show me the meaning

Let's flashback to Valentine's Day, shall we?

There I was on the Day of Love, the only calm person in Smith's among the frenzied mass of last minute Valentine's shoppers. I made the mistake of venturing too close to the balloon/chocolate/flower epicenter of the store and got attacked by the strings of helium balloons covering the ceiling. I made a wide berth around that particular area after that.

You see, I wasn't at the grocery store to get something special for a special someone. I was there to get some forgotten ingredients for the bakeathon I had planned for the rest of the day and (somewhat ironically) to pick up a few last minute things for my roommate's boyfriend. FROM HER, guys. I ain't no home wrecker. Jess just forgot about getting a bag and such, so since she had to take a test, and I was already going to the store, I volunteered to help a sista out.

In summary: I was at the grocery store to get supplies for my #foreveralone Valentine's Day (which I was actually rather thrilled about, to be honest...) and to help my roommate have the perfectly romantic Valentine's Day with her new BF.

My basket was filled with sprinkles and powdered sugar and other baking essentials, and I was cutting through the frozen foods aisle to get to the Valentine's Day wrapping supplies when Backstreet Boys began to play. Normally this would have thrilled me to no end, but this time it stopped me dead in my tracks. I legitimately cocked my head to make sure I wasn't hearing things. I wasn't. Smith's was playing "Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely" as I was shopping for #foreveralone V-Day and my roommate's V-Day.

After a "SERIOUSLY, UNIVERSE??" moment, I began to laugh. Right there next to the frozen TV dinners. People walked by most likely asking themselves why this crazy twenty-something was laughing next to frozen lasagna holding a basket of baking items. After a minute, I appreciated the irony of the situation and went about the rest of my shopping.


I tell you this story because for what feels like the 9,873rd time, Pandora has decided to play "Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely" on my '90s pop radio station. I hadn't heard that song in YEARS and now it's everywhere. It's at the grocery store. It's on during the '90s flashbacks segments on the radio. And Pandora plays it over and over and over.  (and over and over and over)

I love me some Backstreet Boys, universe, but I think enough is enough. Care to stop reminding me that my bestie/roomie is abandoning me in less than a month so she can tie the knot? Or that my Randa is soon going to be all grown up and wifey? Or that countless other friends have rings on their fingers or are about to have rings on their fingers? MESSAGE RECEIVED, mmkay?

I promise I'm not anti-marriage. I love weddings, and I'm just tickled pink to get to be a part of so much happiness and love. Few things make me happier than seeing the people I love happy. Truly. But, dear universe (*cough* and BYU culture *cough*) it IS possible to be happy without a gleaming solitaire on my left hand. Promise.

So I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop making being single sound like it's equivalent to permanent residence in the seventh circle of Hell. Got it? kthanksbye.


PS. Here is a picture of a mere fraction of the tasty baked goods I ended my V-Day with. Not to brag, but I consider my bakeathon a resounding success.

the view from monday

This morning I had to stop on the way to work to buy some bandaids. This was somewhat humorous for me, because I had a conversation a few days ago about how when you run out of bandaids, you never remember to buy more until you really needed them. And thanks to an unfortunate run-in with a broken plastic storage tub last week, I found myself bandaidless.

The real question, I suppose, is why I needed the bandaids in the first place. So I'll tell you. I like to call this story Why You Shouldn't Go Running on Monday Mornings. 

This morning I rolled out of bed and still half asleep, began what was supposed to be a nice, liesurely jog. Barely a half a mile into my run, a combination of sleepiness, lack of attention, and uneven pavement led to quite the face plant on the concrete. It was one of those moments when I swear the world turned to slow-mo for a minute; I had plenty of time to anticipate my collision with the pavement after feeling my foot catch on a raised portion of sidewalk. In reality, the whole thing happened in mere seconds, but it definitely didn't feel that way. 

