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A Very Merry Crisis

By on December 5, 2010 in humor, quarter-life crisis, true story

My brain during the holidays.

Here we go.
I’m 26, living a totally sweet life. Seeing that nothing is wrong, that every functional need is being met with Developed Nation aplomb, my brain goes beserk.
ME: I’m hungry. Perhaps I’ll eat something delicious from this plentiful cupboard.
BRAIN: AUGH!
ME: I’d like a bit of artistic culture. Allow me to partake of this volume of poetry and/or Vanity Fair.
BRAIN: AUUUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHH!
ME: And look out the window at the beach! What a breathtaking winter sunset!
BRAIN: AUUUGHNVJFNKD;MLFMGJK;MKLVF.’nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
Sigh.
Coasting down from the high of birthday celebrations and giddy Thanksgiving gluttony, last week I was deposited on the skirt-hems of Christmas. Now for the sparkle and joy of my typical holiday routine, I thought. Between hanging golden tinsel and shiny silver balls from every conceivable surface, I figured I’d be so full of blissful cheer I’d swan thoughtlessly through the season.
NOT SO.
I sat at this computer for about 30 minutes tonight, watching videos of kittens and pondering my to-do list.  It includes such taxing tasks as ‘cut pictures out of magazines’ and ‘drink water.’ Yet I can’t seem to get going.
It’s hard to say what, exactly, has me stymied. Perhaps I’m panicked by the sheer excellence of my life.
ME: Looks like I can pay my credit card bill in full again.
BRAIN: IT’S TOO EASY!
ME: I can even make a transfer to savings.
BRAIN: IT’S A TRAP!
Most of the time, Brain exacts his vengeance when I’m asleep.[1] I settle down into 400-threat-count sheets, snuggle beneath my freshly-washed comforter, and dream of chaos.
High-speed chases. Assassins in hiding. Trains that bullet through the Swiss Alps while I cling to the space between cars. My dreams are reminiscent of Hollywood blockbusters, and I’m always cast as Jason Bourne.
Intense? Yes, a bit. But it’s also very exciting. I’m exponentially more adventurous (not to mention athletic and well-traveled) when asleep. Everyone wants to kill me, which probably means I’m famous. So really, I’ve got no cause for complaints.
BRAIN: HOW CAN YOU BE SO CASUAL ABOUT THIS?
Last night I dreamt that zombies were roaming the streets and swarming my house (located, inexplicably, in Seattle). Now that I’m awake, however, these fears seem a bit silly. 
BRAIN: WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?
OK, so maybe I am being a tad lackadaisical. I am worried, a little bit. My brain is obviously trying to tell me something; it’s rambling like a crazy person, and I’m rocking out to Taylor Swift. I don’t want to miss the message, don’t want to ignore pointed questions. Is my life is a little TOO safe? Is everything just a little TOO easy?
Perhaps. My biggest accomplishment this evening will be updating my Facebook status. I’m not fighting the undead; I’m not forging a passport. Instead I spend hours writing to-do lists and planning occasions for holiday mirth.
So OK, fine. Let’s up the ante. I’ll try and fail, not fail to try. I’ll reach for the stars, do one thing that scares me. I’ll sift through clichés and find a way to push my brain to action.
But first I need to go to the mall.
BRAIN: AUGH! HOLIDAY TRAFFIC!
Looks like we’re going to have a merry crisis after all.
[1] I suspect my brain is a boy. What?
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The End of an Era

By on November 22, 2010 in quarter-life crisis, true story

Well, kids, this is it.
I love birthday parties.
In a mere ten hours, I will…
officially…
despite kicking and screaming…
without a final doubt…
 turn 26. 
OMFG.
Will the crises continue? Will I still find myself angsting about the meaning of life whist eating Food Town-brand rice cakes for dinner? Or will I wake up tomorrow morning in a room full of unicorns and rainbows, fancy-free and wreathed with daisies, singing aloud that I finally get it, all questions are answered, case closed?
Time will tell, my friends. Only time will tell.
But considering I’ve wrapped up all celebratory drinking at this point, the unicorns might be a bit of a stretch.
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Nothing

By on November 11, 2010 in mindfulness, quarter-life crisis, true story
 Photography is an acceptable form of minimalist entertainment.

