A couple months ago I tried alluding to what I thought was a very well-known adage while in conversation with my dad, but he had no idea what I was talking about. To be fair, I think what I said was something to the effect of: "You know that saying about friends and new ones and old ones and silver and gold?"
Clearly, I'm nothing if not articulate.
I've since remembered the actual saying: Make new friends, but keep the old; for one is silver, and the other is gold.
I feel like my version was pretty close, but whatever. Moving on.
It's a silly little phrase, really. Trite. Overly sentimental. Cloying, even. But slap every cliche label in the book on it, and it still resonates so deeply with me right now.
Nearly four weeks ago, I left everything I knew and moved to a place where I knew exactly zero people. I've hounded this fact over and over again, I know, but no matter how many times I say it, it never stops being true. This was truly the most terrifying thing I've ever done, and in contemplative moments, I still sometimes can't believe I actually went through with it.
You see, I'm of the sort who needs her people. I've never been terribly social, and I've never had an extensive circle of friends. But what I've always had is a core network of close friends who I feel safe and comfortable with. They're the people I naturally gravitate to, the people who know my secrets and my deepest fears and desires, the people who look for me in a crowd. Those people are a huge part of the reason that I made it through college in one piece; they soothed me when my heart was broken, they laughed with me late into the night, they helped me stretch and grow and change. True, the cast of characters rotated in and out as people changed and moved away and got married as people are wont to do, but I had that solid support. Always.
I still have my people. Most of them just happen to live nearly 2,500 miles away. That distance doesn't make me love or appreciate my people any less. If anything, it's deepened my affection and helped me see even more clearly how important my people are to me. To use another trite, saccharine adage, you don't know what you have until it's gone. Or in this case until you're gone. But the sentiment is there.
I still have my people, but I don't have my people here. And of all the things that have thrown me for a loop as I try to adjust into my new life, that is the hardest. That is what I miss so much that it physically hurts from time to time. I have met extraordinary people in the short time I've been in Boston. I've met people who have welcomed me and included me and shown genuine interest in knowing who I am. But I simply haven't been here long enough to form the kind of friendships I yearn for. I don't yet have people whose conversations I can join late and not feel like an intruder or people who would notice if I don't show up.
I know that these things take time. (Yet another cliche.) I haven't had nearly enough time to expect real results. I'm aware of that, and I don't expect to have the kinds of friendships after four weeks that I've spent years developing. But having realistic expectations doesn't change the deeply rooted desire to connect, to understand, to confide.
So back to new and old and silver and gold. It's one of the most exciting and most heartbreaking parts of life, isn't it? The continual ebb and flow of the people in your life, the individuals who take turns forming the bedrock of your social identity.
Old friends—the ones who are tested and true, who've seen you at your worst and love you anyway—are gold. Valuable, luminous. But the new ones—the ones you still tip toe around, who you're only just beginning to feel you're not auditioning for—are silver. Luxurious, beautiful.
And what's most extraordinary, I think, is that somewhere along the way, silver becomes gold and new silver comes along, and in the end, it's all precious, all important, all needed.
Showing posts with label adulting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adulting. Show all posts
Monday, September 26, 2016
Friday, August 26, 2016
Adventure
I wrote this post as a part of the 8-Minute Memoir project. Learn more here.
I am about to embark on an adventure.
I find the term adventure to be appropriate, because it encapsulates a mixture of excitement, stress, and apprehension. No adventure is without its setbacks and scrabbles, but conversely, no adventure is without its triumphs and high points.
In 5 days, I will pack everything I own into a Toyota Corolla and drive it 895 miles to Boston, where I will then unpack all of my belongings into a house that I’ll be sharing with 4 women I’ve never before met. I haven’t been to Boston since I was 3 years old—so it’s basically as though I’ve never been there before—and I don’t know a soul in the entire city.
In 12 days, I will attend my first class as a graduate student at Emerson College, which is neatly situated in the heart of downtown Boston. It’s a small school—a fraction of the size of BYU, where I completed my undergrad—but in many ways, it looms far more daunting and overwhelming than BYU did when I first began my education there. The smaller student count could mean that it’ll be easier to find my niche (especially as I’ll be surrounded by other publishing-minded individuals with whom I’m bound to have something in common), but it could also equate to my having an even more difficult time making friends than I normally do. Fewer people total equals fewer people who won’t be put off by my awkward small talk and socially anxious ways.
The course work, ironically, is what I’m least nervous about. Yes, it’ll be difficult and demanding, but it’s what I want to do. At the risk of sounding trite, it’s what I feel deep in my gut that I’m meant to do. Honing and refining my skills as an editor and an aspiring publishing professional feels so right, so comfortable. Ask me in a few weeks if I still feel the same way, and I’m not sure the answer. But for now I’m content and confident.
What weighs on my mind is the challenge of acclimating to a city significantly (and I mean significantly) larger than any place I’ve lived before. I’m concerned about navigating public transportation, learning what areas of town are safe for a single woman to be at night (or by day), and feeling lost and insignificant surrounded by so many people. I’m nervous about finding the best routes from point A to point B, about deciding which grocery store/hair salon/drugstore/auto shop to give my business, about paying city prices that are hiked up from the cost of living in Provo.
For a while I was concerned that my nerves and anxiety about all the changes coming my way and all the things I’ll have to learn and relearn meant that I’m not ready, that I’m not up to the challenge. But now I’m of the opinion that NOT being aware of and concerned about the adaptations I’ll have to make is the greater sign of not being ready. Yes, I’m nervous, and I have fears about the transition period, but at least I’m aware that these next few weeks (or months) aren’t going to be without their challenges. It’s going to be difficult and strange and likely overwhelming.
But it’s also going to be exciting and beautiful and eye-opening. I will be presented with opportunities to grow and stretch and learn that hitherto have not been accessible to me. I’m going to have experiences—good and bad—along the way that will shape who I am and mold my future.
