Why so serious?

Occasionally, ok well, most of the time I take myself way too seriously.

So seriously that I don't even dance when I'm all by myself. I can't let go long enough to rock out in my room alone. I also can't sing out loud because I feel so embarrassed for myself just hearing the misguided notes stumbling out of my mouth.

I am so self-aware that it is hard for me to make fun of myself. I always want to feel secure in what I am doing. I felt the pang of embarrassment recently when I toppled over in a quiet yoga class. I was like a baby deer trying to stand on its wobbly legs, and I hit the ground hard. But the yoga instructor always reminds the class that it is okay to fall and it is okay to laugh about our occasional crash onto the mat. "Everything doesn't have to be so serious, go ahead and laugh," she says.

I am slowly trying to pull my self-aware self out of its box. I turn up the tunes when I am alone at home and sing loudly and dance badly. Not for very long. I usually pass a mirror and get scared; but it is a step.

Some day I'm going to let loose world. It's just going to take me a little longer than most people.

Caffine, an addicts story.

Today I thought I would try and outsmart my body. That was until the headache came on. I gave up, there was no reason to hide any longer; I needed coffee.

My addiction to coffee started slow. I was 14 and I went to Starbucks with some friends. “Tall white mocha please” were the four words that started me on my path to addiction. The coffee was sweet, creamy and made me feel more grown up.

The occasional coffee with friends didn’t pose much of a threat. But when I entered college my addiction began to escalate. Not only would I drink coffee in the mornings but late night coffee runs would keep me up and going for long nights of studying.

Despite the negative effects the black brew had on my rumbling stomach, I felt that I had no choice but to become dependant on coffee. I was a college student. College students are supposed to survive on coffee and macaroni and cheese right? I embraced the idea. Determined to drink until I became dependant, I continued with the white mochas.

Time went on and I graduated from the sweet white mochas to the “harder” stuff. The Americano. And so, I graduated from college, a little disappointed that I wasn’t the coffee addict I thought I should be.

Then I went to work in the real world. Every morning my room mates and I would brew a fresh pot and take coffee to go. It’s cheaper than buying it everyday; and I would drink it regularly at work.

One day, I denied my body of the java it craved (mostly because I was running late) and then, the migraine attacked! The room began to spin and I couldn’t concentrate.

I ran to Starbucks on my break and got a coffee. Luckily they were giving out free chocolate covered coffee beans that day, which was just what I needed to pump my body full of caffeine. Soon after my caffeine binge, the head ach subsided.

Today I tried to outsmart my body. I didn’t need coffee. Then I felt the headache creeping into my head and I thought. “So this is what it feels like to be a coffee addict.”

The Long Way Home

Growing up, my grandfather would always take the long way, I mean, the scenic rout. We would take long drives out on the hilly, curvy, leafy scenery of Oregon. I would rest my head in my hand, watching the numbers on the clock slowly change; a couple minutes seemed like an hour.

The farms and colors would begin to blur as the car sickness would come over me. All I wanted was to get out of the car and feel the fresh air. I would hang my head out the open window hoping the cool air blowing in my face would cure my nausea.

A couple of days ago I was forced to go the scenic rout. It was an hour through country roads. But this time I didn’t get car sick.

The scenery was beautiful. The sun had just started setting and the shadows were growing longer. I passed pastures with the farmers turning their tractors off for the day. The orange skyline was the perfect ending to a stressful day.

So Grandpa, I just wanted to say thank you for showing me the beauty that can come with taking the  long way home. 

Angela

Clear the way she's coming through
With her eye-shadow of satin blue
And her fingernails all painted blue
She's a danger you're addicted to
Angela, Angela you're a danger he's addicted to
So move aside she has arrived
With her baby neck and sleepy eyes
She has heels that walk all over you
She's a danger you're addicted to
Angela, Angela you're a danger he's addicted to
Oh Angela, Angela you're a danger he's addicted to
And I try to be more like you
Speak louder and prouder and hide my love but it spills out
Angela, Angela you're a danger he's addicted to
Oh Angela, Angela you're a danger he's addicted to
So I'll try to be more, more like you
By Missy Higgins

The character of Angela appeals to me. She seems to be the ideal woman: strong, confident, in control and hot.

In order to explore Angela, I decided I was going to draw her. But when my limited sketching abilities failed me I knew there had to be another way.

I had to become Angela.

So I painted on the brightest blue eye-shadow I own and doused my eyelashes with mascara. My finger nails were painted red, a color of power, to match the color of my lips.

The shirt I decided to wear was frilly with a high collar. I felt that the high collar was mysterious and sophisticated, two things that define Angela. Last, I slipped my feet into the sexiest high heels I own.

And so I began to take photos as this allusive Angela. She was snotty, had an attitude, and drew in the men. I tried to portray her confidence and appeal.

As I flipped through the photos I had snapped, I began to see a pattern-- I didn’t like Angela. In fact I hated her. I made her look snotty, unlikeable and witchy.

Angela is everything I’m not.

She is the woman that I will forever stand in fear of. Angela will always have me under her heel, letting me know that she can have everything I can’t.

But just like the song says, I still try to be more like her.

I am the DJ

I like to be the car DJ.

Hand me the iPod and I will choose songs that flow together to make a masterful mix. While on a long drive, I like to choose my music to create a journey. I want to experience a range of emotions which allows me to learn or observe new things about myself.