Two weeks ago, I was told to do nothing.
Seriously. “As your doctor, Elizabeth, I’m telling you to do nothing for the next week.”
You may imagine this caused a crisis. Being told to do as little as physically and mentally possible—to avoid stress at all costs—tends to process with a flashing DOES NOT COMPUTE across my cerebral cortex.
I am happy to report this was not the case.
Whether it was the boatloads of painkillers or residual anesthesia or my mom’s impeccable mothering, doing nothing felt FANTASTIC.
For five days, I lived in a house on an island. Our loudest neighbors were deer. I went to bed early, slept in late, received phone calls and care packages and half a dozen donuts. I went on a computer for five minutes a day, if that. Satisfaction was as easy as a chair beside the front steps, the weight of a folded journal and pen in my lap, the play of autumn sunlight across the Montauk daisies.

Wednesday was unseasonably warm.  I sat in the heat with my cat and a donut and as I chewed I thought: only one month left in my quarter-life crisis!

I began to think about the year that’s passed. On the surface, not much has changed. I still live alone in a tiny apartment overlooking the sea. I still struggle to write on a regular basis, swallowing fear and hope and the dream of lifetime when I stare at a blank screen. But the questions are familiar now, barrels loaded with blanks, and when I hear gunshots in the distance of my psyche I am no longer afraid.
That night I sat on the stoop and watched the sun set. Light broke against the forested hills along the river, shattering silver and gold on the tide. I am happy, I realized, and for the first time, this was no crisis at all.
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Soul-Searching*

By on September 8, 2010 in mindfulness, quarter-life crisis, true story
* and how it sucks away your time, energy, and yes, even your soul
Been doin’ a lot of soul-searching lately.

In some ways, my brain has been on this single rickety track for years, skittering along the same bumpy trail of life questions. I like to obsess over unanswerable ones, allowing thoughts like “What should I make for dinner?” to be transplanted by “What is the single most meaningful thing I can do with my life?” I wind up eating Ritz Bits with a furrowed brow, staring at the floor as I slowly decide I’ll never amount to anything.

If only I were able to heed the wisdom of my fridge magnet! Harken to the small voice calling from my kitchen:

“I beg you…to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them.”

Poor Rainer Maria Rilke. Not only did his gem-like thoughts wind up smushed in 14-point Lucida Calligraphy on my Frigidaire, they are COMPLETELY wasted on me.

These last few weeks have been particularly intense. . Questions follow me to work, to yoga, to Jersey Shore club parties. I sweat and strain in downward dog: “What is the purpose of love?” I dance on stage to fist-pumping techno, toss my hair amid strobe lights and fire sirens, and in the steamy, booze-fueled darkness comes the question: “Who are you?”

I’ve been trying to live like a normal human, ignoring the stream that pours down my face, into my throat and eyes, soaking my clothes and dousing my thoughts. I thought I had it under control.

Then the subject of my blog came up.

“Haven’t written much lately, have you?” Mom looked at me with wide brown eyes, her smile loving, her question pointed.

We’d been walking along my town’s main thoroughfare, wandering to Dunkin Donuts so we could harass my sister who works there.  I’d been running my mouth about writing, the heights I imagine and hope to achieve, the sort of self-centered word vomit most 20-something save for their parents.

“Didn’t I post, like, 3 times last week?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Did you? I remember when you wrote about California, that was maybe a month ago.”

What? It’s been a month since I went to California?

Oh crap.

“Hmm. Yeah, you’re right.” I looked up at the perfect blue sky, the effortless stacks of clouds vaulted in the blue. “Guess I don’t know where the time has gone.”

We arrived at the entrance to Dunkin Donuts. When she opened the door, I was washed in the happy coffee-and-pastry smell. “You’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching,” she said. “It’s perfectly understandable.”

Really?

Then we both saw my sister, gorgeous and smiling despite a pink polo and visor. Game on.

For the next few minutes, as we pestered Patty with questions and pet names and the minutiae of coffee orders you’d only inflict upon family members, I forgot. I forgot my stupid burning questions and the cyclic flooded nature of my universe. When we emerged into the sunshine, rushing with laughter and serious caffeine, I was reminded once more by what really matters.