I am about to embark on an adventure, and it’s going to be good.
I am about to embark on an adventure.
I find the term adventure to be appropriate, because it encapsulates a mixture of excitement, stress, and apprehension. No adventure is without its setbacks and scrabbles, but conversely, no adventure is without its triumphs and high points.
In 5 days, I will pack everything I own into a Toyota Corolla and drive it 895 miles to Boston, where I will then unpack all of my belongings into a house that I’ll be sharing with 4 women I’ve never before met. I haven’t been to Boston since I was 3 years old—so it’s basically as though I’ve never been there before—and I don’t know a soul in the entire city.
In 12 days, I will attend my first class as a graduate student at Emerson College, which is neatly situated in the heart of downtown Boston. It’s a small school—a fraction of the size of BYU, where I completed my undergrad—but in many ways, it looms far more daunting and overwhelming than BYU did when I first began my education there. The smaller student count could mean that it’ll be easier to find my niche (especially as I’ll be surrounded by other publishing-minded individuals with whom I’m bound to have something in common), but it could also equate to my having an even more difficult time making friends than I normally do. Fewer people total equals fewer people who won’t be put off by my awkward small talk and socially anxious ways.
The course work, ironically, is what I’m least nervous about. Yes, it’ll be difficult and demanding, but it’s what I want to do. At the risk of sounding trite, it’s what I feel deep in my gut that I’m meant to do. Honing and refining my skills as an editor and an aspiring publishing professional feels so right, so comfortable. Ask me in a few weeks if I still feel the same way, and I’m not sure the answer. But for now I’m content and confident.
What weighs on my mind is the challenge of acclimating to a city significantly (and I mean significantly) larger than any place I’ve lived before. I’m concerned about navigating public transportation, learning what areas of town are safe for a single woman to be at night (or by day), and feeling lost and insignificant surrounded by so many people. I’m nervous about finding the best routes from point A to point B, about deciding which grocery store/hair salon/drugstore/auto shop to give my business, about paying city prices that are hiked up from the cost of living in Provo.
For a while I was concerned that my nerves and anxiety about all the changes coming my way and all the things I’ll have to learn and relearn meant that I’m not ready, that I’m not up to the challenge. But now I’m of the opinion that NOT being aware of and concerned about the adaptations I’ll have to make is the greater sign of not being ready. Yes, I’m nervous, and I have fears about the transition period, but at least I’m aware that these next few weeks (or months) aren’t going to be without their challenges. It’s going to be difficult and strange and likely overwhelming.
But it’s also going to be exciting and beautiful and eye-opening. I will be presented with opportunities to grow and stretch and learn that hitherto have not been accessible to me. I’m going to have experiences—good and bad—along the way that will shape who I am and mold my future.
I am about to embark on an adventure, and it’s going to be good.
Monday, February 22, 2016
Ellipsis
Let me tell you some of my feelings regarding various punctuation marks.
(You say that sentences makes me sound like a freak. I say it makes me sound like an editor. Potayto, potahto.)
I like em-dashes. They're bold; they make a statement. They provide a clear separation between clauses, but in a way that still shows their unity and togetherness.
I like semi-colons for the same reason. Sure, they're a little less showy, but a well-placed semi-colon can be the difference between two choppy independent clauses hanging out in the same vicinity and two independent clauses that strengthen and support one another.
Commas are okay. Mundane and maybe a bit boring, but also necessary to maintain proper flow and division and all that jazz. Commas may not have the same artfulness as em-dashes and semi-colons, but they have their place, and they maintain structure, and I like them for that.
Ellipses are not my cup of tea. They're hard to use in a clever way, in my personal opinion, and they indicate trailing off or hesitance or uncertainty. They're kind of clunky and ugly, if punctuation marks can be ugly. (They can.)
If I were to consider my entire life one big long, Hemingway-inspired sentence, you'd find in it loads of commas and a healthy smattering of semi-colons, em-dashes, and other punctuation marks. But you'd only find one ellipsis, I think. The very condensed version of the sentence of my life might go something like this:
"Madeline came into the world scowling, and she scowled and smiled in equal measure while growing up in a loving family; she enjoyed learning and had a relatively successful run in high school, after which she went to BYU for four years to get a college education, and then she graduated; after graduation she had an amazing internship at Deseret Book and then . . . "
My life's metaphorical ellipsis is right now. There have been pauses in my life plan, yes, but never ones this pronounced or profound. None that truly felt like my plan was trailing off into oblivion. I understand that life isn't always fluid or constant, but this amount of hesitation in the story is disconcerting. It's as though the author penning my sentence has forgotten what comes next or has gotten bored with the story and wandered away for a bit.
It's hard being an ellipsis when it feels that everybody else just had a quick little comma or a more pronounced, but oh-so-exciting em-dash. It's hard watching my friends and family make future plans and realizing that I'm not as able to make plans for a few months from now, because I have no idea where I'll be living or what I'll be doing by then. I guess I kind of always thought that college would end with an em-dash—it'd be dramatic, it'd be a change, but it still clearly led somewhere exciting.
There are things I want to do with my life. I spent a long time in denial about what I really want to do professionally, and now that I've identified what my goals are, it's even more frustrating to be ellipsising (yes, I just made that up) through the part of my life that should be spent making those goals a reality. I want to work at a publishing house. I want to get a master's degree. I want to live in an big city and open myself up to novel opportunities. I want to travel. I want adventure.
But I'm not doing any of those things. I'm just treading water (I accidentally typed dreading instead of treading just now. Significant? Probably.) in the place I've been for almost five years, working at a job that doesn't get me any closer to the career I want, and generally being frustrated at the job market and the faceless hiring managers across the country who just don't seem to recognize that I'm awesome, goshdarnit, and that I'd be a great addition to their company.
