new year

Graduating college lead to many life changes. The major impacts came right away: supporting myself, trying to find things to do with my time, and an overwhelming lack of purpose. There are many less obvious changes, though, that appear to have a longer-lasting impact. I’ve gone through a subtle shift over the past few years from looking at my life from a September to May schedule to a January to December one. Not only does the new schedule mean no summer vacation, it means I place greater value and thought in to New Year’s. No longer is this holiday about the mid-point of a semester and a break from “real life,” it’s about taking stock of what happened in the past year, where my life is right now, and where I want it to be going.

The past few New Year’s were pretty easy. My year was good, I was happy, and I had a set path. There wasn’t really much to come to terms with because my life was traveling along as expected. This year contemplating my place in the world is much more difficult, though. It was a rocky year with unexpected events. I was sad for much of it, my life is currently in upheaval, and I am totally unsure of what my future holds. At the same time, I can’t just brush off and forget what happened this year. There were lots of good times, and I am in the processes of learning from the bad. As much as I want to take the easy road and say “good riddance” to 2010, I know that I cannot do that.

So here I am, stuck between happy and sad, progress and remembrance, hope and reality. How is it that I am supposed to go out and celebrate this ambivalence? My decision: stop thinking about it as a year. The turnover from 2010 to 2011 is not just the change of a year, it is the official change of the decade. (Think about it, we didn’t start at the year 0, we started at the year 1.) When I think about my current life in comparison to where I was 10 years ago, as opposed to where I was last year, I achieve a much better perspective.

In the past 10 years, I have attended high school and graduated, moved to Boston, attended and graduated college, lived in 8 different apartments (plus one house), fallen in love, worked 3 different jobs, made (and remade) countless friendships, and traveled around the country. I’ve also fallen out of touch with friends, felt homesick (for many different places), missed people terribly, and mourned the death of family members, pets, and relationships. I’ve been angry, sad, frustrated, and lonely. I’ve been happy, content, joyful, and loved. Over the past 10 years I have gone from a 15 year old girl to a 25 year old woman. And the whole way, I have lived.

So tonight I will celebrate, not because I am happy this year is over or because I want to remember how great it was. I will celebrate the possibility of the coming year. New Year’s Eve is no longer a time to celebrate a break from real life. It is a time to celebrate the actuality of real life. I have the opportunity for a whole new year of experiences, relationships and living. Happy New Year, indeed.

the christmas story

Earlier today, I realized I was listening to “O Holy Night” on repeat. I always enjoy listening to Christmas music around the holidays, but it was strange for me to be so fixated on this song. It’s not happy, peppy, or heart warming, which is how I usually characterize the season. At the end of the song, I feel a sense of emotional release. I feel like I’ve let out a giant sigh. It got me thinking about the Christmas story. Even though I’ve heard the story at least 50 times in my young life, I haven’t spent much time actually thinking about it. It’s hard to take those words of something that happened so long ago and realize what was actually happening, so I decided to picture myself in Mary’s shoes.

I figure that I’m living in Massachusetts, dating some guy, let’s call him Joe, who grew up in Maine. All of a sudden, Paul LePage, the new Maine governor, decides that anyone born in Maine has to go to the state to prove that they exist. Joe and I have to gather up our donkey and walk to Maine because of this guy. And did I mention that I am nine months pregnant? Not only am I pregnant, but Joe isn’t even the father. Some angel appeared to me to tell me that I am pregnant with the son of God. The son of God?! Can you believe that? Well, I am having a hard enough time dealing with it myself without everyone else I know judging me for either being crazy or a slut.

So Joe and I show up in Portland and get counted, only to realize that it is too late to go back home that night. Just as we realize this, it starts to rain. So here I am, stuck in the middle of nowhere with my donkey, a husband who only half believes that I didn’t cheat on him to get pregnant, and I’m soaking wet. Since everyone else had to come from all across to state to prove to Mr. LePage that they exist, too, (and probably planned ahead and reserved a room at the local inns,) Joe and I can’t find a place to stay.

Trying to keep me dry, Joe decides to ask a local farmer that we pass if we can stay in his barn. Don’t get me wrong. I am pretty grateful to be dry, but I took one look around and realized this was not going to be an easy night. There was hay everywhere, mooing cows, baaing sheep, a chicken just ran across my foot, and don’t even get me started on the smell. As I turn to ask Joe how things could possibly get worse, my water breaks. It doesn’t matter anymore who the father of this baby is, all that matters is that I am about to give birth. In a barn.

The night was long and hard, but after hours of labor, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Joe was there to help me the whole way. At some point, I got used to the smell and my own moans drowned out those of the animals around me. The rain had stopped, and the sun was rising on a new day. I let out tears of joy at the same time that my baby cried that first time.

I look at Jesus and I looked at Joe. It doesn’t matter what happened the night before. It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks about our baby. All that matters is that we made it. Looking at the two men in my life, I feel an overwhelming sense of love. It doesn’t matter if the love that created my baby is different from the love that creates every other baby in this world. Love is love.

