Gahhhh not the Life question again!

If only the answer really was as simple as 42. I apologize that this blog has evolved into the whiny outlet I turn to when I don't know what to do with my life. Too many choices & too little time can be paralyzing. That's right, Ladies and Gents, I again find myself wondering what to be when I grow up. Perhaps I should start by stating my best case scenario and then work backwards to determine the steps necessary to achieve those goals.

My dream job would be to be speech language pathologist (preferably in a school system, on a school schedule) and a part-time yoga instructor. With a summer house in Italy, obviously. The SLP/yoga instructor combo would be the ideal balance (pun intended) between work and play, allowing me to physically and mentally help others as well as to spend my life challenging myself with things I enjoy. And the summer house in Italy? Well, a girl can dream.

So, sounds like I've got it all figured out, don't it? The problem is that these are the things I want to be doing NOW, not 5 years from now. First I have to put in the time, work and money (blood, sweat and tears) before I can live the dream. And I'm having trouble building up the momentum. I'm starting the grad school application process and am feeling overwhelmed. Any words of wisdom or advice from people who've been through this would be greatly appreciated.

Tough love meets Satellite collar

I got Vespa spayed. However, I think she might be more broken now than she was before I fixed her. See below (and watch til the end!)



PS: Yes, I do feel guilty about being the worst mommy ever

Happy Birthday to me!

Welcome to 24. (No, not the TV show) Today, I'm addressing the now clichéd "quarter-life crisis". While yes, it is an overused buzz word, it's not a myth. Several of my friends, as well as myself, are dealing with some hefty identity and life trajectory questions.



The main dilemma being: WHAT THE HECK ARE WE DOING?! Nobody seems to know. Which, I guess goes with the territory. We freak out with the pressure of having all the answers right now. The truth is, most of us don't. We're winging it. And sometimes we are forced to rely on that all-important skill honed throughout our academic careers - BS. We are going to fake it as convincingly as we can until either we get some answers, or we fake it well enough that it becomes a reality. Whatever "it" is.

Things get tougher when you think you do have some answers - move to Vancouver, get a job with a work visa in order to later go to grad school as a permanent resident of Canada (Happy belated Canada Day, BTW) - and then realize that those may not be the best answers for where your life should take you next. For those of you more familiar with my situation, I really want you to know that there are no hard feelings here whatsoever. We simply made the mature realization that that move would not be the right decision for this point in our lives. But, what do you do when you think your life is headed one way and then have to regroup and figure out the next step?

The solution is in the question. Simply, you regroup and figure out the next step. Duh. You embrace your freedom to do whatever your heart desires. So things have stalled - use the time to do some soul searching, some researching and some re-evaluating and take some baby steps. Any step forward is progress!

It's all good y'all! So raise a toast to me and my b-day twin, Lindsay Lohan. And thank goodness I'm not in her shoes!

Taking stock

So it has been a momentous week for me. Wednesday was my last day of work. Yesterday was my first time shadowing a woman in my future profession. And today is the day I move out of Boston. So many good-byes and thank-yous to be said. Leaving work was harder than I imagined it would be. They got me ice cream cake. Ice cream cake is my favorite. I don't think they knew that, but still. When I got home, after a thoughtful final commute, I found that my coworker had written on my facebook wall, "Walk out that door and DON'T LOOK BACK!" Cheers to him for helping me keep things in perspective. I didn't want to be there. That's the whole point of this!

Yesterday's job shadow went really well. The SLP I shadowed works with pre-school children with special needs - feeding disorders, speech, articulation and language issues. It really was interesting all the different kinds of cases she works with. I don't know if I could do the pre-school thing on a daily basis, but I will admit the kids were pretty damn cute. I used to not be a kid person, and I still think of myself that way, but the more time I spend with them the more I like them. Which freaks me out.

And today we're packing up the van, loading up the kitty and heading back to CT. I've never been attached to a place I've lived in before. My homes growing up I didn't pick myself. I just ended up there with my family so there wasn't a feeling of ownership associated with them. My apartments in college were just holes, or maybe I should call them "learning experiences". But my place here, the sanctuary of gorgeousness; I'm really going to miss it. I think I've mentally turned it into a metaphor for my life here. The freedom, the flexibility, the social life, the cozy nights in with friends, my first Thanksgiving turkey...

Sad as I am, I think the more appropriate word is appreciative. When major life chapters wrap up, you're forced to take stock of what you have, in both a physical (literal) and emotional way. I have been blessed with opportunities here, with the memorable experiences here, and most importantly with the people here. So from the bottom of my heart, a sincere thank you to JV, LD, LR, KNB, MS, and - obviously - RP. You guys are amazing and without you this experience wouldn't have meant what it does to me.