I'm over this whole ellipsis thing. I'm so ready for my sentence to gain a little momentum. I just want some words thrown in there to get this puppy moving forward.
And I'm open to pretty much every punctuation mark known to man—just please, please, please, please no more ellipses.
(You say that sentences makes me sound like a freak. I say it makes me sound like an editor. Potayto, potahto.)
I like em-dashes. They're bold; they make a statement. They provide a clear separation between clauses, but in a way that still shows their unity and togetherness.
I like semi-colons for the same reason. Sure, they're a little less showy, but a well-placed semi-colon can be the difference between two choppy independent clauses hanging out in the same vicinity and two independent clauses that strengthen and support one another.
Commas are okay. Mundane and maybe a bit boring, but also necessary to maintain proper flow and division and all that jazz. Commas may not have the same artfulness as em-dashes and semi-colons, but they have their place, and they maintain structure, and I like them for that.
Ellipses are not my cup of tea. They're hard to use in a clever way, in my personal opinion, and they indicate trailing off or hesitance or uncertainty. They're kind of clunky and ugly, if punctuation marks can be ugly. (They can.)
If I were to consider my entire life one big long, Hemingway-inspired sentence, you'd find in it loads of commas and a healthy smattering of semi-colons, em-dashes, and other punctuation marks. But you'd only find one ellipsis, I think. The very condensed version of the sentence of my life might go something like this:
"Madeline came into the world scowling, and she scowled and smiled in equal measure while growing up in a loving family; she enjoyed learning and had a relatively successful run in high school, after which she went to BYU for four years to get a college education, and then she graduated; after graduation she had an amazing internship at Deseret Book and then . . . "
My life's metaphorical ellipsis is right now. There have been pauses in my life plan, yes, but never ones this pronounced or profound. None that truly felt like my plan was trailing off into oblivion. I understand that life isn't always fluid or constant, but this amount of hesitation in the story is disconcerting. It's as though the author penning my sentence has forgotten what comes next or has gotten bored with the story and wandered away for a bit.
It's hard being an ellipsis when it feels that everybody else just had a quick little comma or a more pronounced, but oh-so-exciting em-dash. It's hard watching my friends and family make future plans and realizing that I'm not as able to make plans for a few months from now, because I have no idea where I'll be living or what I'll be doing by then. I guess I kind of always thought that college would end with an em-dash—it'd be dramatic, it'd be a change, but it still clearly led somewhere exciting.
There are things I want to do with my life. I spent a long time in denial about what I really want to do professionally, and now that I've identified what my goals are, it's even more frustrating to be ellipsising (yes, I just made that up) through the part of my life that should be spent making those goals a reality. I want to work at a publishing house. I want to get a master's degree. I want to live in an big city and open myself up to novel opportunities. I want to travel. I want adventure.
But I'm not doing any of those things. I'm just treading water (I accidentally typed dreading instead of treading just now. Significant? Probably.) in the place I've been for almost five years, working at a job that doesn't get me any closer to the career I want, and generally being frustrated at the job market and the faceless hiring managers across the country who just don't seem to recognize that I'm awesome, goshdarnit, and that I'd be a great addition to their company.
I'm over this whole ellipsis thing. I'm so ready for my sentence to gain a little momentum. I just want some words thrown in there to get this puppy moving forward.
And I'm open to pretty much every punctuation mark known to man—just please, please, please, please no more ellipses.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
from the files of a frustrated job searcher
Company: Super Cool Publishers, Inc.
Position: Editorial Assistant
Employment Type: Full-time
Experience: Entry level
Super Cool Publishers, Inc., an innovative, cutting-edge publisher located in New York City, seeks a motivated, hardworking individual to fill the role of editorial assistant. We are a rapidly growing publishing house, thanks to the success of Where Did All the Wub-Wubs Go?, a whimsical picture book dubbed Children's Book of the Year by the Nebraska Society of Reading Mothers, and Pine Trees in Sarajevo, the spine-chilling winner of the Twistiest Plot Award given by the Mysterious Mystery Guild. The individual joining our team would have the opportunity to aid the editorial staff in publishing more top-notch books.
This position performs the following tasks:
- act as a liaison between author and publisher
- write catalog, jacket, and marketing material
- handle administrative tasks for editorial staff
- copy editing and manuscript preparation necessary for going to press
- find Atlantis
- hack into the encrypted government websites of all nations in Southeast Asia
- perform a soliloquy from Hamlet at weekly staff meetings (no repeats!)
- lower the cost of space exploration
Candidate Requirements:
- BA in English or similar subject
- outstanding grammar and writing skills
- knowledge of Microsoft Office
- HTML experience a plus
- PhD in Psychopathology
- 6–10 years experience in publishing, journalism, or similar
- letter of recommendation from Queen Elizabeth II
- photographic evidence of your being at the summit of Mt. Everest
- pilot's license
- Nobel Prize in Literature or Physics
- fluency in Inuit, Greek, ASL, Danish, and Quechua
Please send resume, cover letter, and salary requirements to youwontgetthisjob@supercoolpublishers.com. Applications without cover letter or salary requirements will not be considered.* Only qualified candidates will be contacted.**
Please no phone calls. Actually, don't even bother applying. Just go away, please.
* To be honest, applications WITH cover letter and salary requirements probably won't be considered either
**This doesn't include you
Position: Editorial Assistant
Employment Type: Full-time
Experience: Entry level
Super Cool Publishers, Inc., an innovative, cutting-edge publisher located in New York City, seeks a motivated, hardworking individual to fill the role of editorial assistant. We are a rapidly growing publishing house, thanks to the success of Where Did All the Wub-Wubs Go?, a whimsical picture book dubbed Children's Book of the Year by the Nebraska Society of Reading Mothers, and Pine Trees in Sarajevo, the spine-chilling winner of the Twistiest Plot Award given by the Mysterious Mystery Guild. The individual joining our team would have the opportunity to aid the editorial staff in publishing more top-notch books.