After sending a disgruntled Seriously?? to the cosmos, I gingerly peeled myself off the ground and assessed my injuries. I somehow managed to bruise the palm of my right hand AND scrape up the back of the same hand. Not sure exactly how that happened. My right elbow was the bloodiest (and the main reason I needed the bandaids) and feels pretty tender. I'm also sporting some pretty impressive bruising on my right hip and left knee. My phone case took a bit of a beating too (I was holding my phone when I fell—I really need to get an armband), but luckily my actual phone is a-ok. 

At this point, I seriously considered just going back home to nurse my "wounds." But then I realized that I was being completely ridiculous and that I was still 100% capable of finishing my run, even if I am embarrassingly clumsy. So I kept going, and needless to say, I was definitely awake from that point on. 

So yeah. That's why you shouldn't go on runs on Monday mornings. Or maybe why I should pay more attention to where I'm running. Or maybe why I should find a way to be less accident prone. 

But to keep from feeling sorry for myself, let's play a game of It Could Have Been Worse. 

1. Somebody could have seen me trip. (I realize I'm telling the whole story, but I find telling the story rather funny; I would have found it significantly less funny if somebody had witnessed my ever-so-graceful fall and seen me sprawled on the concrete.)

2. I could have been wearing shorts and a t-shirt, in which case I'm sure I would have needed more bandaids than I did. This is the only time I've ever been grateful that it was cold when I went for a run, and it will probably be the last. (Also, I'm still trying to figure out how my elbow got so scraped up when I was wearing long sleeves and the sleeve of my jacket was left completely unharmed.)

3. My phone could have gotten smashed. I will need to get a new phone soonish (mine is seriously struggling), but I don't quite have the cha-ching that will take just yet.

4. [Vanity speaking here] I could have landed on my face. Just think of the scarring/bruising/breaking of the nose that could have resulted in.

5. I could have sustained an injury that would slow down/halt my 10K training.

6. A rabid wolf could have emerged from the backyard of one of the nearby houses while I was on the ground and bitten me. (Thank goodness for Michael Scott's Dunder Mifflin Scranton Meredith Palmer Celebrity Rabies Awareness Pro-Am Fun Run Race for the Cure, amiright?)

And that's where I stop myself before I get ridiculous. 

Moral of the Story: Sometimes unfortunate things happen when you're trying to do good things, but you just gotta laugh it off and buy some OJ when you pick up first-aid supplies, and then everything will be okay. 

Happy Monday, folks. May your body stay in the upright position except for when you choose to lay down.

a tale of two parking spots

The following vignette illustrates how my day is going.

But first, some key background facts:

1. I am kind of really anal about parking straight. It MUST be done. 

2. I am a fairly recent convert to backing in instead of pulling in when parking. My backing in skills were pretty much nonexistent until a few months ago, because I'd just really never bothered to hone them. I now consider myself more-than-competent at backing in. 

So there I was, casually driving to work and minding my own business. The fact that I was on my way to work at all was a miracle because I was grumpy and tired and just wanted to stay in bed all day. The knowledge that we have quite the impressive stash of Reese's Cups at the office was really the only thing that motivated me to get ready and go. (And the whole I-need-money-and-I-like-this-job thing. But it was mostly the Reese's Cups.) And on top of my I-don't-want-to-move attitude, I had to search for my keys for a frustratingly long time. (They had somehow fallen behind my bed. Don't ask.) 

When I pulled into the parking lot, I thought that things were looking up. I found a primo spot, and was quick to back in lest any other parking spot searcher zoom in and take it. So I backed in. And I was crooked. So I straightened out. And I was still crooked. So I straightened out again. And again. And again. AND I WAS STILL CROOKED. 

At this point, I was exceptionally frustrated. I NEEDED to be parked straight, and I knew that I wasn't that incompetent when it comes to parking. Just as I was about to attempt once again to straighten out I glanced over and actually looked at the line instead of the car next to me, which I'd been using as an anchor point. 

