amazing restaurant while searching for food in Victoria, B.C. (hey, not every travel destination has to be too far away).

Traveling opens you up to new ways of seeing the world.  New languages, cultures, perspectives, people.  It broadens your mind and gives you depth.  It can be terrifying.  It can be intimidating.  But it is worth it.  Because you never come away without learning something new.  About other people.  About the world.  About yourself.

About how much stuff you can cram into a backpack...

I know all of this.  I have never regretted any of my travel experience.  It has just made me more eager to be someplace new, to expand my knowledge of how massive and diverse and beautiful the world really is.

So when we move to China in a few months, I will just need to keep all of that in mind.

If you sniff books, use outdated terminology frequently, and are easily recognized by librarians...

...you might be a reader.

The other day, I was talking with a stranger while we waited in line at the grocery store.  We were looking at the magazines and I brought up the new Hunger Games movies and asked if she had read the book.  She looked at me strangely and said, "I'll just see the movie.  Anyway, how can you read just for fun?"

I died a little inside.

 Um...this is exactly what I want to be doing.

I have been reading for fun since I learned to read when I was three by following along as my parents read aloud.  In school, I would sneak books out to recess and find abandoned corners of the playground to read them.  Sometimes, I got so absorbed in the book that I wouldn't hear the bell ring to bring us back in and would scuttle back to my classroom late.  In middle school in Montana, where you go to recess unless it is ten degrees or lower, I made friends with the librarians so they would give me passes to spend time reading inside while my classmates played "avoid the frostbite" outside.

I got in trouble for reading under my covers on school nights, hours after I was supposed to be asleep.  I would sneak away at friends' houses and be found later in a closet with one of their books.  I would spend parties going through bookshelves.  Wait, why am I using past tense?  I still do that at parties.  Just in a more clandestine way.  I hope.

Would have married whoever did this for me.  On the spot.

To those of you who don't understand compulsive readers, let me try to explain.  When we read, we become something else.  We enter worlds that exist nowhere else.  It sounds like metaphor, but seriously.  In those hours that we are reading, our minds and hearts are not sitting in a coffee shop or sprawled over a couch.  They are slaying monsters and exploring new landscapes.  Reading takes us from lives that are predictable, normal, or mundane and lets us be heroes, friends, champions.  Our hearts are pierced by sorrows not our own and lifted by love not ours while we read.   Also, we may start talking or writing as if we don't sound ridiculous.  Because, in our minds, we don't.

It carries over into our regular lives.  After reading, we feel things keenly.  We are acutely aware that everyone around us has a story unfolding around them.  Life becomes more vivid.  Surroundings take on a new dimension when viewed through the lens of a story in progress.  There is color, light, meaning in everything.

Does that sound romantic?  Ridiculous?  Dramatic?  Silly?  That's fine.  We are all those things.  And we're not afraid to be.  Because when you read, there are far worse things than being thought odd or eccentric or strange.  We fear being boring.  Expected.  Common.  And reading takes us past all that.  So that even if we are office workers, teachers, waitresses to others, we know we are more.  We live a different life with every book we read, every character we get pulled in by.  It shapes who we are, what we want, and what we believe we are capable of.

Reading makes us more open to looking ridiculous.  We learn to accept that there could be a lot out there that we don't see, that we don't know everything.  And I think that's beautiful.

I swear I'm not a murderer...

...but I am slowly killing Lucille.

Lucille is the name of our car, by the way.

Now, I contest that Lucille was angry and resentful before I ever came into contact with her, but others seem to disagree.  I mean, I am not a bad driver.  Really.  I swear.  Just...absent-minded?  Occasionally oblivious?  Easily distracted?  Yes.  That last one.

Of course I am watching the road...road sounds like toad...Neville had a toad!  Why was Ron allowed to bring Scabbers?  The letter said "owl, cat, or toad".  I should buy an owl.

 

Take, for instance, the events of a recent road trip.  I was in the driver's seat and my friend was filling up the tank.  When he got back in the car, I figured (completely logically!) that he was done getting gas.  Never mind that it had only been about a minute.  So you can imagine my surprise at his panic when I went to turn the car on.  See, what I saw as continuing on the journey, he saw as my attempt to blow up a gas station and kill us all.  Turns out the car was still filling up.