I always get so hung up on the fact that this story has a happy ending. Mary has a healthy baby boy who goes on to become the King of the Jews. All these years I’ve been missing the real emotions behind the story, though. Mary and Joseph had a really hard life and Christmas Eve was anything but celebratory. Everything was up in the air, they were in a strange place, and everyone was doubting them. The story of Christmas, though, is their triumph over all those obstacles. The birth of Jesus is a huge, emotional release. It is only out of the lowest, hardest times that greatness can happen. Christmas is about going through a tough situation, having a little faith, and coming out better on the other side.

exercise

almost a year ago, i joined the ranks of many of my twenty-something peers and signed up for a gym membership. having graduated college only a few years prior, i was still dealing with the fact that i had a lot more free time than i knew what to do with. i spent much of that extra time preparing and eating delicious food so decided i could probably fit in some exercise to my schedule. at first, my trips to the gym went pretty well. i would go a couple of times a week before work. even if i didn't see many physical results, i felt better about myself knowing that i had spent time making myself healthier.

it wasn't long though, that those trips to the gym fell to only on the weekend, or only one morning per week. the truth of the matter is, i just don't enjoy exercising. don't get me wrong, i don't loathe it, but there is nothing fun about standing on a large piece of metal, repeating the same action over and over again for 30-45 minutes until it makes me physically uncomfortable. sure, listening to music can help with the boredom, as can watching one of the tvs that the gym provides for just this issue. but listening to music is more fun without heavy breathing getting in the way and watching tv is much easier while sitting on the couch.

even though the trips have started to dwindle, i still try to go. even if there is nothing appealing about actually going to the gym, the side effects make it worth it. there are no two ways about it, i feel better about myself after i have gone to the gym. i feel productive, less lazy, and more likely to do things with my day instead of wasting it away.

i've always made it clear that my goal in life is to be happy, and all decisions i make are based on whether i will be happy or not. i've learned, though, that immediate happiness is not the only thing i have to think about. sure, it would be easier to sit on the couch than go to the gym, but in the end, it is worth the momentary discomfort for the longer-lasting feeling of happiness with myself.

windows

I picked up the frame from the windowsill, looked at the picture inside, and sighed. “You had so much potential,” I thought to myself. I stared at the windows the picture had been perched on. They could be seen as somewhat useless since not even a sliver of natural light makes it the 25 feet down the hall from the closest outdoor facing window. The only reason the window can be qualified as “somewhat” useless is because it does allow me to communicate in hand signals with those trying to talk to me while my door is shut and I am on the phone.

What the window lacks in usefulness, it makes up for in personality. One trip around the office told me that. Whether it’s cartoons from a Far Side calendar or pictures of pets, these windows are used as the perfect place to display the wit, warmth and all around good natured-ness of the office occupant. It’s brilliant, really, like a version of social networking for the office environment. I can put out there what I want people to think of me. It doesn’t matter if I’m an incredibly boring homebody, I can make myself anyone I want to be through what I display on the windows.

My first effort at trying to be cool via my window decorating went pretty well. I taped up a picture from a newspaper of David Ortiz as he was being sworn in as a United States citizen. He was focused in the frame, wearing a designer suit with fancy sunglasses and a world series ring, in front of hundreds of other everyday people with blurred out faces. The everyday people were wearing everyday clothes, and definitely no sunglasses. This was perfect. It showed my love for sports, as well as my sense of humor. Anyone walking by my office would know that I was spectacular, just from looking at this picture.

After months of leaving this picture on my window, and having it start many conversations, I started to fret. I was definitely starting to look boring. If I couldn’t find something else that was funny by now, my life was totally stale and bland. People must be walking around talking about how crazy it was that I still had that picture up. I mean, it wasn’t even baseball season any more! It was then that I started looking for something to replace Ortiz, and a few months later, I thought I had it.

After travelling to Washington, D.C. to see my Alma mater win the NCAA College Hockey championship, I returned with one souvenir and it had nothing to do with hockey. While at a mall, I got roped into a tourist trap. I was pulled over to a kiosk surround by a crowd of people. The man running the booth asked me if I would stand in front of a green screen and stick my hand in front of me. Not wanting to seem crazy for objecting, I went along with it. The crowd of people cheered and smiled. Then, they asked me to turn, tilt my head up, and make a kissing face. I peaked out to my friends in the audience and I swear someone gave me a thumbs up, so I did as I was told.

What resulted was one photoshopped image of me shaking Barack Obama’s hand and one of me kissing him, which I could purchase with a frame for what seemed like an un-absurd amount of money. I knew I had to get one, but couldn’t decide which. The shaking hands picture was good, because I might be able to convince people I actually met the president. The kissing picture was a little bit awkward. If people actually believed I met the president and kissed him on the lips, that would be weird. At the same time, though, it was really funny and absurd. I couldn’t imagine anyone would actually think I kissed the president. I bought the kissing picture, with a gold plastic frame that said Washington, D.C. and had monuments etched on the side.

On the trip back to Boston, I realized this was the perfect item to replace Ortiz on my window. It was hilariously over the top and kitchy. It would inspire conversation about how I got the picture and what it would have actually been like if I had met Obama. I returned to the office, moved the Ortiz picture to my bulletin board, and gently placed the frame in the window. It immediately fell off. The first problem with this picture was that it was actually in a frame and needed to be propped up somehow on the uneven, shallow windowsill. After fiddling around with it for a few minutes, I succeeded in the balancing act. I went to sit at my desk and waited.