When all the life questions have been asked, when meaning and relative importance lie twitching on the cosmic table, and we are faced with that future darkness, scary and full of unknowable intent, we can look at the sky. We can feel the air that pulls through our lungs, hear the crash of the sea or the sweep of the breeze. We can drink our coffees, laced with sugar and sunshine, and know that we are present; we are here, and this is the single brightest answer the universe can offer us.

Other than the taste of a double-chocolate glazed.
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Hyperbole and a Half

By on August 26, 2010 in creative writing, humor, quarter-life crisis
Well, well, well. Look who decided to show up.
The SUN.
Thanks for that week of SADD-induced monkhood, Sun. I almost didn’t recognize myself, what with the sunken cheeks and grizzled whiskers.
I almost didn’t recognize you either, Sun. When I emerged from my bedroom this morning like a newborn deer, wobbly-legged and sleepy-eyed, I saw that my hallway was full of this strange brightness, and I panicked.
OH NO, WOODLAND CREATURES! OUR FOREST IS ON FIRE!
My apartment was not, in fact, on fire. You decided to shine this morning, that’s all.
Perhaps this gives you an indication of how my week’s been going.
Oh, but dear reader, let’s not get caught up in this celestial body confusion. If, like me, your Thursday feels like a Wednesday, I have a video you need to watch.
I LOVE cats, and I 100% endorse this warning.
Sometimes, when everything is a little too serious, I visit the musings of the funniest girl on the planet, Allie Brosh. Here’s her self-portrait (action shot):

Obviously you want more. Do yourself a favor and visit her blog, Hyperbole and a Half, but be prepared to lose about 1.5 days of your life as you greedily consume every story she’s ever written. Don’t worry, the emotional payoff will be worth the loneliness/poverty/starvation you’ll endure as a result of alienating friends and coworkers. If you need me, I’ll be in my windowless office, hiding from this terrifying ball of fire in the sky.
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Self-Control Is Exhausting (and Exhaustible)

By on August 18, 2010 in humor, quarter-life crisis, true story
Well hey there.
Listen, I need you to not judge me for the fact that I’m lying about like an invalid, drinking pomegranate juice and whining at couch cushions. I’ve had a very trying day, and I’ve missed my writing deadline.
That’s right: DEADLINES. IN LIFE.
Ugh. Self-betterment sucks.
During our trip to California, I promised my best friend[1] that I would write for 30 minutes every day for 30 days. 30 for 30. Sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?
To bolster my odds of success, I convinced Greer to do this 30 for 30 with me, knowing full well that she’s the kind of responsible, dedicated individual who meets her own goals (and teaches first graders how to speak French, MON DIEU). Needless to say, she’s hit every one of our deadlines.
Meanwhile I sit slumped over on the couch, listening to pop music on YouTube and staring at a line in my checkbook that reads:
Cash out for Cheetos (20–)
This is killing me.
Until now, I’ve been good. Really, truly, I have. I DO want to be a writer when I grow up, and I’m willing to work for it, especially when ‘work’ consists of sitting in my empty apartment and talking to myself, manipulating the written word to applaud my own ideas.[2] I set this goal to further my future as a self-employed literary mastermind, and I know I can do it.
Yet here I splay, unable to focus and unwilling to quit, twisted up in my need to achieve things even when my brain is fried and my body protests. I worked like a dog[3] all day today, smoking with nose-to-the-grindstone fervor and the sort of stress-fueled intensity that often results in a salary increase or cancer.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m only working this hard because I have to. I’m not so crazy as to pin my self-worth on work deadlines or attempt self-actualization through scented candles. During the day, I clung to some priorities. I still ate lunch, for example. I left the office in time to do hot yoga. But I left a spent and broken woman, desperate to sweat out the stress-toxins of corporate America. When I emerged two hours later, I entered the humid summer darkness soaked in sweat and buzzing with awareness.[4] On the drive home, I was totally conscious of every nerve in my body, muscles relaxing against the bones, eyes sitting heavy in their sockets, the taut skin of my face and neck hot and still hot and refusing to cool down even after I entered my apartment and took a shower and lay around like an invalid for several hours.
So here we are, and my face is still hot, and I think I might be getting sick.
And I know I must write, but my brain is acting like a kickstand, butting childishly against the ground so I can’t move forward. Rather than do the one thing I must, I default—internet!—and indulge in some mental whining.
Then, right on a site called FastCompany, I see the answer: “Self-control is an exhaustible resource.”
Oh REALLY?
Take a few minutes and see for yourself. It’s really a fascinating study. In the meantime, I’ll be in bed, scheming ways to quantify self-control as a very limited resource which may or may not justify the fact that it took me two days to write this post.