A writer's dilemma

I've been considering the implications of the adage, "write what you know." By writing what you know, you can bring life and accuracy to your stories far more successfully than by making things up as you go. Your personal experiences also provide a wealth of relatable characters and anecdotes to draw from. For me this is a bonus because I have yet to develop a talent for inventing stories and personalities on my own. I hope that one day this will come more naturally, but right now, no dice. What's more, non-fiction sells better than fiction, so that's a pretty big incentive for writing about one's own life rather than making up someone else's.

But the more I consider the idea of writing what I know, the trickier it gets. A couple examples for you: I just re-read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. This book is one part travel writing and nine parts autobiography/journey of self-discovery. Ms. Gilbert discusses, well, pretty much everything; crippling depression, spiritual philosophy, masturbation, talking to herself - the list goes on. Frankly, my dear, those some hefty topics to consider in the third person, let alone in the first. And then there's the young woman writing for Cosmo about the 77 sex positions she will test out with her boyfriend in as many days. What on earth does she tell her parents she's working on!?

Safe, tactful subjects that one is comfortable discussing with most everyone - plans to go to grad school, how the cat is doing, what you had for lunch - hardly make for gripping reading. What makes a story worth reading are drama, emotion, scandal with a pinch of bawdiness thrown in for good measure. We've all got those things going on, let's be honest, but the trick is figuring out how to write about them. So I guess I either need to grow a backbone and get down to it, or find a suitable research project to write about and skip discussing my life all together. I'm not too keen on either.

It never fails

I had an incident at work yesterday that made me so mad, by the time I got off the phone I was literally shaking. I know I have felt this indignant at other times in my life, but it's been so long I honestly can't remember the last time I've been so angry. Once the adrenaline wore off, I was exhausted. And it was only noon.

That morning I had packed all my gym stuff planning to work out on my way home. But when it came time to leave I was looking for any excuse not to go. I was pooped. So I made a bet with the elevator. If we stopped twice on the way down from the 11th floor then I would go to the gym. It didn't even stop once. It was a message from above. I totally played work-out hooky.

That evening I had a few phone calls to catch up on, one to my dad and one to a friend of a friend who works as a speech language pathologist in the area. I was so drained I could barely be sociable with my roommate, let alone try to make a good first impression with a stranger on the telephone. There was only one solution to my conundrum.

Yoga.

So I put on some Sigur Rós, plugged in the white Christmas lights strung across my ceiling and unrolled my mat. It had been weeks since I'd done any yoga, but it never fails to make me feel better. After an hour of zoning out, stretching and quietening my racing thoughts, I was good as new. I felt as physically different as you do walking out of the chiropractor's office. I was readjusted, realigned and back on track.

My conversation with the SLP went very well. So well in fact I will be shadowing her for a day in May. So exciting.

Mad as a Hatter

"Have I gone mad?" asks the Mad Hatter to Alice.

She replies, "I'm afraid so. You're entirely bonkers. But I'll tell you a secret. All the best people are."

I don't think I entirely agree with Alice's statement - we would first have to decide on a definition for "best" as it applies to people. But I will readily concede that, somewhat less ambiguously, all the most interesting people are off their rockers. Normal is so boring.

Sometimes I question my own sanity. I'm currently at a life crossroads. I've begun to negotiate the maze that is the path to grad school and have started to figure out how to relocate not only cross-country, but across country borders. It is indeed time for me to move on from my current job (grad school has always been on the table) and I'm ready to explore a new city full of possibilities. But I would be lying if I tried to tell you with a straight face, that this isn't in large part due to a certain boy in Vancouver.

So I've been consulting with friends and family about my big plans. Over the weekend I had breakfast with a high school friend of mine and I asked her point blank, "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"Yes," she answered, but she didn't follow up with Alice's reassurances. Instead she continued, "depending on how it all works out."

Well this got me thinking. No one likes to be told in all seriousness that they're out of their mind. So I took some time to ponder whether I thought I was crazy. I couldn't entirely rule out the possibility - not being able to foretell the future and all. But I was struck by a profound realization. It would be crazier not to embark on this adventure. It would be insane to stay in my dead end job, passively letting life take its course. Imagine how bonkers it would make me to realize years later that I had missed my chance to shape my life into the life I wanted to lead.