One person walked by. Then another. And another. I saw one of them look at the picture, cock her head in puzzlement, and continue on by. My heart started to sink. Finally, someone else walked by, stood outside my door for a minute staring at the picture, looked at me and said, “Is that...?” Excitedly, I launched into the conversation about D.C., Obama, and hockey. After what felt like a five minute explosion of conversation from my end she said “Oh, cool,” and left.

Over the next few days, a few more people stopped by to ask me about the picture, and I found it less and less exciting to talk about. “No, I didn’t actually get to meet the president,” I would explain before trying to point out how the picture was funny in spite of that. Other than the handful of people who asked, though, thankfully the masses of people I expected to ask about the picture never turned out. Me and Barack became the big while elephant in the office. “I won’t mention it if you don’t,” I’d secretly plead to anyone who stopped by to chat.

A few months later, while out for drinks with some co-workers, the truth came out. Although I have no idea how the topic came up, I was explaining how the picture was taken at a kiosk in a mall. “Ohhhhhh,” someone said. “That’s Obama? I thought it was your boyfriend. I thought it was weird that you had a picture of you guys kissing on your window.” I was immediately horrified. Here I was, trying to portray myself as fun-loving and quirky, and instead everyone thought I was flaunting a romantic relationship to them!

When I arrived at work the next day, I looked at me and Barack. I didn’t have anything to immediately replace us with, so if I didn’t want us sitting in the window anymore, it would have to empty. At the same time, I still loved that picture. It reminded me of the great time I had on that trip and how hilarious I think I am. I moved the picture to the bookshelf behind my desk and stared at the empty window. It was better to be boring, I decided, than misunderstood.

fake me

routines have always been my friend. while others crave surprise and the unknown, i crave stability and the known. sure, i like being surprised. but i want you to tell me that on a specific day at a specific time, you will be surprising me. the same thing can be said for my non-work life. i like doing different things with different people, but i like knowing that my plans will always revolve around a 9-5 job.

i've been building to this way of living my whole life, really. starting from a young age, the main constant in my life was sleep. no matter what i did that day, where i was, or who i was with, i would end the day by going to bed. my earliest memory of falling asleep was after my mom would come into my room to tuck me in and say goodnight, she would hit play on my primary-colored plastic tape player. at first, i'm sure the tape that was in there rotated, but all i remember is always falling asleep to a tape of the beatles magical mystery tour that my dad had made for me. i needed that routine of having my mom turn that tape on for me so much that if, in the horrible situation that sometimes happened, i got to the end of the first side before falling asleep, i would climb out of my bed, walk out of my room, down the hallway to the top of the stairs and yell "mooooooooom, my tape needs to be turned over." she would dutifully walk up the stairs, turn the tape over, and tuck me back into bed, completing the bedtime routine once more.

as i got older, the time i went to bed changed and i stopped listening to music, but i kept to my new routines. instead of music, i would have a set topic to think about until i fell asleep instead of letting my mind wonder. i had a phase where i would think about what outfit i would wear the next day. was it better to wear the forest green jeans with the cat t-shirt and the flannel over it? or should i go with those acid wash jeans instead? for a solid year, i would actually pray until i fell asleep, but only in the way that a child understands prayer as a means to an end. "please god," i would plead, "let tomorrow be a good day. let us catch the bus to school on time, and have tabitha save me a seat in the back of the bus. and please have school be good and let me be in a group with my friends for math time instead of the people i don't like." i would continue to walk god through my day and all the things that i would like to go well until i fell asleep sometime around catching the bus home from school. if, on the off chance, i got through my whole day and was still awake, i would start the process over, thinking of more and more things that god could do for me.

somewhere in middle school, i discovered the mother load of falling asleep thinking topics: the future. at the same time i was discovering insecurities and popularity in the real world, i was exploring an idea that would carry me through all of those things. even if things weren't going my way at the time, i convinced myself that when i got to my mid to late twenties, things would be much better. in the future, i was very popular and had no insecurities. i was successful, happy and smart. every night, i defined this future version of myself more and more. i would think about what clothes i would be wearing until i fell asleep, or how i would wear my hair. eventually, i developed a version of myself in the future. character traits and looks developed into where i would live. where i would live made me think about what job i would have, who my friends would be and what cooky situations we would get ourselves into. throughout high school, i continued to rely on future me as a crutch both to help me fall asleep and to escape the awkward, sometimes unpleasant present.

i still haven't totally deserted this version of myself, either, even though here i am in my mid to late twenties. sure, i just turned 25 and am on a general path in life, but that doesn't stop me from day dreaming about me as a 26 year old stay at home writer living in minneapolis who volunteers at animal shelter. that's because future me was not actually me in the future, it was a fake version of me that i had created. fake me can still do whatever she wants. the reason fake me is fake, though, is because she doesn't have to deal with the realities of life.

it only rains on fake me when she is on a climactic, extremely emotional run before everything works out in the end. real me doesn't run that well and especially not in the rain. fake me had a dog that only needed to be walked on sunny, warm days. real me wonders what i am supposed to do with a dog when i go away for the weekend or what my neighbors will think if he barks too much. fake me doesn't really have to work to achieve any goals. real me has to deal with failure. if fake me gets into any uncomfortable situations, she has a casual, smooth way out. real me tries too hard and makes awkward small talk.