[1] Greer. Weren’t you paying attention to my last post?
[2] Like this! I’m hilarious!
[3] Assuming dogs work.
[4] Or dehydration.
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California Dreamin’

By on August 14, 2010 in mindfulness, quarter-life crisis, true story

Guess where I was for the last nine days?
CALIFORNIA!
Honestly, I could only take hearing that Katy Perry song so many times before I hopped on a plane. California the state may be domain of Prop 8 and the Terminator, but California the state of mind[1] is as enticing as gold in a riverbed. For an East Coaster like me, the West still holds the promise of everything good and pure in this world: pristine waters, crisp mountain air, verdant fields and trees like skyscrapers. All this without even CONSIDERING Muscle Beach.
A few months ago, Greer[2] and I hatched the plan. We flitted along a sunny Brooklyn boulevard, talking ourselves giddy about the coming summer, and stumbled on the notion of a cross-country trip. A red convertible, coast-to-coast. The ultimate American dream.
We scoured CVS for a map of the country and sat down to a Mexican brunch. My hands and mouth were full of tortilla chips, so Greer did most of the talking. She poured over cities and towns in scatterplots; I watched her move a finger across wide mountain ranges. I swallowed, tugged on my sweater tighter and broke the bad news: “I only have a week of vacation.”
We frowned at each other.
Greer is a teacher, so she has summers off, but my corporate lifestyle was a deal-breaker. Over the course of several weeks, we talked ourselves down from the ledge of Cross-Country Awesomeness to the respectable peak of West Coast Magic before ultimately arriving at the reasonable plateau of Coastal California Enjoyment. Eight days and a red-eye, San Francisco to San Diego, trundling along in a rental that was neither red nor a convertible.[3]
In the end, it didn’t matter a bit.
I boarded the plane with too many clothes and not enough reading material.
The Irish girl next to me asked for a piece of chewing gum; she’d never had Dentyne before. “It’s really strong,” I warned her.
She smiled shyly and looked away. As we taxied, I watched her face contort.
Then the rumbling, the choking whir in the belly of the plane, and we outstripped the buildings, Air Tran and Jet Blue, leaving the tarmac and earth beneath us. I looked out the window as we banked to the left, considering wavering light in the marshes, snaking waterways from a thousand feet up. As we buoyed through clouds, I began to dream.
To California. Bring your projections of all denominations: wild pinnacles in alien desert; weird perfection in LA faces; the surfers, the screenwriters, the meditative seekers. This is the land of the beautiful people (whether you mean hippies or bleach-blonde harlots), and like Led Zeppelin, we all want to follow a girl with flowers in her hair.[4]
I have another association.
All the times I’ve been to Australia[5], I’ve stopped in California en route. Los Angeles and San Francisco are gateways, circus-like airports where I rub shoulders with the world. Flight paths connect me with strangers for our first and only time, and I see them as they see me: wide-eyed, foreign, easily confused. Each step cements us in a present when we eagerly start random conversations, peek into all dark corners, and generally attempt to unwrap every molecule of this moment.
The last time I touched down in SFO, I missed my connecting flight.
Our plane was delayed by thunderstorms in Newark, and when I scrambled out of the aisle I sprinted to a new terminal, taking direction from shouting passers-by, willing my feet to fly. I arrived at the gate absent of breath, heaving and gesturing wildly, thrusting my ticket at an agent who simply shook his head.
“The door’s been closed,” he said, in a voice not unlike that of the Grim Reaper.