And that's when I realized that the car next to me was parked crooked. And since that was the only point of reference I'd been using, every time I pulled in straight, I thought I was crooked. But I wasn't.

And then I just took a minute to sit in my car and balk in my ridiculousness before gathering my things, getting out of the car, and going in to work. 

how to have a heart attack: a step-by-step guide

1. Wake up and notice that roommate's bed is empty.
2. Remember that roommate has class ALL morning long.
3. Go to the gym.
4. Return home from the gym and hydrate in the kitchen while catching up on homework.
5. Go to bedroom and take off shoes.
6. Take a shower.
7. Return to bedroom post-shower and pick out clothing.
8. Begin to get dressed.
9. Hear movement from behind you.
10. Freeze.
11. Notice that heart is squeezing uncomfortable.
12. Turn around and see that roommate is in her bed with the covers pulled all the way up.
13. Begin to calm down and finish getting dressed.
14. Freak out once more as you wonder if she'd been in the room when you deposited shoes and you just didn't notice OR if she came home while you were in shower.
15. Calm down for good.
16. Write a blog post about it.

road trip outtakes

No trip with me is complete without a few weird and/or awkward moment. And since yesterday's report was getting long, I decided to dedicate an entire post to the random things that went down. Plus, the tone of the official post was kinda sappy and nostalgic, so I didn't want to kill the mood.

1. I'm gonna ease you in to the weird with something that's really not weird but that I just wanted to share anyway. I have a slightly unexplainable aversion to desserts that involve fruit (unless it's like a trifle or fruit pizza with fresh fruit. that's kosher). This includes fruit ice cream. But the family we stayed with was ridiculously hospitable and had a bunch of homemade strawberry ice cream and wanted to feed us, so I was like, "What the heck? I'll give it a try." AND IT WAS AMAZING. Is all strawberry ice cream like that, and I just somehow missed the memo? Or maybe it was because it was homemade? I'm not sure, but maybe I will have to give strawberry ice cream another try. Baby steps, guys, baby steps.

2. I looked out the window and what did I see?

THIS:

Guys. The dog was wearing sunglasses. It was the cutest/weirdest thing I ever did see. 

3. You guys ready for a healthy dose of awkward? I have to be ready for that pretty much 24/7, because my life is just full of amazingly awkward experiences. Here it goes:

While we were waiting for Priesthood and Relief Society to begin, we were standing in the hallway chatting. Lissa introduced us to the occasional ward member and we did the whole "we're Lissa's friends from college" routine that we were quite proficient at by the end of the trip. The missionaries assigned to her ward came up then and introduced themselves to Lissa. I noted the name tag on one of the elders, and it was the same last name (a very uncommon one) as a family from my stake back home. And I thought, "Huh, that's weird. He kinda looks familiar, but it's probably just a coincidence." 

And then I heard him say, "I'm from Kentucky." 

That got my attention. He turned away from Lissa, and I asked him if he was in the Cincinnati Stake. He confirmed that he was, and I told him that I'm from that stake too. 

Now I feel that this is a good point to mention that the family he belongs to has two sons, one a year older than me and one a year (or maybe two) younger than me. And they look a lot a like. Okay? Keep that in mind and don't judge me too much until I get a chance to give my full list of justifications/explanations at the end of this story. 

I could tell he was trying to figure out who I was, and I was trying to figure out which brother he was. It didn't make sense for him to be the one older than me, because he'd gotten a mission call a long time ago and would have been home by that point. He asked for my name, and I told him, and thinking he was the younger brother who I'd never actually met, tacked on "you probably know my dad." I almost said, "I know your older brother." And thankfully I didn't. 

And then he kept looking at me, and I didn't know why because I didn't think he actually knew me, so I asked for his first name, thereby breaking the Address Me as Elder Code of Missionaries. I had to do it, guys. I needed confirmation of who this guy was. 

"Todd*," he said. He paused. "We went to prom together." 