I would like to remind everyone that this did not actually happen.

 

I would like to point out that I did not, in fact, set anything on fire.  However, this is just one in a series of small mistakes that have convinced the men in my life that I am not to be allowed behind the wheel of a car without serious supervision.  Despite all my protests that I am a perfectly good driver when they are not stressing me out and making me all nervous by WATCHING MY EVERY MOVE, they remain skeptical.  This is probably not helped by the car's obvious resentment of me.

I may have bent back the side mirror of the car by driving too close to the drive-through pick-up window, causing a chain reaction so the driver's-side window refuses to go up or down without forceful assistance.  I may have rear-ended another car when Lucille decided that sliding across the snow would be much more fun than obeying my frantic punching on the brake pedal.  I still say that was the fault of Lucille and her accomplice, unplowed roads.  And the fact that the passenger's side door requires yanking for both opening and closing really has nothing to do with me.  That's just Lucille being spiteful.

She takes after her namesake.

 

Despite all of my accidental abuse (and occasionally life-threatening absentmindedness), she still functions, carrying us many miles with only minor spurts of obstinancy.  So, Lucille, thanks for all you do.  I promise to do my best to take care of you.
Until I finally succeed in destroying you.  By accident, of course.

Dear Gym: if you were a person...

 ...I think I would round-house kick you in the face.  What?  IT'S WHAT YOU HAVE TAUGHT ME!

So, in a previous post I detailed my feelings about my occasionally abusive, on-again off-again boyfriend "Jim" (also known as "the gym").  Ah, Gym (I am going to capitalize this so it's more like a person that I can justifiably yell at rather than an inanimate object.  Because yelling at objects makes me a crazy person).  Things had improved so much since the last time I posted about you and then what do you do?

You sucker-punch me right in the muscles I didn't know I had.

You make me love you and then you make me wish I never knew you.  I get all dependent, going to you several times a week, and then you just turn on me.  I will probably go back to loving you soon, but right now I just think you're a jerk, Gym.

Just look at those smug little machines and condescending mats.

 

I guess it's not totally your fault.  I wouldn't need you so much if it wasn't for my love-hate relationship with Food (both best friend and arch-nemesis).  I truly love food in nearly all of its forms.  Melty.  Crispy.  Gooey.  Frosty.  Cheesy.  Sweet.  Crisp.  Juicy.

What can beat a cold, melty ice cream cone on a hot day?  A hot slice of pizza oozing cheese and delicious sauce over a crispy crust?  A fresh cookie with still-melting chocolate in it?  Cupcakes!  Tacos!  Shepherd's Pie!  Pasta!  Milkshakes!

Don't even get me started on milkshakes.

Sweet lord, I want you.

Food, I was unfailingly loyal to you in all your tastiness for years.  YEARS.  And then, right after college, you threw a wrench into the works.  You ran off with my metabolism.  And you still haven't returned it.  Suddenly, all my normal foods and normal portions were doing markedly abnormal things to my body.  What, you thought my hips were SUPPOSED to be that size?  You thought that since I ate pears so much I would really appreciate being gradually turned into one?  You realized that what every girl needs is thighs that make it look like two hams are having a battle to the death in a pair of jeans?

This is what came up when searching "ham death-battle".  It is awesome and I'm keeping it.

You drove me to Gym, Food.  You did this to me.  My pain is your fault.

But I still can't quit you, Food.

Gym, I thought we were working things out.  We accepted that I will never in a million years enjoy running around outside and moved on from that to stair machines, bicycles, elliptical machines, and even the occasional treadmill (turns out running sucks less when there is a television in front of you).  We were taking classes, Gym.  Kickboxing classes.  Core classes.  That one yoga class that we quit because the incredibly sweet instructor had a breathy little voice that kept making me fall asleep.  All was well.

But this week, you turned on me.  You decided that getting into shape deserved punishment and so, for no reason, you made me sore.  Not just worked-out-hard-yesterday sore.  You gave me can't-find-a-position-to-sleep-in-because-everything-hurts sore.  And seriously-it's-been-three-days,-why-does-this-still-hurt sore.  And HOW-CAN-THAT-BE-IN-PAIN?!-IS-THERE-EVEN-A-MUSCLE-THERE? sore. 

 Muscle in front of the shin?  O, it's there.  And it's angry.