I pointed weakly toward the window. “But—I—can see—the plane—“
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. “The door of the plane has been closed.”
“They—can’t—open—it?”
He gave me a look. Only a fool would suggest to open a closed door. I grabbed the stitch in my side and attempted to stand, willing the tears back from my eyes. “When is the next flight?”
He glanced at the clock. A quarter to midnight. “Tomorrow night, 11:30PM.”
“What??”
“I’d recommend that you get here early.”
“Wha—but my flight was delayed!”
“I see that. So give yourself plenty of time tomorrow.”
By this point, a small group of travelers had gathered around us. I crumpled away from the counter and let them flood forward, giving floor to someone who would do the yelling for me. I’ve never been good at fighting, especially not as a customer. Instead, I stared at the useless bit of paper in my hands, brain blanking as hot tears littered my cheeks.
It wasn’t so bad, I tried telling myself. Surely I’ll find a place to sleep, and then I can explore San Francisco. And what with the time difference, I was bound to lose a day in translation anyway.
It didn’t work. I kept crying, split between frustration and disappointment, stalking around and scowling at the saleswomen in Duty Free. I’d been planning this trip for months, reserving every second of my Thanksgiving break to maximize my time in Sydney.
It was an important trip for a number of reasons. Australia is an adventure, this incredible island halfway around the world, and I was in love with the land and the sky and a certain man who lived there.[6] Tomorrow was my 24th birthday, and we’d planned a beach party complete with snags and champagne.[7] I’d fled a week of Jersey winter misery for the sparkle of Aussie summer, and instead I was trapped in some rinky-dink airport, aflame with frustration and desire for takeoff.
Life teaches us patience only when we most resent it.
That night, I took the BART to Berkeley and bunked with a friend from high school. I woke up grateful that I’d slept in a bed (instead of on a plane or, you know, the street). I swallowed as much of the city as I could stomach; I wandered the UC campus, the hippie-paved streets. I got lost in Chinatown and gorged on Mexican[8] in the Mission. I spent the day hiking the hills of downtown San Francisco and left a glittering city night.
SFO found me with a loaded suitcase and a new mindset. When yesterday’s agent took my ticket, I didn’t even slap him across the face.
My time in the air, those long dragging hours, softened with weightless curiosity. As my birthday stretched across an international dateline, I felt myself dissolving. Who was this person, loaded with desire? What did she want from the wide, sleeping world? Beneath the cumulus, beyond 10,000 miles, what was she looking for?
Two years later, I stared out the window and saw San Francisco spread out below us, a collision of colors along the coast. Here I was, descending into memory, the last American place that sang to me of Aus. My heart lifted.
I saw the Pacific spill like ink into the horizon. I watched the sun as we chased it, pursuer and pursuant each sinking in flight. Beyond these waters, past the gate of the city, a world I loved waited in darkness. Flying now on the back of the ocean, dawn came to break in white light across those cliffs.
I would not come with it.
The girl next to me had fallen asleep. Her mother stroked her hair. I shifted in my seat, and still I wondered: what were we looking for?
[1] See what I did there?
[2] My best friend since age ten.
[3] See photo above. We did get a sunroof, but it broke.
[4] Or BE one. Guilty!
[5] Five.
[6] He didn’t take me out much, but I can’t really fault him for that.
[7]Snag=sausage. Classy, I know.
[8] See a theme here?
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I Didn’t Move to the Beach for the Bongos