This position performs the following tasks:
- act as a liaison between author and publisher
- write catalog, jacket, and marketing material
- handle administrative tasks for editorial staff
- copy editing and manuscript preparation necessary for going to press
- find Atlantis
- hack into the encrypted government websites of all nations in Southeast Asia
- perform a soliloquy from Hamlet at weekly staff meetings (no repeats!)
- lower the cost of space exploration
Candidate Requirements:
- BA in English or similar subject
- outstanding grammar and writing skills
- knowledge of Microsoft Office
- HTML experience a plus
- PhD in Psychopathology
- 6–10 years experience in publishing, journalism, or similar
- letter of recommendation from Queen Elizabeth II
- photographic evidence of your being at the summit of Mt. Everest
- pilot's license
- Nobel Prize in Literature or Physics
- fluency in Inuit, Greek, ASL, Danish, and Quechua
Please send resume, cover letter, and salary requirements to youwontgetthisjob@supercoolpublishers.com. Applications without cover letter or salary requirements will not be considered.* Only qualified candidates will be contacted.**
Please no phone calls. Actually, don't even bother applying. Just go away, please.
* To be honest, applications WITH cover letter and salary requirements probably won't be considered either
**This doesn't include you
Monday, July 27, 2015
my friend julian
First off, Julian isn't really my friend. He's not even a real person. Okay, well he is, but I don't know him, and his name probably isn't Julian. It's confusing.
Let me tell you what I know about Julian:
Julian does not like snacks.
Julian does not value personal hygiene.
Julian does not have a need for stylish tan flats.
Julian does not have chapped lips.
Julian does not need a keychain bottle opener that says "peace love accordion."
Julian does not like German crosswalk signal keychains.
Julian does not care much for keychains or car keys in general.
Julian does not think that my nine-year-old friend is a good artist.
Julian does not own battery-operated electronics.
Julian does like Chili's.
Julian does like the color blue.
Julian does frequent gas stations.
Julian does think it's okay to steal.
Julian does have possession of my wallet.
Julian stole my wallet on Saturday. He most likely nabbed it out of my purse at Temple Square while I was taking pictures for my best friend's wedding. And the location and the timing make me almost just as mad as the fact that he took it in the first place.
When we first began to take pictures, I put my purse down against the temple (it was literally touching the House of God) and took my place in the first round of pictures. While family pictures were being taken, I noticed that most of the wedding party had congregated in a different place than where my purse was, so I initially was going to move my purse closer to them. But then I saw that my purse had been hidden beneath a mountain of other handbags, backpacks, and diaper bags, so I thought it would be just fine there. Plus, I tend to assume that people visiting the temple grounds are NOT there to steal from just-out-of-college interns, and it didn't even cross my mind that somebody might take my things.
But Julian took it anyway.
And now is the part that necessitates me explaining why I've named this nameless, faceless thief, lest y'all think I'm completely insane.
I was not a happy camper when I realized that my wallet had most definitely been stolen. I'd been operating under the assumption that it had simply fallen out of my purse at some point. (Again, I tend to assume that most people aren't thieves.) But then when I saw charges on my account that I definitely didn't make, I was livid. I couldn't believe that somebody would do something like this and inflict such a negative, stressful ending on such an amazingly happy day that was supposed to be a celebration of love and family and togetherness and eternal marriage.
And in my anger, I was so tempted to hate the person who had done this to me and to wish terrible things upon him or her. But after calming myself a bit, I knew that I needed to take a more Christlike approach to this. I knew that no matter the awful thing this thief did to me, I had to forgive him or her and recognize that he/she was a child of God just like I am.
So I gave the thief a name and a backstory. I called him Julian and decided that life has not been kind to him lately. He's been down on his luck and out of money and very hungry. He probably has a family to provide for. So when he saw the opportunity to buy some food and take care of some living expenses, he took it. And though this is the most optimistic (and probably most unrealistic) version of events I could have come up with, I need to make myself believe that it's true. I need to humanize this thief so that I wasn't filled with hate and bitterness and anger. I need to forgive Julian.
Naturally, I'm still upset about the whole ordeal. I'm upset that he took my money and is causing so much stress. I'm upset that I can't drive legally and that I'm going to have to get a new drivers license. I'm upset that I am having to borrow money from my brother so that I can put gas in the car and pay for my train tickets to get to work. I'm upset that Julian could very easily steal my identity and get credit cards in my name. (I forgot to take my Social Security card out of my wallet after providing it as ID for my new job; normally I'm not dumb enough to carry it around with me like that.) I'm upset that my temple recommend is gone. I'm upset that my collection of ticket stubs is gone. (I'm sentimental, okay?) I'm upset that I have to buy a new wallet, because I really liked that one, and it was fairly new.
It's just an upsetting situation. But humanizing Julian and trying to give him the benefit of the doubt is helping me to focus on the things I can do to fix it. I cancelled my debit card, and a new one is on the way. I made a list of the organizations I need to call to iron out my drivers license-less-ness and missing Social Security card and other minor debacles Julian caused. I talked to my parents to make sure I wasn't leaving anything out.
And I keep praying that I will be able to forgive Julian and put this behind me. I imagine it will take some time for me to truly forgive him, but I'll keep praying for that blessing.
And then I'll pray some more.
Let me tell you what I know about Julian:
Julian does not like snacks.
Julian does not value personal hygiene.
Julian does not have a need for stylish tan flats.
Julian does not have chapped lips.
Julian does not need a keychain bottle opener that says "peace love accordion."
Julian does not like German crosswalk signal keychains.
Julian does not care much for keychains or car keys in general.
Julian does not think that my nine-year-old friend is a good artist.
Julian does not own battery-operated electronics.
Julian does like Chili's.
Julian does like the color blue.
Julian does frequent gas stations.
Julian does think it's okay to steal.