there is a slight chance that i am going to go crazy for having a fake me, but real me likes to think that is a positive sign to have such an active imagination. real me also recognizes that this is a coping mechanism to deal with the fact that life isn't always fair, good things don't always happen to good people, and plans change. also, fake me is the only reason real me still even attempts to run, so she can't be all bad.

to a man

the start of fall is one of the greatest times of year. in my book, it's second only to christmas. the weather is perfect for my wardrobe decisions. i no longer have to worry about planning for the drastic temperature changes that summer heat and office climate control bring and don't yet have to choose my footwear based on the number of inches of snow on the ground. fall is also my birthday season, so people like to spend this time of year giving me things and making plans to hang out with me. perhaps best of all, though, are the sports. lots and lots of sports. they playoffs have started in baseball, football teams are starting to find their identity, and the puck has dropped on college hockey season.

the main side effect of all these sports is an abundance of television watching. i seem to be always watching sports, watching highlights of sports i missed, or watching sports commentary to hear other people break down the sports i have already watched. as you can imagine, there are certain things that i, an unathletic twenty something woman, get annoyed by in the commentary of middle-aged, former athlete men. they overanalyze the slightest things and comment about how great the teams that i hate the most are, but i am usually happy with hearing another point of view or getting to relive a great moment. there is only one thing, though, that will actually make me change the channel or stop watching, and that is when one of these talking heads uses the phrase "to a man."

growing up as a girl in the nineties means i have an odd relationship to feminism. the word feminist has been demonized due to the radical nature of the movement in the seventies. it is assumed that if you are a feminist you hate men, don't wear a bra, refuse to shave, and are likely a lesbian. discrimination against women was so ingrained in our culture in the sixties, that the movement had to go radical to really affect change. unfortunately, it came with the negative fall out. one of the things the movement did was start to change the collective vernacular. you didn't have a mailman, you had a mail carrier. you didn't have a chairman, you had a chairperson.

i've seen some writers try to apply this logic to the phrase "to a man" and use "to a person." it just does not work in this situation. the phrase is used to emphasize truthfulness. "i talked to the coach," the commentators will say, "and, to a man, he said they might not make the playoffs this year." i understand the point that these coaches or commentators are trying to make, that this was a tough statement to hear, but it is probably true. to make that point, though, we have to assume that the truth is too difficult for a woman to hear, so it can only be told to a man. the same point cannot be made by using "to a person." this somehow implies that the truth is too difficult to tell a non-person. i don't know about you, but i've never wanted to shield my goldfish from knowing the full story.

the reason that i love sports is because it transcends the self. i am a red sox fan, along with millions of others. together, we cheer, complain, hope and resign ourselves to the end of another year. as a fan, we get to be a part of the team. i am never going to win the world series, but i can be a part of a group that does. when a sports commentator or coach says "to a man" it automatically alienates me. i am not a man, so does that mean i don't get to be a part of their world? it reenforces the old boys club world of sports where only the athletes or the male fans are included.

as i have gotten older and shed much of the self-consciousness that comes with adolescence, i have realized that there is nothing wrong with being called a feminist. it just means that i believe that men and women should have equal rights and that our society shouldn't do anything to harm that. i know that there are many women's issues that are way more important than this phrase, but it is one of the easiest ways to see that biases still exist. i know that whenever i hear that phrase, i feel slighted. i am not on the "in" crowd. i am not smart enough, popular enough, cool enough, or man enough to know the truth. sure, you might say that i am overreacting to the issue, but i hope you would tell me that to my face and not just to a man.

the case of the missing hammer

Recently, one of my co-workers sent around an email asking if anyone had seen his hammer. It was a simple question, really. He went to use his hammer and could not find it. As I tried to move on with my work day, I could not stop thinking about the email. There it sat, glaring at me like the rest of the emails I had yet to respond to or thoughtfully place in one of my 172 email folders. I couldn’t decide what was worse: that I had 172 email folders, that I knew I had 172 email folders, or that I was contemplating making a new one for this hammer email. A quick check of my office confirmed I did not have the hammer, even though a quick check of my memory would have proved I hadn’t seen a hammer in at least three years. With this conclusion behind me, I set off to figure out what happened to the hammer.

First, I felt bad for the guy. I imagine the poor soul rummaging through his desk looking for the hammer. No one actually has a tool box at work, right? If I needed to keep a hammer, it would be right there in the top drawer of my desk next to my granola bar stash and the Liberace pocket mirror I have on hand in case I smear pen on my face during the day. When he couldn’t find the hammer in his desk, he probably started checking out his typical office haunts. It could be by the printer. Maybe he took it with him when he went to pick up that sign he just printed to remind everyone that they can save paper by not printing things. Or he could have left it in the kitchen when he went to check on the mystery smell someone had told him about earlier. Finally he must have decided the most logical conclusion was, even though he is the admin guy for an office of 99 women and 15 men, one of us must have taken it.