My road trips almost always start out with a fun up-beat song that expresses excitement for the long road ahead. Choosing the right song to start of the trip is vital because it sets the mood for the rest of the trip. This song should be played when on the freeway, don’t play it while still in town because it takes away from the feeling of freedom of the open road.

My top choice for the first song would be “Mr. Brightside” by the Killers. It is a classic song that never gets old and it gets the blood pumping. Other song suggestions would include, “Meet You There” by Augustana or “Viva La Vida” by Coldplay.

Note that the song choice will vary based on the emotional atmosphere you want to achieve or on the purpose of the trip. For example, when moving away to college, the first song I chose was, “Break Away” by Kelly Clarkson.

The next few songs are usually upbeat as well. Often times I listen to a block of worship music. I start with faster songs and move into the slower songs.

I then allow John Mayer to play on the strings of my heart. Listening to him allows a person to feel the love gained and love lost.

A few John Mayer song suggestions would be his version of “Free Fallin’” “Gravity,” “The Heart of Life,” “Dreaming With a Broken Heart,” and “Say.”

Honestly, any John Mayer song would work and don’t be afraid to listen to just one. Allow his smooth soulful voice to lead you into inward contemplation.

Being the girl that I am, I like a little girl-power music. Get out your anger towards the men, or lack of men in your life. The go-to girl would be, of course, Kelly Clarkson. “Since you’ve been gone” and “Behind These Hazel Eyes” fits the bill. Other girl-power music may include artists like Pink and Alanis Morissette.

Depending on the length of the trip the music selection may fall into a random song shuffle.

The end of the trip deserves an epic song. A song that defines the experience you are about to have or that expresses the experience you have just been through. Whenever my sister and I drive home for a visit we like to play the Daughtry song, “Home.” We try to time the song so that it ends as we pull into the driveway.

These songs represent just a sample of the songs I might choose on a road trip. But we all have different music we use to create an atmosphere or emotion. What kind of music does this for you?

The Romantic life of a Writer

Oh, the romantic life of a writer. This life I desire. I would sit in a french themed coffee shop drinking a vanilla Americano out of an over-sized mug; waiting for inspiration to be revealed to me so that I many in turn reveal these secrets to the world.

Living the life of a tortured artist would be a difficult one. Solitude and heartbreak would be my closest companions; but I wouldn't mind because I would know that someday my musings would awaken people's minds to new heights.

I would sit in the shop of caffinated pleasure and my fingers would dance on the computer keys, painting with words, creating stories, opening imaginations.

And when inspiration failed me, I would sit, haunted by the image of digital letters on the computer screen. The rest of my time would be spent sifting though philosophy texts and indulging in the great worlds crafted by Miss Austen.

This simple life is just one of the nonexistent lives I have imagined. Escaping reality by imagining different lives that will never exist, is a daily occurrence for a new college graduate. Lost and directionless in a failing economy is not the future I had imagined.

Gwyn Stephani had the idea when she said, " If I could escape and recreate a place that's my own world... Sweet escape."

Yet, I must live in determination for a successful career. I am learning to stand strong in the promises of God. He has a plan. His plan for my life is better than the many I have imagined.

A Tragic Ending to a New Beginning

Rosario was suffocating, and I had to find him. I pulled my car over to the side of the road and began to panic. His red, metallic body had just been thrown into the back seat of my car because of the sloshing water in his bowl.

I was moving home from college for the summer and my car was packed full with all of my earthly belongings. Time was ticking and Rosario was somewhere in my jungle of things. I tried to move the garbage bags full of clothes around; I looked on the side of the seat and in all the small spaces that could be seen, but he was no where to be found.

Rosario was more than just a fish; he was my rebound man. Rosario came into my life after my boyfriend broke up with me and my best friend had just been married. He had kept me company when loneliness overcame me. And now he was dead, and I had killed him.

I was proud of myself because I had kept him alive for five months, which was 10 times longer than I had kept any other fish alive. I had dutifully cleaned his bowl every week and had fed him everyday, and in a moment of negligence--he was gone.

His bowl had been situated in the front seat, balanced in the cup-holder. I had not covered the top of the bowl because I was afraid he wouldn’t be able to breathe. The fact that he might fly out of the bowl hadn’t crossed my mind, but it happened.

Unable to find him; I called my mom. I told her what happened, and I began to cry. She tried to comfort me, but I was too upset. I could hear my little sister in the background saying she would buy me a new fish, but I felt like there wasn’t another fish in the world that could take Rosario’s place.

“Calm down,” my mom said, “You have a three-hour drive ahead of you and you can’t drive safely when you are crying.” I began to breathe deeply, trying to calm down. I felt foolish because I was 21 and crying on the side of the road because my fish had died.

I remember when I went to the pet store to pick out my fish; I sat and stared at the tank for a long time. I wanted to find the fish that I connected with the most. Rosario was energetic, feisty and beautiful; I knew he was the one.

Rosario had been a symbolic fish. He symbolized a time in my life when I felt alone and discouraged. I had bought him out of my desire to be wanted, and needed. Rosario had needed me to take care of him, feed him and clean his bowl. I had felt like I didn’t have any friends but Rosario was always in my room, swimming in his bowl.

Because I couldn’t find Rosario, I was forced to drive home with my dead fish buried beneath my belongings. To ease my emotional pain I stopped and bought a cheeseburger, French fries and an iced coffee. My tears subsided and to distract myself, I turned up the music.

As I reflected, a song came on the radio which paid tribute to my dead fish and the beginning of a new season of life saying, “I hope you had the time of your life.”