Julian does have possession of my wallet.
Julian stole my wallet on Saturday. He most likely nabbed it out of my purse at Temple Square while I was taking pictures for my best friend's wedding. And the location and the timing make me almost just as mad as the fact that he took it in the first place.
When we first began to take pictures, I put my purse down against the temple (it was literally touching the House of God) and took my place in the first round of pictures. While family pictures were being taken, I noticed that most of the wedding party had congregated in a different place than where my purse was, so I initially was going to move my purse closer to them. But then I saw that my purse had been hidden beneath a mountain of other handbags, backpacks, and diaper bags, so I thought it would be just fine there. Plus, I tend to assume that people visiting the temple grounds are NOT there to steal from just-out-of-college interns, and it didn't even cross my mind that somebody might take my things.
But Julian took it anyway.
And now is the part that necessitates me explaining why I've named this nameless, faceless thief, lest y'all think I'm completely insane.
I was not a happy camper when I realized that my wallet had most definitely been stolen. I'd been operating under the assumption that it had simply fallen out of my purse at some point. (Again, I tend to assume that most people aren't thieves.) But then when I saw charges on my account that I definitely didn't make, I was livid. I couldn't believe that somebody would do something like this and inflict such a negative, stressful ending on such an amazingly happy day that was supposed to be a celebration of love and family and togetherness and eternal marriage.
And in my anger, I was so tempted to hate the person who had done this to me and to wish terrible things upon him or her. But after calming myself a bit, I knew that I needed to take a more Christlike approach to this. I knew that no matter the awful thing this thief did to me, I had to forgive him or her and recognize that he/she was a child of God just like I am.
So I gave the thief a name and a backstory. I called him Julian and decided that life has not been kind to him lately. He's been down on his luck and out of money and very hungry. He probably has a family to provide for. So when he saw the opportunity to buy some food and take care of some living expenses, he took it. And though this is the most optimistic (and probably most unrealistic) version of events I could have come up with, I need to make myself believe that it's true. I need to humanize this thief so that I wasn't filled with hate and bitterness and anger. I need to forgive Julian.
Naturally, I'm still upset about the whole ordeal. I'm upset that he took my money and is causing so much stress. I'm upset that I can't drive legally and that I'm going to have to get a new drivers license. I'm upset that I am having to borrow money from my brother so that I can put gas in the car and pay for my train tickets to get to work. I'm upset that Julian could very easily steal my identity and get credit cards in my name. (I forgot to take my Social Security card out of my wallet after providing it as ID for my new job; normally I'm not dumb enough to carry it around with me like that.) I'm upset that my temple recommend is gone. I'm upset that my collection of ticket stubs is gone. (I'm sentimental, okay?) I'm upset that I have to buy a new wallet, because I really liked that one, and it was fairly new.
It's just an upsetting situation. But humanizing Julian and trying to give him the benefit of the doubt is helping me to focus on the things I can do to fix it. I cancelled my debit card, and a new one is on the way. I made a list of the organizations I need to call to iron out my drivers license-less-ness and missing Social Security card and other minor debacles Julian caused. I talked to my parents to make sure I wasn't leaving anything out.
And I keep praying that I will be able to forgive Julian and put this behind me. I imagine it will take some time for me to truly forgive him, but I'll keep praying for that blessing.
And then I'll pray some more.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
things my internship has taught me about adulting
I made it through the first two weeks, and I'm basically running the place.
I jest.
But I was surprised about how many little tidbits I have picked up on regarding being a real-live adult from my shortreign time at Deseret Book.
Sitting at a Desk for 8+ Hours
It's HARD. whinewhinewhinewhinewhine. By the end of the day, I am SO stir crazy and restless that it's not even funny. Let me tell you, the human spirit (and body, for that matter) was not made to sit in a cubicle for hours on end. Yet that's what most of us do...interesting. Anyway, I welcome the (albeit short) walk to the Trax stop and then from the Trax to the FrontRunner when it's time to go home. It's like heaven.
Also, unless you have ballerina-perfect posture (which I most certainly do not), you'd better believe that your back, neck, and shoulders will be tense and sore by the end of the day. Especially when you're an editor and have a tendency to hunch as low as possible over the manuscript you're working on.
Lunch Breaks
Surprisingly, the thing that usually drives me to take my lunch break is NOT hunger—it's restlessness. Lunchtime means that I can go walk around and get some blood pumping through my veins. After spending so much time on my tush, I prefer to spend more of my break taking a lap or two around Temple Square or just wandering Downtown SLC. Food is an afterthought. Because food is available at my desk. Walking around is not.
Isolation
I work alone. Like completely alone. There are two desks right next to mine (one that is actually attached to mine and isn't even a separate cubicle) that are completely empty. So I pretty much go hours and hours at a time without any sort of human contact. And that's strange. IT can be kind of lonely, really, because no longer have work friends. I'm sure that it's not like that for all adults in offices, but given that I'm an intern who is at least five years younger than the next youngest employee (who in turn is 10+ years younger than the majority of the team), I'm kind of the odd man out. All my coworkers are married, most have kids, and some even have grandkids. They've all been working in the professional world for years now, and I'm just getting my feet wet. So, yeah, it can be kind of lonely. But it's worth it. Having few distractions has taught me a lot about how to be more focused and to have a more self-driven work ethic, which are both lessons that I know will come in handy in any job I ever have in the future.
Heavy Lifting
Anybody who says that office work is never physically taxing has obviously never worked as an editor at a publishing company. Just in the two weeks I've worked here, I've had to lug around two copies of a ridiculously large manuscript TWICE. We're talking 1,770 pages here. I mean, I know I'm a weakling and all, but that's pretty dang hefty.