And you know the worst part, Gym?

I can't quit you either.

And it's not just because the membership was expensive.  It's because for all your abusive ways, I like you.  I like feeling sore and strong and sweaty after a workout.  I like feeling healthy and powerful.  I like fitting into clothing that had been relegated to the bottom of my dresser drawers.  I like being back in a shape recognizable as female human being and not amoeba.  I even like you when it hurts.  And now I sound like a masochist.

I am not putting up a picture to go with "masochist".  Just...no.

So, Gym, even though I think we may need counseling or something, our dysfunctional little relationship is still going strong.  I am going to miss you while I am away this week.  And I know you are going to punish me for my absence when I get back.  But I am looking forward to that too.

Just, please lay off the soreness.  Just a little bit.

Sorry I can't hang out today...

...I have to go sit in my apartment by myself.

Today's post is about introverts.

Wait.  Come back.  It will be interesting, I swear.  And not some rant about how introverts are somehow better than extroverts.

For those of you who have not actually met me, I am an introvert.  I was forced a little out of my introverted bubble as a child because my mother recognized that if I was left to my own devices, I would become a barely-functioning hermit.  However, being forced to interact socially with others does not make an introvert an extrovert.  It's part of who we are.  It doesn't change.

Now, I have two family members that are incredibly gifted extroverts.  Seriously, my mother and sister are the lives of any party lucky enough to have them.  They thrive on group settings and love being around tons of people.  Growing up, I would watch them floating around like social butterflies and wonder to myself why I couldn't do that.  My idea of fun was sitting at home by myself with a book.  At large parties, I would find a pretense to wander away to another area of the house and hide with a book (do you see a pattern?).  If hiding was not an option, I hovered nervously on the outskirts of groups, occasionally engaging in conversations with one or two people who wandered near me.  The second a conversation group got big, I went silent, paralyzed by the stress of too many people.

This is too many people.

I am older now.  I have practiced being social.  I have gotten better at interacting with others (or I sincerely hope I have).  And I am now comfortable enough to say I am an introvert if anyone asks.  But the reactions I get to this statement vary wildly, so I would like to clear up some misconceptions.

"Introverts do not like other people" - Not true.  In fact, I would say that I like most people I meet.  I just don't always know how to communicate well with them.  For me, communicating with strangers makes me nervous.  When I get nervous, one of two things happens.  1) I go utterly silent, listening to what they say, but giving no responses while I stare at them in wide-eyed terror like a deer caught in headlights.  Or my dog caught with a stolen meatball.  Or 2) I start talking to fill the silence and don't stop, increasing in volume and reaching to more and more uncomfortable topics in a desperate effort to find something interesting to say.  It took me years to master the art of small talk, of casual conversation, and it is still something I constantly have to practice.  Now, I often enjoy conversations I have with people I have just met, but there is the constant need for focus on what I am doing and saying so that I don't revert to 1 or 2.  Being able to converse normally takes a lot of exertion for me.  In many cases, it is definitely worth it, but it is still draining.

As a side note, when I mess up (and I do sometimes) and say something stupid or awkward or respond to something the other person said in a strange or wrong way, I know it.  It sticks with me.  I will go to bed that night beating myself up, convinced the other person thinks I am either rude or an idiot, and going over all the things I should have said.  Most socially awkward people are extremely aware that we are socially awkward.  We are working on it.  Please, be patient with us.  Social graces don't always come easily.

 At least I don't try communicating like this any more.

"Introverts don't like to talk" - Ask my husband.  Ask my family.  Ask my friends.  I love to talk.  Seriously, once I get going it's more of a trick to make me stop.  What introverts find difficult is talking with someone they don't know or talking about a topic they either don't know about or don't care about.  Talking with strangers is intimidating because we don't know what they will disagree with, what will offend them, what topics are alright and what are not.  I don't want to join a conversation on movies with strangers because I'm imagining the horror I will feel if I start bashing Twilight and find out that the other members of the group all loved the adventures of sparkle-pire and vapid-girl.  I am just picturing all the stupid things I could say.  It gets a little scary.  And if it is a topic I know nothing about, I don't want to contribute because I don't want to sound stupid.  Being respected for intelligence is a big deal to most introverts I know.  We spend so much time reading or focusing on our own thoughts that we want to feel it is time well spent, that it is making us more intelligent.  If I walk into a conversation and try to say something and find out I am wrong or I said something foolish, that embarrassment will stick.  The others in the group may laugh it off, but I will believe they all think I'm an idiot.  But get me going about what I'm reading or watching or learning, and I am in.  I will talk to you all night.  Introverts love to share knowledge, it just needs to be about something we actually know.