Yep. So that happened. "Yeah," I said, unsure what else to say at this point because AWKWARD. 

And so you guys don't think I'm a terrible person, let me explain a few things:

1. I barely knew the guy in the first place. We met at some stake activity, and he got my number and then BAM! asked me to HIS prom at HIS school.
2. This was my sophomore year of high school. And I saw him maybe once after that, if ever. 
3. It didn't make sense for him to be on a mission! He should have already gone home by that point. (As it turns out he got injured while on his mission and had to go home to heal before getting reassigned to Lissa's home mission. So I was right! He should have been finished by that point.)
4. He and his brother really do look a lot alike. And his brother being on a mission made more sense age-wise because he's younger than me.
5. I was really caught off guard and was not expecting to see this kid ever again, let alone at my friend's mission homecoming!

Okay, you Judgy McJudgersons who are tsk tsking me for not recognizing somebody I went to prom with, are you satisfied? Because my friends weren't! It took a solid hour after our meetings were over for them to stop teasing me about it. But I don't think I deserve any grief whatsoever, because the painfully intense awkwardness of the situation was punishment enough. Seriously. You ever hear the saying about the tension in the room being so thick you could cut it with a knife? It was like that. Except with awkwardness. And we were in a hallway.


And because I'm feeling awkward again, and I'm not sure how to end awkward posts about awkward things, I'm just going to awkwardly stop writing now.

*Name has been changed to protect the innocent

men in cars (a rant)

Let me tell you about two experiences I've had recently involving a man (scare quotes may be necessary here) and a car. More accurately, the first story fits that description to a T, but the second one is really a conglomeration of multiple vignettes which all follow the same pattern. Except once it was a moped and not a car. And actually I think a bus was involved at some point. Forgive me. 

I. 

I was driving in an area of Provo I'm not as familiar with and found myself in a right-turn only lane. Except I didn't want to turn right. So, seeing that a stoplight was fast approaching, I flicked on my blinker, hoping that the driver of the car behind me would let me over so that I wouldn't have to take an unnecessary right. In this case, right was wrong. 

I glanced over my shoulder to see if said car was complying, and the driver was not. Not even a little bit. He sped up. We even made eye contact, and I did my best to send him a mental plea to help a sistah out. He still kept going at that awkward speed that was just fast enough so that I didn't have room to move over, but not fast enough that he'd pass me in time for me to get over. 

Alright, mister, I thought. Two can play this game. So I sped up just in time to switch lanes just before the intersection. Yes, I cut him off a teeny tiny bit, alright? But he knew I needed to get over, and he refused to let me. If he'd just let me over when I first turned my blinker on, none of this would have happened. 

Now, in this situation, I would find it completely appropriate and justified for the driver of that stupid Saturn with the bike strapped to the back (sorry, Dad, for insulting a man with a bike) to have been a little miffed with me. It wasn't my finest moment as a driver, I'm well aware, and he had a right to maybe shout "Come on!" or "Pay attention, would ya?" I would have accepted that reaction. What I don't accept was his actual reaction. 

Immediately after we passed through the light, he quickly switched lanes, sped up so that he was alongside me, and then switched back, completely cutting me off. I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting him. He also did me the honor of flipping me off out his open window. He then proceeded to drive painfully slowly right in front of me. I was overwhelmed by his mature response. Let me also note that this man was probably in his fifties. It wasn't some hot-headed twenty something with a superiority complex and a quick temper. 

After the snail pace continued for a mile or so, he pulled off to my right. As I passed by him, he flipped me off through the window again and yelled some very profane, very disrespectful things at me. Not cool, bro, not cool. 

II.

Every day, I walk home from work on a road that's fairly well trafficked. And during this half-mile walk, I frequently get honked at, shouted at, whistled at, or otherwise acknowledged by a male (or males—cars full of bros are the worst). Now, please realize I'm not explaining this to bring attention to the attention I get. Because I don't find it flattering, and I don't think it says anything about my attractiveness or level of appeal in any way. Quite frankly, I don't want to be attractive to any man (again, scare quotes implied) who thinks it is appropriate to yell or catcall at a woman walking down the sidewalk minding her own business. I find it disrespectful, ridiculous, and somewhat piggish, especially when those remarks are regarding a woman's body or are profane in any way. 