Consistency
Despite all the changes in my life lately, I've found that transitioning into adulting hasn't been as much of a slap in the face as I was expecting. I'm still me. I still edit. I still have the urge to crawl under my desk and take a quick nap in the early afternoon. (Don't worry: I've never given in to that urge.) I still relish the opportunity to make lists or charts or color code things. It's still kind of weird, but I think I may be cut out for this adulting thing after all. Just give me a little more time.
I jest.
But I was surprised about how many little tidbits I have picked up on regarding being a real-live adult from my short
Sitting at a Desk for 8+ Hours
It's HARD. whinewhinewhinewhinewhine. By the end of the day, I am SO stir crazy and restless that it's not even funny. Let me tell you, the human spirit (and body, for that matter) was not made to sit in a cubicle for hours on end. Yet that's what most of us do...interesting. Anyway, I welcome the (albeit short) walk to the Trax stop and then from the Trax to the FrontRunner when it's time to go home. It's like heaven.
Also, unless you have ballerina-perfect posture (which I most certainly do not), you'd better believe that your back, neck, and shoulders will be tense and sore by the end of the day. Especially when you're an editor and have a tendency to hunch as low as possible over the manuscript you're working on.
Lunch Breaks
Surprisingly, the thing that usually drives me to take my lunch break is NOT hunger—it's restlessness. Lunchtime means that I can go walk around and get some blood pumping through my veins. After spending so much time on my tush, I prefer to spend more of my break taking a lap or two around Temple Square or just wandering Downtown SLC. Food is an afterthought. Because food is available at my desk. Walking around is not.
Isolation
I work alone. Like completely alone. There are two desks right next to mine (one that is actually attached to mine and isn't even a separate cubicle) that are completely empty. So I pretty much go hours and hours at a time without any sort of human contact. And that's strange. IT can be kind of lonely, really, because no longer have work friends. I'm sure that it's not like that for all adults in offices, but given that I'm an intern who is at least five years younger than the next youngest employee (who in turn is 10+ years younger than the majority of the team), I'm kind of the odd man out. All my coworkers are married, most have kids, and some even have grandkids. They've all been working in the professional world for years now, and I'm just getting my feet wet. So, yeah, it can be kind of lonely. But it's worth it. Having few distractions has taught me a lot about how to be more focused and to have a more self-driven work ethic, which are both lessons that I know will come in handy in any job I ever have in the future.
Heavy Lifting
Anybody who says that office work is never physically taxing has obviously never worked as an editor at a publishing company. Just in the two weeks I've worked here, I've had to lug around two copies of a ridiculously large manuscript TWICE. We're talking 1,770 pages here. I mean, I know I'm a weakling and all, but that's pretty dang hefty.
Consistency
Despite all the changes in my life lately, I've found that transitioning into adulting hasn't been as much of a slap in the face as I was expecting. I'm still me. I still edit. I still have the urge to crawl under my desk and take a quick nap in the early afternoon. (Don't worry: I've never given in to that urge.) I still relish the opportunity to make lists or charts or color code things. It's still kind of weird, but I think I may be cut out for this adulting thing after all. Just give me a little more time.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
commuter diaries: velcro for grownups
Due to the location of my internship, I now commute to Salt Lake City via public transportation. And with public transportation comes the smelly seatmate, the man with no sense of boundaries, the people who've lived extraordinary lives, and everyone inbetween. These are their stories.
The Trax Blue Line was rather crowded when I boarded on my way home from work. I sat in an empty seat surrounded by a cluster of people, who, due to the mixture of forward facing and sideways facing seats, formed a neat little circle.
As the train lurched forward, I noticed the man closest to me staring quite fixedly at my legs. I was both uncomfortable and confused; uncomfortable because a complete stranger was staring pointedly at my legs and confused because I was wearing a flowy calf length skirt, so there wasn't much to see anyway. Also, my legs are so pale they're practically translucent. So there's that.
After a few more moments of me uncomfortably trying to both shift my skirt so it covered as much skin as possible and pretending that I didn't notice the man's stare, he spoke. "I gotta question: How's them stay on?"
I looked up from my phone, completely baffled and having no idea whatsoever what he was talking about. A few awkward seconds passed before I realized he was pointing at my shoes: a pair of oxfords that had what appeared to be laces.
"Them don't tie," the man said. "An' so I was wonderin', how's them stay on if them don't tie?"
Finally I understood. "Oh," I said, "they're not really laces. They're elastic." I reached down and tweaked one of the "laces" to demonstrate their springiness.
"Oh," he murmured thoughtfully. "Elastic."
"Yeah...it's like velcro for grownups."
The man guffawed. "Velcro for grownups!" He repeated. "I like that. It's funny." He paused for another moment and then pointed to the shoes of the young business man opposite him. "His tie!" The business man, too, was wearing oxfords, but his had honest to goodness shoe laces and were tied neatly.
The business man looked at his shoes. "Yeah, mine do tie," he agreed, shooting an amused grin my way.
Shoe Guy babbled on, "So because his tied and all, I was lookin' at your shoes and thinkin', how's them stay on if them don't tie?" He chuckled to himself as if this were the most entertaining conversation he'd ever had.
"Well, they stay on just fine," I assured him. "And they're quite comfortable."
"They look very sophisticated," the business man said with a laugh. "Even if they don't tie."
I thanked him for the compliment and settled back into my seat, murmuring my consent as the Shoe Guy began a new rampage about how dangerous it is for women to walk in stilettos.
The Trax Blue Line was rather crowded when I boarded on my way home from work. I sat in an empty seat surrounded by a cluster of people, who, due to the mixture of forward facing and sideways facing seats, formed a neat little circle.
As the train lurched forward, I noticed the man closest to me staring quite fixedly at my legs. I was both uncomfortable and confused; uncomfortable because a complete stranger was staring pointedly at my legs and confused because I was wearing a flowy calf length skirt, so there wasn't much to see anyway. Also, my legs are so pale they're practically translucent. So there's that.