By on July 6, 2010 in humor, mindfulness, quarter-life crisis, true story
I love a good holiday weekend, don’t you?
Especially in the summer. 3 days manage to afford 36 hours spent on the beach, 24 hours spent eating, 12 hours spent drinking, and about 30 minutes spent bettering oneself (typically via sweat). Summer holidays are like wormholes in the time-space continuum that allow us to be present everywhere all at once and STILL get to a barbeque before the hot dogs run out. The 4th of July is a big ball of fun, a completely irresponsible holiday (that is to say, without any reference to tradition or reflection on moral virtue) where everyone agrees that the noblest celebration is tanning.
Yay.
How does Yours Truly decide to spend her final hours of such a glorious, meaningless vacation? Writing, of course!
This evening I woke up from a 3-hour ‘power nap’[1] with a vague sense of uselessness. In my case, writing is both character-building and significantly overdue (along with concepts like ‘going to the gym before work’ and ‘washing my sheets’), so I committed. I went down to the beach with my journal and my book and watched the sunset wash across colorful beach bunnies.[2] I settled on a bench and pulled out my pen, ready to kick ass with the weight of my own genius.
I wasn’t counting on the drum circle.
About 20 minutes into my self-congratulatory ramblings, a bunch of long-haired adults wielding 3-year-olds set up a drum circle 15 feet away. Bongos, talking drums, even a cowbell: these goobers had them all. At first I thought, ‘Hey, cool, I’ll groove on some sweet rhythms and rejoice that American children can indoctrinated into hippie-dom against their will (even in suburban New Jersey!).’
This was hard to do. The music was pretty awful, consisting of (as far as I could tell) one gray-haired baby boomer running the same three patterns over and over and over to presumably forge the backbone of a ‘music space’ wherein a bunch of spastic ankle-biters were given loud instruments with the instruction to make MORE noise, rather than less. But I am nothing if not good-humored, so I tapped my foot to the booming rhythm and attempted to ignore the whole thing, allowing the music filter through my heartbeat but not my brain.
This turned out to be much easier than I suspected, in large part because my brain is used to doing things completely independently of the rest of my body. My brain pleasures in decisions that inevitably confuse and/or infuriate my lesser instincts, including those of my muscles, morality, emotional compass, spirituality, free will, etc. I once gutted my way through a 5K after no training whatsoever, which doesn’t sound like a big deal until I tell you that a) the course was littered with hills, b) the air hit 90 degrees before 9AM, and c) I had an undiagnosed viral infection so severe I was nearly hospitalized two days later.[3] There is NO WAY my body was willing to do this. I was a slave to my brain.
I still am. Only maniacal tyranny of the mind could explain many of my more questionable talents, which include consuming a dozen Oreos at once, holding wall squats for minutes at a time, and ruining romantic relationships.[4] I don’t WANT to be someone who cerebralizes notions like Hunger and Love. Or rather my heart doesn’t want me to be that person. My brain, on the other hand, decides I should be for any of a million inexplicable reasons, and my heart never stands a chance.
Then I find myself waxing poetic about this exact phenomenon—usually in my head or aloud to myself—and I start to wonder how much can be accomplished by the annunciation of such psychological complexities. Does it help me to know that my brain acts as the House in a Vegas lifestyle and that every ‘gamble’ I take really plays to its winning hand? Is the actualization of my fears for good or for evil? If I talk about my brain as a Hitler-esque caricature, hyperbolic and alarming, does self-awareness somehow undermine the regime? And don’t think the point is lost on me that my brain dictates these exact thoughts, directs these exact words so as to suggest a semblance of hope and potential to ‘see beyond’ my brain which is, of course, impossible. These questions may be intriguing (to me) and depressing (to you, probably), but mostly they’re maddening.
This is probably why I ate three hamburgers on Saturday. Even when the whole world seems crazy, beef never lets me down.
Eventually, despite my brain’s best efforts, drumbeats crept in through the fog of these thoughts. As the noise of bongos steadily challenged my consciousness, I became aware that I had been staring without really seeing, slack-jawed and self-obsessed, for over an hour.
This felt like a great accomplishment.
When the gray-haired hippie looped his beat for the 18,000th time, I stood up to collect my things. I glanced at the children in the drum circle. They were a motley crew, rumpled and sunburned, clutching guiros or equally ridiculous noise machines almost as large as their torsos. One small girl in a pink dress was wailing away on the triangle, creating sound with as much pleasure as I’ve ever witnessed (and I’ve seen U2 in concert).
This is all life amount to, really: slamming away on a bit of insignificant metal, making sound to prove we exist, loving every moment in which we can lose ourselves. Maybe we miss the initial rhythm or maybe we sit in the sun too long. But maybe, most likely, we worry too much. Little kids don’t worry about hitting the right notes; hippies who start public drum circles don’t worry about anything.[5] Regardless of whether or not cerebral hegemony spells pending disaster, I don’t need to worry so much. Even with the threat of skin cancer, we still like the look of a tan.
As I pass, the little girl in pink starts ‘singing’, which really amounts to tuneless shrieking. That’s enough of that. I leave the bench and the beach as fast as possible. Even after a holiday weekend, there is only so much one person can take.
[1] If you consider the inability to sleep at night empowering.
[2] I mean girls in bikinis, not feral rabbits, you weirdo.
[3] I concede that you might not find this impressive (especially if you consider that after my 30-minute ‘wind sprint’ I lay down in a field for literally two hours). I also concede that you might be a terrible person.
[4] I said these talents were “questionable”, not admirable. Nor are they particularly unique.
[5] Obviously.
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Josh Ritter