Then, my mystery-loving brain started churning. I ignored the swarm of emails coming in and shoo-ed away the people who were hovering around my office waiting patiently for me to have time to think about their problems instead of my current dilemma. Was it Colonel Mustard in the library with the pipe? Who could have taken the hammer? And, even better, what could they be doing with it? Immediately, I jumped to the obvious. Janet was still angry with Brianne for neglecting to water her plants when Janet took a three week cruise on the Mediterranean. Of course Janet stole the hammer and was hiding in the bathroom until Brianne walked in unsuspectingly. Those plants years of upkeep that Brianne washed down the drain. Janet wasn’t sure what she would do when her enemy walked in, but she knew a hammer would help. All I knew was that I was waiting until I got home to use the bathroom.

Maybe it wasn’t so sinister. If there is one thing that TLC has taught me, it’s that anyone can build a desk with a little MDF (Is that what it’s called?), wood glue and a hammer. Meghan was always complaining about her metal desk. She must have come in early so as to not offend anyone with her project. If she hadn’t returned the hammer yet, she must still be working on the desk. Now that it was 2 pm, I bet she had a slab of wood with three uneven legs on it and realized building things was harder than Paige Davis made it seem. I had no doubt that by now she had glued her shirt sleeve to the floor so she couldn’t respond to the email. I took a lap around the office to see if she needed any help. Meghan was happily typing away as I walked by her office, though, and when I placed my ear up to the bathroom door (no way was I going in!) to see if Brianne needed any back up, I didn’t hear anything.

I returned to my desk to face reality. The co-workers I had tried to ignore were back and waiting. Even more emails had come in, pushing the hammer one down so far that, horrifyingly, I had to scroll to see it. I realized where I needed to file the email. Instead of spending time trying to solve a problem I had no specific knowledge of, other than my Clue-playing and TLC-watching expertise, I could spend my time helping to fix things in my control. While I couldn’t resolve the case of the missing hammer, I could resolve the issues of those asking for my help. People always tell me “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey,” but you know what? Sometimes it really is as simple needing your hammer. I deleted the email.

friday

i glanced around the living room to look at the remnants of my evening. the white bag with the red and white "tasty burger" sat on the area rug next to the coffee table. thirty minutes ago, that bag was crisp and clean, advertising the new burger place a few blocks away from my apartment. fifteen minutes ago, i was hurrying home with the top of the bag scrunched in my hand. the bag moved with me as i dodged traffic and red sox fans, dug through my tote bag to find my keys, propped open the door to the mail room as i unlocked my mail box and collected my mail, and climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment. five minutes ago, i propped the bag on the floor to conveniently catch the wrapper of my gorgonzola hamburger when i was done.

white napkins littered the dark table in front of me. i only use napkins on rare occasions for especially messy meals. this was a rare occasion. the three-quarters full box of onion rings looked more like gray and red than white and red from the grease that had soaked through the cardboard. next to the onion right box sat a white paper cup with plastic lid and straw. the bright pink i saw through the lid was mocking me. there were just two sips of the strawberry milkshake left. i wasn't sure if i could do it or not.

the tv remote, wii remote and a few books lay scattered behind the food. i had ravenously shoved them aside to make room for my dinner. on the other side of the coffee table, my legs were propped up. it was a good thing i changed into my incredibly ugly, unquestionably comfortable capri elastic waist "university of pink" sweatpants before i started eating. as i leaned forward to grab the tv remote--the DVR was asking me if i wanted to save or delete last night's project runway i just finished watching--i realized there were pieces of fried batter perched on my red sox t-shirt.

as i contemplated whether to eat the batter or not, i thought about how i should have gone to the gym this morning. i thought about how i should have gone to the gym after work. i realized neither was going to happen now, so i might as well accept that. i thought about if this was really my life. friday night, home alone while my boyfriend is out with friends, indulging in dinner and reality television.

i thought about how last night it was me who was out with friends. i wore my sparkly shoes. we drank fancy cocktails at a local restaurant. i had duck. they got me a card for my birthday. we were tipsy on alcohol, laughter and life. i came home to a boyfriend expecting me. we watched the end of the movie up on HBO. i sobbed uncontrollably because the movie was so heartwarming.

i thought about how i was absolutely, inexplicably, absurdly, one-hundred percent as happy tonight as i was last night. i wiped the crumbs from my shirt and finished the milkshake.

57

earlier this week, i found myself on the 57 bus from watertown yard to kenmore square. i rode the bus the entire route and was on it for about 50 minutes. i planned poorly for my bus trip and, after moving closer to the heart of the city last year, i am out of practice on long public transportation trips. i forgot my ipod and i am in between books. i rarely pick up one of the free newspapers because all of my trips are too short to get any good reading done. the bus wasn't crowded and there wasn't much traffic, but it wasn't long before i found myself getting annoyed with the people on the bus.

there was the 50-something man who got on at oak square with his two sons and a random lady. the father was trying to talk to an older asain man about his t-shirt, but the asain man could clearly not speak english. instead of just leaving him be, the father sat next to him and tried to explain in hand gestures what he was trying to say. the teenage son was flirting with the random lady they got on the bus with and the 12 year old son was hanging off of the hand railing.