After a few more moments of me uncomfortably trying to both shift my skirt so it covered as much skin as possible and pretending that I didn't notice the man's stare, he spoke. "I gotta question: How's them stay on?"
I looked up from my phone, completely baffled and having no idea whatsoever what he was talking about. A few awkward seconds passed before I realized he was pointing at my shoes: a pair of oxfords that had what appeared to be laces.
"Them don't tie," the man said. "An' so I was wonderin', how's them stay on if them don't tie?"
Finally I understood. "Oh," I said, "they're not really laces. They're elastic." I reached down and tweaked one of the "laces" to demonstrate their springiness.
"Oh," he murmured thoughtfully. "Elastic."
"Yeah...it's like velcro for grownups."
The man guffawed. "Velcro for grownups!" He repeated. "I like that. It's funny." He paused for another moment and then pointed to the shoes of the young business man opposite him. "His tie!" The business man, too, was wearing oxfords, but his had honest to goodness shoe laces and were tied neatly.
The business man looked at his shoes. "Yeah, mine do tie," he agreed, shooting an amused grin my way.
Shoe Guy babbled on, "So because his tied and all, I was lookin' at your shoes and thinkin', how's them stay on if them don't tie?" He chuckled to himself as if this were the most entertaining conversation he'd ever had.
"Well, they stay on just fine," I assured him. "And they're quite comfortable."
"They look very sophisticated," the business man said with a laugh. "Even if they don't tie."
I thanked him for the compliment and settled back into my seat, murmuring my consent as the Shoe Guy began a new rampage about how dangerous it is for women to walk in stilettos.
Monday, June 22, 2015
endings & beginnings & ramblings
Hey guys. You're now reading the blog of an official, for real, actual college grad. I've been kind of hovering in limbo for the past two months, but limbo time is over, my friends. I'm in real life now.
On Friday, I said goodbye to my coworkers and my BYUtv job. I knew it was going to be hard for me emotionally, but I didn't expect the huge wave of oh-my-lanta-what-is-happening-my-whole-life-is-a-dark-hazy-mist that overcame me as I (tearfully) left the building for my last time. It was just sad. I love that job. I love my coworkers. I love the weird inside jokes and sayings that induce crazy fits of laughter while onlookers debate as to whether they should call a psychiatrist for us. It was the perfect student job and it was the perfect job to make me fall even more in love with editing.
So I guess I should have realized that saying goodbye would be so hard.
Luckily, I had something amazing around the corner. I've been excited for my new internship for months now, but during the last couple of weeks, a lot of fear and trepidation crept in and almost squashed all the excitement out of me. I considered every single terrible thing that could happen in relation to the job (most of them involving public transportation. #travelanxiety) and convinced myself that I was going to be a huge disappointment and that they'd want to get rid of me pronto.
Well, after one day, I can safely say that (so far) none of my awful situations have come to pass. And thus far they seem pretty happy to have an intern, as the workload is pretty monumental right now. I guess I'll give them some time to decide if they are happy that the intern is me.
On my end, things are pretty peachy. I spent the majority of my day reading a dang good historical fiction novel and inputting edits for said novel. AND I GOT PAID FOR IT. I almost didn't want to go home, but then my stomach reminded me that I was hungry, and I remembered that the book would still be waiting for me to comb through it in the morning. So I left.
And public transportation isn't half bad, I've found. I'm pretty much a master at navigating Salt Lake City via Trax now. And by that, I mean that I can get from the FrontRunner station to work and back. Baby steps, my friends. Baby steps.
I'm not exactly an outgoing person, but after one day, I've already realized that commuting with a bunch of strangers introduces you to some goshdarn cool people. My morning FrontRunner ride up to Salt Lake taught me that a majority of folks traveling north from Utah County teeter precariously on the edge of spiffily well-dressed and hipster. And these people (spifsters?) come in all ages.
On the way home, a rather attractive guy about my age struck up a conversation with me, and I was like "SCORE!" Mostly because many of my friends have decided that I'm going to meet the man of my dreams on my commute, and I let that go to my head. Our conversation was going swimmingly until about 15 minutes into it when he dropped the F Word. NO NOT THAT ONE. Get your mind out of the gutter, people. Fiancee. He mentioned his fiancee.
I should have known it was too good to be true. But in all actuality, he was a pretty swell guy, and I appreciated the fact that he wasn't one of those guys who won't even have a commuter conversation with somebody because she happens to be a girl approximately his age. And he was a really cool person, and I truly enjoyed chatting with him as our train sped south. (Also he told me how he proposed, and it was so dang cute, and I'm just a sucker for a good proposal story)
But of all the people I met today—and between a new job, the sister missionaries at Temple Square, and public transportation, there were quite a few—my favorite was the elderly UTA employee who was on the FrontRunner on my way home. He was an Irish-born, German raised man who speaks English as a third language, although you'd never guess that. When he spoke, he sounded mostly German, but there was a curious lilt in his voice that I've never heard in the voice of a German before.
After World War II, he and his family were trapped under Communist rule in East Berlin, which was when he learned Russian (Russian being his second language after German). His family had converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints just before the war, and after the war was over, the Church did its best to take care of the members suffering in East Germany. His father was the branch president, so he was on the receiving end of the clothes and food and other supplies the Church sent to the area. In the words of my Irish-German friend, "the Commies didn't like that." The local authorities got more and more frustrated with the influx of goods sent to the Mormons and repeatedly threatened to through his father in jail. When the threats got more serious and dangerous, the family made a run for it. The escaped safely into West Germany, where they tried to start a new life.
Soon, though, the missionaries who'd introduced the family to the gospel reconnected with them and urged them to move to America. Once again, they uprooted their lives and moved to the United States. I've never heard somebody express such sincere gratitude for the freedoms that Americans enjoy before. He acknowledged that the country has its problems, as all countries do, but that having been on the other side and having lived so many years in fear and oppression and terrible conditions, he is grateful for the freedom and peace he's enjoyed since moving to the United States.