For instance, this movie taught me that Bella blinks 30 times more often than a normal human.

"Introverts hate parties/social gatherings" - Actually, I get incredibly excited when I get invited to a party.  I love parties.  But my preparation for it is different than an extrovert's would be.  Before agreeing to go to a party, I have to check with my friends to find out who is going that can, essentially, be my "safe zone".  I need to know that I won't be alone with a group of strangers.  I need to make sure that I will have someone there I feel safe talking to.  It's not that I don't plan on meeting anyone.  I do.  I just need someone I can retreat with if it starts getting too overwhelming, if I start to panic or feel awkward.  I can only lurk around bookshelves for so long. 

The other difference is the fallout from parties.  After a night of being social, I need at least a full day of not being social at all so I can recover.  Even if I had a great time at the party, it took a substantial amount of energy and mental exertion for me to be there.  I will be exhausted afterward and I need time alone to recuperate.  Again, this exhaustion DOES NOT MEAN I HAD A BAD TIME.  It is like...I don't know, a really good workout.  You may have enjoyed it, but your body still needs to recover afterwards.  It will be tired.  It will need food and water.  You need to take care of it or it can't give the same level of performance next time.  If I don't get time alone after social interactions, I don't recharge.  That means that the next social gathering I attend will have me drained and stressed from the last time.  I will have less patience with those around me.  I will over react to small issues.  I will very likely be in a bad mood.

Seriously, I can't stop making the angry face.

I love being with people, but I need breaks.

"Introverts like being alone" - Ok, yes.  That's true.  Although, even more than that, we are comfortable being alone.  When alone, we don't need to perform.  We don't need to read the social atmosphere, figure out the moods of those around us, and do our best to determine how to respond.  When I observe extroverts, it looks like they do this all automatically.  That may not be true, but I would say that it comes more easily to them.  I have to be constantly focused on all these facets of my social interactions and it gets exhausting.  Alone, I get to disappear into my thoughts.  I love spending uninterrupted time just thinking over ideas, scenarios, books, and whatever else pops into my head.  Some people think that sounds boring, but I love it.  I don't hang out alone because no one will hang out with me.  Sometimes, I would just rather be in my own head than dealing with the other things around me.

Indeed.

"Introverts avoid being the center of attention" - I would say this varies with the person.  I am an introvert and I loved being in plays.  I loved singing for audiences.  I was fine with attention.  It was just easiest for me to have attention in those settings because IT WAS SCRIPTED.  I didn't have to come up with anything to say on my own.  I didn't need to worry about my interactions with others because our roles were spelled out.  It's performing.  It's academic.  It's memory.  That, I can handle.

"Introverts are smarter than extroverts" - Yeah, that's not true.  It's just not.  There are individuals in both groups that are wildly intelligent.  I think the reason people associate intelligence or higher test scores with introverts is that introverts spend more time alone thinking.  We mull over ideas.  I read books on philosophy and history and social events in my spare time because I find them interesting.  A lot of my time and energy is spent doing things that make academics easier for me.  Extroverts spend a lot of time and energy being with other people, pursuing connections and relationships.  It's not a matter of intelligence, it's a matter of how time is spent for that individual.

I'm staying in!  Time to get through the complete works of Shakespeare!

Introverts and extroverts both need to be able to understand and get along with each other because we need each other.  Introverts can help their extroverted friends to be comfortable in silence, in stillness.  They can demonstrate the importance and beauty of introspection and reflection.  Extroverts keep their introverted friends from closing themselves off, from ignoring the importance of relationships and connections.  They make sure that we don't live our whole lives alone or in our heads.  So, from an introvert, thank you to all my extroverted friends and family for your love, encouragement, and patience.  If you ever need someone to listen, I'm around.  Or to engage in a conversation about any topic that's been flitting around in my head.  I'm there.

You want to discuss our favorite Firefly characters?  Hello, best friend.