The way I see it, crazy is a moot point. No matter how your life goes, you're going to be faced with some difficult choices and that only have quote-unquote crazy solutions. How safe, how small would a life be that only stuck to the sane, narrow, limited path? In my book, a sense of whimsy and adventure, a little zaniness, will only serve you well.

But wish me luck any way!

The stuff nightmares are made of

Escalators.

Stop laughing; I know you are. Ok, so I'm not as terrified of them as say, a loved one getting sick, or dying alone, but as far as concrete day-to-day fears go, yes, escalators top my list.

To be fair, it's not without reason. When I was five years old, my mother and I took an ill-fated trip to the big G-Fox department store in Hartford. (On a side note G-Fox went out of business shortly thereafter. I'm sure it had nothing to do with me, but the store's demise quite pleased my vindictive little five-year-old self.)

So anyways we're at G-Fox. I have no memory of the outing up until the time we were leaving, but my memory is crystal clear as we step onto the escalator down to the ground level. All of a sudden, 3 steps from the bottom, something is very wrong. Mommy is yelling, people are running frantically and I'm looking bewilderedly around me. The escalator has stopped. Looking down, I discover I can't see half of my right foot. It is trapped between the grated metal step and the side wall of the machine. My shoe and sock are gone. I was not ok with this!

Now I join in the panic. Security guards are talking over the screaming, trying to figure the best way to free my foot. A sales woman gives me a baby doll in a lavender plaid dress and I clutch it distractedly. I can't feel anything, like I'm numb all over. But I still can't see my foot. One of the security guards has procured a crow bar from who knows where. He wedges it in the crack between the step and the wall of the escalator, near my foot. He leans heavily on it and finally, with an ugly mechanical creaking, a hole appears between the once flush walls of metal. My foot is released, miraculously whole.

It was red and soon to be swollen, but there was no blood. My shoe and sock were nowhere to be seen in the gaping insides of the escalator. I was quickly scooped up and bustled into a waiting ambulance. As it turns out I was fine, no missing toes or broken bones. My mom even made me go to school the next day with my right foot bundled in a slipper.

But yeah. I'm not a fan of escalators.

To sum up

So there you have it. I credit my current outlook on the world and perspective on myself to those four experiences. The obvious theme that ties these experiences together is that each is an instance of me underestimating myself - underestimating my abilities or other's opinions of me.

On the one hand you might think that's a depressing theme that so often plagues young women today. But the good news it that I have always been pleasantly surprised. I have never let myself down nor do I expect to in the foreseeable future.

4.

4. My summer abroad in Italy: A couple weeks before I traveled abroad, I was on a family vacation in Hawaii with my dad and step-mom. The islands were breathtaking and the weather was a welcome relief after a Montreal winter. But, looming over me was the knowledge that within days of the trip's end I would graduate from university and then fly off to Europe on my own. I was terrified. I had several meltdowns, much to the consternation of my dad and stepmom.

But the summer that followed was the time of my life. I discovered that my Italian was far better than I gave myself credit for. I was more resourceful and independent than I knew and I was more capable of being flexible and spontaneous than I had imagined. The tripped proved that I was capable, self-reliant and apparently very attractive based on all the positive attention I got from the locals.

The morning I was to leave for home, I found myself alone in the empty lobby of my hotel. I needed to catch a cab to the airport to make my flight to Boston. It was 5:00 am and no one was around. I couldn't check out, but figured they had my credit card info so I tried to leave. The automatic door would not open. I jumped up and down in front of the sensor. I attempted to pry it open with my finger nails. I tried the phone at the front desk, but there was no one to call. Finally I sat down on a couch in the lobby and took a few deep breaths.

If I missed my flight I would just have to find another way to get home. It would be a pain in the ass, but it wasn't like I wouldn't be able to get back. Three months earlier this situation would have had me in tears, panicking, beside myself. But now, though I wished things were working out more smoothly, I was composed and resolved. I would find a way to make it work. After an hour, another family came down and found an emergency button on the wall around the corner that opened the door. I bolted out of the hotel, stole a cab from a couple waiting at the train station down the street, and caught my flight as it was boarding. But had I panicked or lost my cool, who knows if I would have been composed enough to pull it off.

3.

3. Breaking up with my long-distance boyfriend as I started my second year of university: My first year at McGill I had a long-distance boyfriend from my hometown. He was attending a school in Massachusetts an 8 hour bus ride away. We would talk online every night from 10:00 to midnight. That is not an exaggeration. In case you didn't connect the dots, this also meant I never went out; my social life was non-existent. It's also worth noting that the flip side was true for him as well. Basically, the relationship wasn't a good thing, but we were each other's safety net, a constant thing to count on when everything else was new and scary. I did two things as a freshman: 1) I excelled at school and 2)I missed my boyfriend. It was a long torturous year.