I know I'm not the only one that this happens to. My roommate also walks that path home from work, and similar things happen to her. I've witnessed other girls get this kind of attention. It's happened on good hair days, bad hair days, and hair days in between. It's happened when I'm wearing a dress or when I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt. All of this data I've collected leads me to one conclusion: when a man calls out at a woman, he is most likely not actually acknowledging his attraction to her. He might not find her attractive at all. He probably can't even see her face. What he is doing is exerting some sort of  warped machismo that leads him to believe that he can treat a woman however he wants whenever he wants. He is not trying to flatter her. He is not trying to get a date with her. He is treating her like an object. And women are not objects. They're people. 

Maybe I'm the only girl who feels this way. Maybe other girls find it flattering to be yelled at through the windows of cars. Maybe other girls don't jump three feet in the air when honked at. (I might actually be the only on that does that—I'm very easily startled.) Maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing.

Maybe all those maybes are true. But this is how I feel. And I won't apologize for that. And I'd really like it if men in cars would start being a little more respectful. Deal? 

Deal.  

is that burning smell coming from your apartment?

The quick answer is yes. Yes, the burning smell is coming from our apartment. No, that is not a common occurrence. Let's just get this straight before I delve any more deeply into this story: I bake and cook a lot. Rarely do I burn things. Never (until today, at least) do I light things on fire. Capisce?

So this is how it goes. 

I was just piddling around in the kitchen, considering doing some dishes (I wisely decided against it) when I had the sudden urge to eat some toasted coconut. Weird, I know, but I've just stopped asking my taste buds questions by this point. So, remembering that I conveniently had some coconut on hand, I got to work. In case you were wondering, the very best toasted coconut involves butter, sugar, and cocoa. And coconut, but that's kind of a given. 

So I mixed up my tasty concoction (it was still tasty at that point) and put it in the oven. With the broiler on. At the time I thought, "Hey, I think the top rack is probably a little too close to the broiler. Maybe I should lower it so that it doesn't burn." But then the lazy part of me though, "Nah, I'll just set a timer and keep a close eye on it."

That little internal battle concluded, I closed the oven door and set the timer. After the allotted amount of time had passed, I checked on the coconut. It was not even the tiniest bit toasty. And, I'm sorry, but toasted coconut is far superior to nontoasted coconut. I'm not prejudiced, I swear; it's just a well known fact. So I decided to leave it in the oven a little longer. 

Then E called to me from her bedroom. I went back to her room to see what she needed and, in the process, completely forgot about the pan full of joy toasting in the oven. We chatted for a moment, but then I smelled something coming from the kitchen. 

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "I can smell the coconut, so it's probably burning." 

My fear was realized and surpassed, really, because when I opened the oven door, I was greeted by flames. I slammed the oven closed, unsure of what to do next. 

I then turned to B (who'd followed me to the kitchen from her and E's bedroom), hoping that she'd have some magical solution to my problem. 

She didn't. 

So, I did the thing that felt the most logical to me in that moment. There was a fire in the oven. Water puts out fires. So, I got a glass of water and dumped it onto the flames. 

They got bigger. 

This is the point when it would have made sense to  panic or freak out in some way. My reaction was quite the opposite, actually, as I remained very calm throughout the entire process, almost unconcerned that there was a fire in my oven. To be honest, I spent most of the time laughing. I'm not quite sure what this says about me, but it is what it is.

B and I looked for a fire extinguisher under the sink, only to come up empty handed. This is something we will probably have to change in the future. So, we just looked at each other, neither of us having any clue whatsoever as to what we should do. 