after that, the stops became more frequent. we picked up the nurse on her way home from work at the hospital who was on her phone; the teenager who smelled of spray paint and carried paint cans; and two best friends--one wearing a tiara and a "twenty-one" sash and the other documenting every moment of it.

the bus started to fill up, especially in the front while i watched from the back of the bus. i was annoyed at the woman on her phone (can't it wait?) and the kid sitting in front of me who smelled like paint (what a punk!) and the girls celebrating a birthday (really? on a wednesday?!)

then, at harvard ave., a new mom, with stroller and child in tow, along with her friend, got on the bus. an older man who was sitting at the front of the bus got out of his seat and folded it up so there was room for the stroller and the mom to sit out of the way. the man then had to stand since he gave up his seat so the stroller could be out of the way. i started to get annoyed at everyone else, too, for not letting the poor guy sit down.

at the same time, though, i started to think how nice it was. this man, who i would place in his late 60s, gave up his seat for a healthy younger woman because she had a baby and his seat was the easiest place for them to be. you don't find many people like that, i thought to myself. and you know why? because everyone is too busy being annoyed with cell phones and punk kids and drunk students.

i realized that all the annoyances of the bus are actually what make it so great. here i am, a 20-something working gal, sharing space with people who i have nothing in common with other than proximity of destination. the annoying woman with the cell phone? she could have saved a life today. the punk kid with the spray paint? i decided he was on his way to art class instead of on his way to deface public property. and the mother? she just had a baby! these were amazing, interesting people. and for a short while, we were all headed on the same journey together.

i probably have very little in common with an elderly man riding the 57, but for 20 minutes, our lives crossed paths. really, it was just a smaller version of what is happening in life all the time. people get on and get off. if we are going to the same place, we might spend more time together, but if the drunk college girls want to go to the bar and i want to go home and go to bed, that is fine. we both move on. i can't control the people getting on and off the bus, all i can control is my attitude toward them. i can turn a crappy bus ride into an interesting and heart-warming one. i can turn a bad situation into a good one.

insanity?

it is said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. by that definition, i think i might be insane.

almost a year ago, i wrote in defense of the scottish compassion clause that allowed the convicted lockerbie bomber to be released from prison. a doctor diagnosed him with prostate cancer and said he had three months to live. i thought this was a stunning turn of events. a man who was convicted of such a horrible act is then forced to face his mortality. at the same time, a government takes action based on a moral high ground rather than politics or emotions. what a great world to live in! now, in the wake of the BP oil spill in the gulf coast, the US senate is going to examine accusations that BP lobbied the British government to do what it could to secure the release of the bomber. if he went free, BP would close an oil deal with Libya, making millions of dollars.

so it looks like i was wrong. it's not the type of wrong that is easy to change. it's not like i got a math problem wrong and just need to refresh my memory on multiplication tables. it's not like i used the wrong form of a verb in the wrong location. i was wrong because i chose to believe that people and their actions are good, true, and just. i chose to believe that a government could do something selfless with no ulterior motives. now, even while in the midst of being proven wrong, i am choosing not to change my beliefs.

i always assume that the young guy on the train will give up his seat for the older man. i expect people to think of the feelings of others before speaking. and it would never cross my mind that someone would be anything other than genuine in what they are saying. i trust automatically. and even when proven otherwise, i still continue to trust.

in the back of my mind, i know it doesn't make much sense. as i am writing this, remembering every time i believed the best and was wrong, i still don't understand why i don't join every other cynic in believing that everyone is innately a jerk. what i think it is, though, are those few times when i am not wrong.

when my brother and i were younger, my mom took us through the drive through at mcdonalds. we had stopped at the atm before so my mom could get $20. as we were waiting for our food to come out, my mom was entertaining us by holding the bill in the opening in the door frame that was there because the window was rolled down. i can't remember how, but she dropped the money into the door, loosing it forever. just then, the employee opened the drive through window to get us to pay. my mom explained the situation to him, said she was very sorry, but she couldn't pay for the food. he asked us to wait one second. when he returned, he brought us our food and said not to worry about it, they would cover our meal.

stories like that give me reassurance that there is always a small chance that i will be right. it makes me think that if i believe the best in others, if i trust others, if i open myself up to others, that someone out there will do the same for me when i need it. so is there a chance that i am insane? yes. but no one ever said the insane were unhappy.

dear summer fridays

it's been a little over three years since we first met. i was a recent college grad just entering the workforce and you were a staple of office life in publishing companies. i was just starting as an assistant, and you were entering your umpteenth year of giving office workers a half day on friday after flexing their hours during the week. we've been through our ups and downs, but i just thought i would say this: i love you.

i'll admit that that first summer, i was confused. confused about why, exactly, you were in my life and confused about what, exactly, i was supposed to do with you. i didn't take advantage of all you had to offer. i used you for doing laundry, or watching law and order reruns. what was i thinking?

i definitely learned my lesson and the next summer, that was our best. i used you for lunch with my friends, leaving early for weekend trips, and sitting in the park. it was like a vacation day every friday afternoon and yet i was still working the same amount of hours and getting the same amount of work done.

last summer, well, that was a different story. we grew apart. i was stuck at the office working long hours on fridays while you strutted around with all my friends. gone were the days of friday afternoon lunches or weekends away. heck, i would have even taken an afternoon of law and order reruns! i was pretty angry with you at the end of last summer, i must say.