"Every night," he told me, "I thank Heavenly Father for a warm bed to sleep in and clean water to drink and a nice breakfast waiting for me in the morning. So many people don't have those things, so I make sure that God knows I'm grateful that I do."
He excitedly told me about the sign he has hanging in his office at home that proclaims that Every Day Is a Gift From God. "Isn't it true, though?" He exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.
And it's true. Every day is a gift. And I, for one, am grateful for that reminder.
So that's where I am, friends. My new job is pretty dang sweet. I miss my old coworkers, and it's strange to be working so autonomously. At BYUtv I worked pretty independently, but there were always people around. I think that this seclusion is going to take some getting used to, but I think that if that's the most negative thing about my job thus far, I'll be just golden. It's not like I'm an introvert who enjoys alone time or anything. :)
Aaaand, I'm out.
On Friday, I said goodbye to my coworkers and my BYUtv job. I knew it was going to be hard for me emotionally, but I didn't expect the huge wave of oh-my-lanta-what-is-happening-my-whole-life-is-a-dark-hazy-mist that overcame me as I (tearfully) left the building for my last time. It was just sad. I love that job. I love my coworkers. I love the weird inside jokes and sayings that induce crazy fits of laughter while onlookers debate as to whether they should call a psychiatrist for us. It was the perfect student job and it was the perfect job to make me fall even more in love with editing.
So I guess I should have realized that saying goodbye would be so hard.
Luckily, I had something amazing around the corner. I've been excited for my new internship for months now, but during the last couple of weeks, a lot of fear and trepidation crept in and almost squashed all the excitement out of me. I considered every single terrible thing that could happen in relation to the job (most of them involving public transportation. #travelanxiety) and convinced myself that I was going to be a huge disappointment and that they'd want to get rid of me pronto.
Well, after one day, I can safely say that (so far) none of my awful situations have come to pass. And thus far they seem pretty happy to have an intern, as the workload is pretty monumental right now. I guess I'll give them some time to decide if they are happy that the intern is me.
On my end, things are pretty peachy. I spent the majority of my day reading a dang good historical fiction novel and inputting edits for said novel. AND I GOT PAID FOR IT. I almost didn't want to go home, but then my stomach reminded me that I was hungry, and I remembered that the book would still be waiting for me to comb through it in the morning. So I left.
And public transportation isn't half bad, I've found. I'm pretty much a master at navigating Salt Lake City via Trax now. And by that, I mean that I can get from the FrontRunner station to work and back. Baby steps, my friends. Baby steps.
I'm not exactly an outgoing person, but after one day, I've already realized that commuting with a bunch of strangers introduces you to some goshdarn cool people. My morning FrontRunner ride up to Salt Lake taught me that a majority of folks traveling north from Utah County teeter precariously on the edge of spiffily well-dressed and hipster. And these people (spifsters?) come in all ages.
On the way home, a rather attractive guy about my age struck up a conversation with me, and I was like "SCORE!" Mostly because many of my friends have decided that I'm going to meet the man of my dreams on my commute, and I let that go to my head. Our conversation was going swimmingly until about 15 minutes into it when he dropped the F Word. NO NOT THAT ONE. Get your mind out of the gutter, people. Fiancee. He mentioned his fiancee.
I should have known it was too good to be true. But in all actuality, he was a pretty swell guy, and I appreciated the fact that he wasn't one of those guys who won't even have a commuter conversation with somebody because she happens to be a girl approximately his age. And he was a really cool person, and I truly enjoyed chatting with him as our train sped south. (Also he told me how he proposed, and it was so dang cute, and I'm just a sucker for a good proposal story)
But of all the people I met today—and between a new job, the sister missionaries at Temple Square, and public transportation, there were quite a few—my favorite was the elderly UTA employee who was on the FrontRunner on my way home. He was an Irish-born, German raised man who speaks English as a third language, although you'd never guess that. When he spoke, he sounded mostly German, but there was a curious lilt in his voice that I've never heard in the voice of a German before.
After World War II, he and his family were trapped under Communist rule in East Berlin, which was when he learned Russian (Russian being his second language after German). His family had converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints just before the war, and after the war was over, the Church did its best to take care of the members suffering in East Germany. His father was the branch president, so he was on the receiving end of the clothes and food and other supplies the Church sent to the area. In the words of my Irish-German friend, "the Commies didn't like that." The local authorities got more and more frustrated with the influx of goods sent to the Mormons and repeatedly threatened to through his father in jail. When the threats got more serious and dangerous, the family made a run for it. The escaped safely into West Germany, where they tried to start a new life.
Soon, though, the missionaries who'd introduced the family to the gospel reconnected with them and urged them to move to America. Once again, they uprooted their lives and moved to the United States. I've never heard somebody express such sincere gratitude for the freedoms that Americans enjoy before. He acknowledged that the country has its problems, as all countries do, but that having been on the other side and having lived so many years in fear and oppression and terrible conditions, he is grateful for the freedom and peace he's enjoyed since moving to the United States.
"Every night," he told me, "I thank Heavenly Father for a warm bed to sleep in and clean water to drink and a nice breakfast waiting for me in the morning. So many people don't have those things, so I make sure that God knows I'm grateful that I do."
He excitedly told me about the sign he has hanging in his office at home that proclaims that Every Day Is a Gift From God. "Isn't it true, though?" He exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.
And it's true. Every day is a gift. And I, for one, am grateful for that reminder.
So that's where I am, friends. My new job is pretty dang sweet. I miss my old coworkers, and it's strange to be working so autonomously. At BYUtv I worked pretty independently, but there were always people around. I think that this seclusion is going to take some getting used to, but I think that if that's the most negative thing about my job thus far, I'll be just golden. It's not like I'm an introvert who enjoys alone time or anything. :)
Aaaand, I'm out.
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