"I wish M were here," B lamented, naming a wise mutual friend of ours. "If anybody would know how to put a fire out, it'd be him." 

Light bulb. 

"Where's my phone?" I exclaimed. B and I have the same phone and the same phone case, so it took a moment of confusion to figure out which phone on the counter was mine. I located the phone that was actually mine, and called M up. 

I think the beginning of our conversation went something like this:

M: Hey. What's up?

Me: I lit our oven on fire, and I don't know how to put it out, and I figured that if somebody did, it would be you.

M: You lit your oven on fire?

Me: Well, not really. I mean it's localized to the pan in the oven. But there is sugar and butter involved and water just made it worse.

M: [momentary silence as he took in the odd situation and prayed that I would at some point in my life become a little less scatterbrained and less destructive]

Well, M didn't disappoint. Baking soda. He told me to throw baking soda on the fire. I gingerly opened the oven and tried to toss some baking soda on the fire. Unfortunately, the jagged hole in the box didn't lend itself well to aiming, and it ended up coating the bottom of oven, leaving the flames very much in tact. I closed the oven once more, pulled my hair into a bun (the flames were dangerously close to scorching my hair), poured baking soda into a bowl, and tried again. This time, I threw handfuls of baking soda on the flames and, wouldn't ya know, they were stifled immediately. Crises averted. 

Except for the thick cloud of smoke hovering in our kitchen and living room. 

B and I scurried over to a neighbor apartment and asked them if they had a fan. 

"What for?" A asked.

"Oh nothing...nothing at all," I replied. 

A cocked his head in the direction of our apartment and uttered the phrase that is now the title of this post. 

"Maybe," I told him. "It's possible." 

Unfortunately, they didn't have a fan. Fortunately, they knew an apartment that did. Unfortunately, we had never met them. 

But, B and I decided it was as good of an opportunity to meet new people as ever. At least we'd be memorable. 

So the cliff's notes version of the rest of the story is that we now have two borrowed fans at full speed in our kitchen and living room, and I'm writing this post with both front windows and the front door flung wide open. At 11:11 at night (make a wish!). With random people I don't know socializing right in front of the door. Awkward...

Silver linings to this experience: 

• I now have a greater appreciation for fire extinguishers and know what to do in the absence of one.
• I was able to laugh at myself during the entire experience and for some reason have no problem sharing the fact that I sorta lit my oven on fire with any soul who reads this blog (but in actuality, that's like 3 people, so it's not that big of a deal)
• I know where to find fans in this apartment complex should I ever need one.
• I made two new friends. Well. I met two new people. Whether or not they will want to be my friends after meeting me under such....unique circumstances is still up for debate. I'll keep you posted. 

the road trip soundtrack about things that nobody cares about

Background: I burst into song a lot. Mostly it's actual songs that I'm reminded of in the middle of a conversation or just whatever is stuck in my head, but sometimes I make up songs about the things going on in my life. Last semester, Hailey and Liz joined in this practice with me sometimes and we decided it was basically on ongoing musical. But, since we only sang about weird, random, and oftentimes boring things, we dubbed it The Musical About Things that Nobody Cares About.

This weekend, Hailey, Dallin, and I drove to Boise for Hannah's wedding. (She was an absolutely beautiful bride, by the way). On the way back, our radio broke and we were sadly without music for all but about 7 minutes of our 6 hour drive. So, we wrote our own soundtrack to reflect the trip.

1. The Radio Done Broke (And Now We're Cray)
2. 14 Miles to Burley
3. Apparate Today
4. It's Raining Again, But it's Not Raining Men
5. Plastic Surgery Billboards 'Round Every Corner
6. One Sylb Per Word
7. Schwear, Schwear, Schwear
8. Hipscotch in the Road
9. Creepy Kids One Car Over
10. I Drank Too Much Water and Now I Have to Pee
11. Six Hours, Four Problems (Dallin's Song)

Yes, all of these songs actually had lyrics (Except for number ten...we thought the title said it all). No, I can't remember most of them now. But rest assured that they were wildly brilliant and kept us entertained for a solid four hours (the musical juices weren't flowing for the first two hours of the trip).