but then, a few months ago, they tried to take you away from me. not like last year, where i just had too much to do and couldn't actually spend the time with you but they tried to tell me we couldn't spend any time together at all! not even if i was able to! well, that got me all riled up. riled enough to fight and win you back.

it's been a rough year for us, but we've made it through stronger than ever. now, i actually cherish a friday that i spend doing laundry, but still make plans to go out to lunch, too. and, every once in a while, we spend some time apart and i work the whole friday. i've learned that you give me the freedom to do what i want, when i want. and that is why i love you.

greatness

i wrote a post a while ago about how as i have grown up, my goals in life have shifted from the concrete (novelist, journalist) to the ideal (to be happy). the problem with that is it's hard to quantify ideals. what does it mean to be happy? how do i achieve that?

i've been thinking about this recently because i am really happy. it's that wonderful, comfortable, content sort of happy. the kind of happy where, when sitting alone on my couch, i let out a deep breath and smile. just because. why is it that right now i am so happy? and how can i get this to continue?

it occurred to me that while creating my goals as a kid, i didn't want to be a non-selling author. i wanted to be a best-selling author. i didn't want to be a mediocre journalist, i wanted to be a great journalist in an exciting city. in reality, my goals were never about what i wanted to be, they were about being great at what i was doing.

i don't think i would have ever picked publishing media as a job when i was 10. (did i even know that it existed when i was 10? unlikely.) but here i am, succeeding, making a career, and enjoying my co-workers. i have a great job where i am constantly trying to be great.

i dreamed of living the fabulous new york life with a cool apartment, but it turns out that the cozy, easy life of boston is where i really feel at home. apparently boston has cool apartments and fun things to do, too.

i always imagined that i would meet good friends in college, but the reality of those friendships turned out to be much harder, but much more rewarding in return. i learned that some friendships were worth working at, and the ups and downs would make them stronger in the end.

there are times where my job isn't going well or my friendships are in down cycles in which i am less happy. but those hard times are what help me to grow and come out better--greater--on the other side. all i can do is try to live the greatest version of my life and be the greatest version of me that i can be. then, the happiness will come.

water

this weekend, as a boil-water order was in effect for two million people in the metro boston area, i learned one important thing i will keep with me for the rest of my life. it was not to appreciate clean water (i think i already do that), or realize that in many countries this is what life is like everyday (i get that, too). i learned that i loathe bottled water. since graduating college, i have made small steps towards this conclusion, but this weekend pushed me over the edge.

these small steps started at home. instead of buying water to drink, i would just drink tap water or filter my own water with a brita filter. when going out, though, i would still tend to stop and pick up a plastic bottle of water. then, my mom bought me one of those klean kanteens and the convenience meant i would just load up my own water bottle with water from home before heading out on a walk or road trip. it was so logical. why would i buy something that i could easily provide myself for free? and on top of that, i was helping the environment. it was one less plastic bottle that needed to be disposed.

it wasn't until this weekend, though, that i became morally opposed to buying bottled water. when i first heard of boil-water order, i did just that--boiled some water. i knew i was going to need some to brush my teeth, wash my hands, and wash a few necessary dishes, so i figured i'd have it ready. it wasn't until i turned on the t.v. to try to get some more info about the order that i saw a story about a run on bottled water. it was a few hours after the order was issued, and many places were completely out of water. one co-worker later told me of seeing a woman in CVS with a cart full of fiji water and smartwater. it must have cost her at least $50!

the stories about people in search of bottled water baffled me. so many people were quoted as traveling (in their SUV's, i'm sure) to five or ten different locations looking for bottled water. there were reports of pushing and shoving, chaos, and price gouging. all for water that they could have for free by boiling it at home.

i ended up boiling about three pots of water over the course of the weekend (adding to the three bottles of water that we keep in the fridge that were filtered before the order was issued). let me tell you something about boiled, unfiltered water. it does not taste good. but you know what? it quenched my thirst. i had ways to flavor it with lemon juice or salt. was it ideal? no. did i spend my saturday night fighting with people over the last of the bottled water? no.

think about that woman who bought $50 worth of bottled water when she could have just walked to her kitchen and boiled some water. she could have taken that $50 and donated it to an organization to help hundreds of women in countries around the world who have to walk miles to get the same kind of water that we had to live with for three days.

i can't say that i will never drink from a bottle of water ever again, but i can say i will try. living through our water "emergency" made me realize it was no emergency at all. it put into perspective how far past logical many people have gotten about this. buying $50 worth of smartwater so you can brush your teeth with it is not normal. elbowing other residents out of the way to get bottled water before they can is not normal. increasing the price of water (water!) when there is a run on it at the stores is not normal. i don't want to add to a culture where these things happen.

kyrgyzstan

When I was 14, my family took a vacation to Kyrgyzstan. I’ve never heard of anyone else who has vacationed in the small Central Asian country bordered by China and Uzbekistan, but my dad was in a peculiar situation. His sister, who studied Russian history and culture for most of her adult life, was in her last of four years living in Kyrgyzstan. Originally working on a year-long Fullbright scholarship, my aunt fell in love with the country. Through her work, she met a great friend, whose family essentially adopted my aunt. Eventually, they invited my dad to come and stay with them. Not wanting to offend his sister’s adopted family, and realizing that an opportunity like that would not come along again, he accepted. So, in the summer of 2000, I found myself on a plane to Kyrgyzstan. I had no idea my life was about to change.