By on June 15, 2010 in art, inspiration, mindfulness, quarter-life crisis
Summer is my bittersweet season.
I love the heat, I love the light, I love the humidity that turns my curls into the bottle-brush fuzz of a crazy cat lady. I love it with a passion reserved only for the fleeting things, for the moments of brilliance that shine with all their fires, that light the last reserves and swallow themselves whole.
I watch the season wax in power, exhaust the world with its might, and I stand enthralled like everyone else, drowning in the moment, clinging to something I know will leave me. These are these days when the air is full of poetry and my heart is conscious, in the words of David Foster Wallace, “of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.”
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Clean Up Your Act

By on June 8, 2010 in humor, quarter-life crisis, true story

Time for spring cleaning!
Now, I realize it is basically summer. As far as I am concerned, spring cleaning happens whenever I wake from my six-months-of-freezing-rains-and-apocalyptic-wind-induced hibernation.
In the case of 2010, this happened last Saturday.
Typically, I decide to clean based on one of two factors:
1) Panic. I am having company visit in a matter of hours and can’t bear to let them see the dead flower petals, unwashed dishes, and general squalor with which I live.
2) Fear. This apartment collects dust bunnies that could eat me in my sleep.
Last Saturday I woke up, staggered into my living room, bypassing the dying plants and disemboweled suitcases, and collapsed on the couch only to discover that I had nowhere to put my feet up. The coffee table is covered in useless garbage like utility bills; the couch is covered in clothes (mine, thank God). The floor, I realize with horror, is covered in a fine film of some mysterious sticky substance.
Ew.
For someone with a pinball-marathon hangover, this situation was distressing. I woke up expecting the world to be a happy, carefree place, full of children’s laughter and fun electronic music, and instead it’s a cesspool. Who lives like this? Where is she and what has she done to my stuff?
So I was looking around, exerting all my quad strength to hover my feet a few inches from the floor, when my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. (“What if you have a heart attack and DIE? Do you want the hot ER guy to find you LIKE THIS?”[1]) Spring cleaning has become a matter of survival.
I dove for the kitchen cabinet, yanked out the scrub sponges and paper towels and bucket dilutable floor cleaners and scrubbed like a fiend for approximately six hours, until the apartment sparkled and my weakened limbs thrashed limply at a last, few, creepily indelible floor stains by the fridge (that will never go away, no matter what, and I don’t even know where they COME FROM).
Speaking of which, living alone raises waaaaay more questions than it answers.
Like, what’s with all this dust? Where the hell does it come from? To the best of my knowledge, I don’t personally spew dust like some dirt-sprinkler. My apartment is brand-new. So where in the hell does it come from? My books? The walls?
Also, how did one of my hairs wind up in the freezer? I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I stuck my head in the icebox to talk to the brussel sprouts for a few.
And finally—this bothers me more than anything—why are dirty dishes so aggressive? Even when simply I walk past and look in their general direction, I am slammed with a complex wave of guilt and fear. Their glass and porcelain lips peer over the rim of the sink, taunting me, muttering veiled curses. They’re building a colony, and Lord have mercy if I try to collapse their tiered regime. When the time comes that I do actually reach into their depths (usually wearing rubber gloves and a gas mask), they emit high-pitched screams and slam against each other dramatically, pretending to crack and shatter as though broken glass will stop me. Only after plunging them into boiling hot water, dousing them with green-apple-scented chemicals, and scrubbing the bejeezus out of them will they lay in quiet rows on a tea towel and dry in silence. There is temporary peace, an uneasy settlement between warring parties, and though I try to enjoy the sparkling order while I can, both they know and I know that chaos sits in the dark, unpolished corners of things, watching and content to wait, for the rise of panic and unwashed terror is coming, is only a matter of time.
[1] This is also what motivates me to wear pretty underwear.
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