So if you need a great road trip soundtrack, just let us know! We'd be happy to turn the random events of any boring car ride into an exciting musical event sure to entertain all in the car!

so this is an actual thing

I love my job. I really do. I mean, who else has a job that requires them to watch videos like this that cause them to somewhat question the sanity of the world's population and then write an article promoting the show? The best part is that this comes from a series of documentaries called The Pursuit of Excellence, which is dedicated to revealing the "ambition, determination, and passion of those who pursue distinction in unconventional fields." 

I'd say this is unconventional. 

well that made me feel old (2nd edition)

Liz: I can't believe that Space Jam is 20 years old.
Me: No, it's not!
Liz: Yes, it is!
Me: But it was made in the 90s! I was born in the 90s!
[Silence as Liz waited for me to make the connection]
Me: And I'm 20...

Does anybody else struggle with making these connections, or is it just me?

sometimes entertainingly awkward things happen to me

Monday, 8:53 am, between the SWKT and Eyring Science Center

I was just plodding along like I do after my 8:00 class when I saw a friend of mine. "Hey, Scott*!" I greeted him. He said hello as well and just after he did, I heard a voice from the other side of me. 

"Oh heeeeeey," it said, ringing with false recognition and familiarity. 

I turned to see a boy I had never before seen. I cocked my head, rather confused as to why he was greeting me like we were old buddies. 

"You just said 'Hey, Scott,' didn't you?" he asked, somewhat awkwardly. 

"Yeeeah," I said slowly. "To a guy walking the other direction. Who I know." 

"Oh." He said. "Because my name is Scott, too. Weird coincidence." 

I laughed. "Yeah, I guess so. I'm Maddie...it's nice to meet you!" I was trying to make this nonawkward and use it as a haha-isn't-it-funny-how-we-started-this-conversation kind of things. 

But Other Scott just wasn't having it. "Yeah...it's nice to meet you, too. Haveagoodday." And with that, he abruptly changed direction and walked away.

Laughing a little, I continued my trek to my 9:00 class.

*Name has been changed to protect the identity of the innocent 

Monday, 1:06 pm, Entrance to the HBLL

A man walked a few steps ahead of me as I approached the door to the joy-sucking-day-ruining building that is the library. He swung the door open and then paused for a moment, holding the door so that it wouldn't close on my face. At the exact moment that I reached up to grab the door, he let go of it, and as his hand descended, his fingers intertwined perfectly with mine for a split second, before he jerked away so violently that you'd think my hand were on fire.

Is my life full of awkwardness and uncomfortable moments? Absolutely.

Would I have it any other way? Absolutely not. 

well that made me feel old

I was just called "Ms. Greenhalgh."

Twice.

By a student.

Who I am 99% sure is older than me.

a story about irrational fears you don't care about

On occasion, I have been subjected to gentle teasing due to an irrational fear or two that I may or may not be harboring. The best example is my complete terror regarding encountering sharks and whales. I have never been in a situation in which I would possibly encounter a shark or whale (unless you could the whale watching tour my family and I took in Maine the summer I graduated...but that was a completely different situation) and I most likely never will be in such a situation because, um, well, THEY TERRIFY ME. I also have issues with deep, open water. So the combination of those two things pretty much ensures that I will never have to escape a shark attack. Or a whale attack. If those actually happen. Not sure about that.

But the negative possibility that I will be mauled by a shark isn't my point. My point is that I have one other fear that is irrational to the point of being flat out ridiculous. Asinine. Absurd. But I had to face this fear today and I came out relatively unscathed, so I thought I needed to share my story of triumph over the foolish fears of the world. So here it goes:

Every time I walk through a detecting device of some kind (metal detectors, anti-shoplifting devices, magic library book detectors) I hold my breath, filled with apprehension that the alarm will sound and crossing my fingers that it won't. Because that would be horrifying.