Half way through the following summer, I had decided there was no way I could go through that again. We both deserved more from our college experience. I was terrified of what it would mean to not have someone else to rely on, but I was convinced it was for the best. It took us a while to finally break it off, but by mid-september, now back at school, I was totally on my own.

Much to my surprise I made friends. I went out. I partied. I flirted with boys. They flirted back. Second year was a blast. I found out I didn't need someone else to tell me everything was going to be alright. I was just fine on my own.

2.

2. My Senior Prom: I didn't have a date to my high school prom. I wasn't a freak, but I was a wallflower. I was the shy smart girl no one noticed. Or, because I was shy and smart, people who didn't know me assumed I was snobby and full of myself (which was true to some extent, but stemmed from some deeper rooted self-esteem issues). But before we get too far into psychoanalyzing my high school self, to sum up: no date.

Through some miracle of fate, the son of one of my mother's long time friends - whom I'd never met - agreed to escort me to my prom. As many of you know, the story was actually even more extreme because in fact, he was Canadian and had to fly in to CT and spend the weekend with me and my family. He was an adventurous soul.

What ensued was the best weekend of my life to date. We hit it off immediately and had a ton of fun the whole time. My friends were jealous and we were the stars of the ball - at least in my circle. That weekend was the first time I enjoyed a mutual attraction to a boy. The highlight of the weekend was a make out session on the couch and dancing in my living room with no music on long after my parents had gone to bed. The next day I drove him to the airport to catch his flight home to Vancouver. As you might expect, I was mess and yet I felt more alive than I ever had before.

1.

1. Habitat for Humanity: To be honest, by the time I was giving my confirmation class presentation, I had already participated in my first of four annual trips working for Habitat. But only with a little distance can I realize that they were the first nudge on my journey of self-discovery. Habitat was the first time I ever went into something flat-out dreading it only to come out the other side absolutely ecstatic.

I hated the thought of being sweaty and gross. I hated the thought of sleeping on an air mattress in a school cafeteria for a week. I didn't like the other youth group participants - or to be more accurate, I believed they didn't like me. The trip was something of an eye-opener. The hard work and strenuous conditions bonded our team together; for the first time I was a part of something. Only later can I see these trips for how they really influenced me. They showed me not only that first impressions of people and preconceived ideas about a project are often misguided, but I discovered that I was stronger than I believed.

Defining Moments

When I was 15 everyone in my church confirmation class was asked to give a presentation about their defining life experiences. I struggled with this concept. I was able to talk about being a flute player and a vegetarian (at the time), how I enjoyed my time at our lake house in Maine and studying French, but these were not defining experiences. They just were. These aspects of myself were hardly due to any life-changing event. At that point, I had yet to be shaped by the key influential experiences that awaited me.

Almost 10 years later (crazy!), I can now reflect on what I know were the events that brought to existence who I am today. I've pinpointed four. Stay tuned - I'll be posting them over the next week in chronological order.

Out like a lamb. Not so much.

What is it about a late March snow storm that has such an impact on one's outlook for the day? Well, really that's not a hard question. The first teasings of spring have gotten your hopes up. Perhaps you've enjoyed a couple warm sunny days; a picnic in the park, noticed the first leaf buds on the lilac bushes outside your apartment. Humans are hopeful creatures at heart. We are naturally inclined to believe that once things start looking up, they will only get better.

No, on second thought, that is far too broad a generalization. Optimists are far more likely to have such an outlook. I guess pessimists save themselves a fair bit of disappointment by not leaping to conclusions that the world is bound to pick itself up off its feet any day now. When a pessimist wakes up to a snowy morning on March 26th after a beautiful day in the 60's, does this really have any impact on her mood or perspective on life in general? I would suppose not. I presume the thought process on looking out the window would go something like this, "Ah, well. It figures."

For me, firmly couched on the optimistic side of the fence, finding a morning full of windy wet snow is more like, "Dammit, dammit!" But then I remember that it's Friday, and things are looking up again.

Couldn't help myself from these music splurges...

I've been listening to some new music lately, found through Pandora or noted on friends' facebook profiles (please give me credit for refraining from wondering aloud about how on earth previous generations managed to discover music trends before the internet age). I've been particularly taken with Eric Hutchinson, Mat Kearney and Mumford & Sons.