Now before you judge me too harshly (unless, of course you already have, in which case this next paragraph will be completely useless), let me explain where I believe this paranoia stems from. As a child, I was notorious in my family for setting the metal detectors off at the airport. Every. Single. Time. I always had something metal on my person and it wasn't until the age of twelve or thirteen that it finally occurred to me to just not wear a belt to the airport because I would inevitably forget to take it off and the alarm would sound and I would be subjected to the horror of being patted down by a disgruntled TSA agent. To this day, I refuse to go to the airport wearing a belt.

This fear was always piqued when I shopped at the Forever 21 in my hometown. Whoever designed this particular anti-shoplifting device must have been convinced that standing anywhere in the general vicinity of the exit while holding merchandise was intent upon stealing something, because it would go off--a horribly annoying, resounding grunt of an alarm--if you were less than six feet away from it. AWFUL. And libraries. Don't even get me started on libraries. It's unfortunate that libraries--some of my very favorite buildings in existence--contain a device that fills me with so much trepidation. When exiting the library, a stack of freshly checked out books in my arms, I would silently repeat the mantra don't go off, don't go off as I approached the door. This practice has followed me from my childhood to my teenage years to, well, now. And it is this particular situation that brings me to my actual story.

Now, this library alarm setting off story is particularly heinous because it caught me completely off guard. Not only had I checked out these particular books a week before but I was also entering the library as opposed to exiting it. I walked through the detectors and the alarm sounded. I glanced back to see if anybody else had walked through at the same time as me, sure that it couldn't possibly be my books that set it off. The security guard caught my eye and asked me to walk back through the detectors.

I did and it went off again. Oh, the horror.

"Do you have any library materials in your posession?" he asked me, as though I were carrying lethal weapons of mass destruction or other items that were equally as taboo.

"Yes," I said, approaching the desk. "But they're all checked out."

"I'm going to have to take a look at them," he said.

I sighed. "I have, like, seven books in here," I said, gesturing to my backpack. This was the truth. I am currently knee deep in research for a paper I am supposed to be writing right now at this very second and have been lugging a mini library around for me for the last week or so.

"Just let me see your ID," he said. "That might be easier."

I slid my ID out of my wallet and handed it to him. It was at this point that I noticed that his name tag declared that his name was Ladd. No joke. I had to work very hard to stifle the urge to ask him if he had a sister named Lassie. It was quite the struggle for me, but luckily it provided a moment of comic relief in the midst of one of my worst nightmares come to life.

Ladd swiped my ID card and tried to look very official as he viewed my official record of library patronage. "Yeah, I'm going to need to see the books," he said.

Another sigh. I spent the next minute and a half fishing books out of my overly stuffed backpack while simultaneously pushing my contraband bagel (being the rebel I am, I had zero intention of eating it in the Snack Zone, hence its contraband status) deeper into the recesses of my bag. I had no way of knowing if Ladd was one of the chill guards who didn't care if students broke the eating rules or one of the cranky ones who made students throw away their Jamba Juice instead of giving them three seconds to finish it. I wasn't willing to compromise my bagel.

The next bit felt like an eternity as Ladd scanned and swiped each of my recently rescued books one by one. He thought he knew which one was the culprit, but wanted to check them all "just to be safe." I appreciated this, however annoying it was, because there was no way I wanted to have to go through this experience again. Ever.  He finally finished and I stuffed the books back into my backpack, accidentally squishing my bagel in the process. "Am I good?" I asked.

"Yeah, you should be fine."

Should be fine? Come on, Ladd. We're talking about my deepest, most irrational fears here and you are doing nothing to assuage them. I eyed the detector warily before deciding to be an adult and walking through.

Silence of the most beautiful kind accompanied me. No beeping. No clanging. No voice calling for me to come back. Just silence.

Victory.