Eric Hutchinson is a singer-songwriter with who combines rhythmic wordplay reminiscent of an early Jason Mraz with catchy choruses that remind me of Train's Hey Soul Sister. Rock & Roll is probably his best known single, but I'm a bigger fan of Oh! and especially Ok, It's Alright with Me.

Mumford & Sons just sprang up recently on a friend's facebook page with a link to the youtube video of their single Little Lion Man. I paid no attention. Yesterday I was glancing through another friend's sister's blog (yes I get bored at work) and she also mentioned Mumford & Sons. Twice in a week this band I've never heard of finds a way to appear in my life. The universe must be trying to tell me something. Wow. Very cool stuff. A British foursome comprised of a guitarist, keyboardist, double bassist and banjoist (banjoist?). They perform compelling yet honest ballads that lift the spirit and make you want to hop a tour bus to travel the countryside with them.

And Mat Kearney. My favorite of the three. Go buy his album City of Black and White. Really. I haven't felt this way about an album since John Mayer's Room for Squares. For those of you who don't know, John Mayer was the first concert I ever attended. At the age of 16 I was a bit obsessed. And now I remember what that feels like. I get home from work, and the first thing I do is put on City of Black and White. I feel engulfed when I listen to it. Like Coldplay's Viva la Vida or U2's Sunday Bloody Sunday (ok not the lyrics, but the feeling of the song) every song on this album has that gripping, larger than life feel.

So. I have never written about music before. But I've been listening to these artists all week and they inspire me. They make me long to create. Create what? I'm not quite sure yet, so I figured the first place to start was at the source. Many poets write odes to their muses; this isn't exactly analogous, but perhaps it's a jumping off point.

If anyone is familiar with these artists, let me know what your take is!

the trip back

I remember clearly how it felt, sitting next to you on the bus down from Whistler in the middle of the night. We sat in the front two seats - not the ones tucked safely behind the driver, but the ones with the panoramic, unobstructed view of the road winding through the dark. The steep cliff to the water to our right was obscured in darkness, for better or worse. I had to close my eyes so I couldn't watch the bends in the road approach at what felt like too fast a speed.

But with my eyes closed, visions of a horrific accident were replaced by the thought of having to leave you again soon. I curled up closer to you and you took my hand, massaging my palm, then each finger in turn. With a few deep breaths I relaxed into the warm, melancholy contentment that swept over me. For the moment I was still with you. I fell asleep with my head on your shoulder only to wake when we arrived.

Letting go of the handle

So, I don't believe I've ever posted the story behind the title of this blog. Now, as I am on the verge of taking another life leap, I feel it's a fitting anecdote to regale you with. The saying "letting go of the handle" is inspired by a piece of artwork that was given to me as I headed off for college. It is a pen and ink drawing of an abstract girl, brightly colored, floating along in an inverted umbrella. It reminds me of Roald Dahl stories, not any one in particular; rather it reminds me of that childhood feeling of knowing that anything is possible. Below the image is a quote that reads:

If you hold on to the handle, she

said, its's easier to maintain the illusion

of control. But it's more fun if you

just let the wind carry you.

Somewhere between elementary school and the end of high school, I lost sight of the beauty and fun of spontaneity. I liked the illusion of control that came with planning and with following the rules. My mother, who so often knows me better than I know myself, choose this piece of art to inspire me to live a little, to enjoy college life, and to just let the wind carry me once in a while. Setting up my things in my dorm room, I hung the picture in a prominent spot next to my desk.

That first year at school I was too paralyzed by the newness of everything to take the wisdom of this quote to heart. I clung to what was familiar, what was safe - and I had a miserable time. With immense relief, the time finally came for me to pack my belongings to return home for the summer. As I was removing the picture from the wall, it slipped, and crashed on my desk, leaving a crooked, curved crack in the glass from top to bottom. I sighed, but figured I could get the glass replaced when I got home.

The summer came and went, and I forgot about the crack. Unpacking at the start of my second year, I found the picture in a box as I had left it. Imperfect, but now with visible evidence of an inner character it hadn't possessed before. I wasn't going to replace the glass, I decided. Life happens.

Today, the picture, crack and all, hangs next to my bed as I plan to-do lists for my next adventure. Yes, I still like to hang on to that handle, planning things, preparing, but in the end these are preparations for adventures that would make the girl in the umbrella proud. I have struck a balance between hanging on to the handle and letting the wind carry me. But whenever I find myself clinging too tightly, I am reminded to ease up, take a deep breath, and dive on in. And it's always been more fun that way.