We spent 5 days in Bishkek, the capital, and 5 days in a village by Lake Issy-kul, the second largest natural salt lake in the world. It had been a decade since the Soviet Union fell, and Bishkek looked like it had not been touched since then. There was a statue of Lenin and the architecture was exactly what I expected--big, heavy, concrete buildings. As we walked through the city and the apartment buildings of my aunt’s friends, I couldn’t help but notice how every single building was falling apart. I will never forget when one woman told me that, of course, they were happy that the Soviets were no longer in charge, but now no one had any idea how to take care of the communal property. In the Soviet system, all buildings were taken care of by the government so it was still unclear who would do that now.

The other thing I remember about Bishkek was driving through the city (in a “cab” we hired by flagging a random driver down and negotiating a rate). As our guide was pointing our important places, she casually mentioned that you could tell any house that was owned by a government official. Anyone who had a three-story house must be rich and anyone who was rich must be a corrupt government official.

Up until then, my United States education had taught me that the we were good and the Soviets were bad. This was the first time I realized that there was no black or white. While the policies of the Soviets were not the greatest, at least there were policies. In some ways, the mess that remained was worse.

If my time in Bishkek taught me about the politics of Kyrgyzstan, my time in Issy-kul taught me about the people. We rented a van and a driver to take us the 8-hour trip to the lake. We paid extra so that the van driver would not pick anyone else up on the way, but when a distant family member of the driver flagged him down, we squeezed to accommodate one more. For the driver, it would have been more of a dishonor not to give this person a ride that is was to break his promise to the strangers who had paid him. We eventually arrived and stayed with some mutual friends who had no electricity or plumbing. Our bathroom was a hole in the ground surrounded by a hut. Our shower was the lake. I woke up every morning to their cow, who was tied to a tree outside the house, mooing.

Our visit was a great honor to this family and, to celebrate, they spent prepared an all day feast for us. In the morning, the men went out into the mountains to find and kill a sheep. Then they butchered it and cooked all the meat over the fire in the yard. In the afternoon, we started eating., moving into different rooms for each course. In the final course, the most important parts of the sheep were divvied up between those attending based honor. My dad, being the male guest, was the most honored person there. As such, he received the sheep head and was expected to eat everything, including the eyes. (Traditional says that he should share it with the person he loved the most. The looks of horror on my step-mom and my faces meant he shared it with my brother.) The brains are considered a delicacy and my dad did everyone a great favor by sharing the bowl of brains with the room. Being the youngest female guest, I was left me with the tail.

We had never met these people before and labored all day to give us the most delicious parts of the meal. Everywhere we went, we were treated as family. I realized that, despite the language and geographic barriers, these were people just like me. I just happened to be born in American and they just happened to be born in Kyrgyzstan.

Since then, I have kept a close eye on the politics of the country. When I heard of the most recent opposition overthrow I didn’t have to get a map to figure out where the country was, read a dictionary to figure out how to say it, or think of our country’s military interests. I thought of the people who, for ten days, treated me like family. Those aren’t faceless victims of third-world violence; they are my family members who just happened to be born in Kyrgyzstan.

health care

today i watched the highlights of president obama's speech celebrating the long anticipated signing of the health care reform bill and i teared up. i have no idea why. i have health insurance, i have always had health insurance, i have no preexisting condition, and i live in massachusetts where we already have a universal health care law. for all intents and purposes, this law has little to no meaning to my life.

yet there are so many other people like me, who have always had health insurance and are in no danger of loosing it, that are staunchly opposed to this bill. this is my blog so i can say what i want. and honestly, i just don't get it. the people voting on the have health insurance and, like me, have probably always had health insurance. so, like me, they cannot even begin to fathom what it is like to not have health insurance and the kind of worry and stress that would put on life.

because i have no personal connection to this debate, and i don't really understand the politics behind it. i don't really care about deficits, nebraska, or taxes on tanning beds. i can't pretend to know what all of the stipulations mean and there is no way i have actually read the whole thing. at it's most basic, what i understand the new law to be is providing health insurance for those who cannot afford it. i just don't get how giving people who want health insurance but don't have money for it the opportunity to buy health insurance is a bad thing.

i see it more as a judgement and common sense issue. if there is a large group of people who need something that i have, use, and consider a necessity, and i have the opportunity to help them get it--even if it means giving more of the money that i make--then i feel morally obligated to help them. and really, let's face it. i pay taxes for tons of things that have no affect on my life. that is how our society works. and that is why our country is pretty cool.

so i didn't cry because i was excited for myself or someone i knew. i didn't cry because i was disappointed the bill was signed. i guess i cried because i was proud that, at least for a moment, it wasn't all that bickering that always comes from politics. it wasn't about the people who were actually voting. it was about the people who voted for them. it was the fact that we decided to do something that is right.

olympics

today is the last day of the 2010 winter olympics and i am about to go into mourning. i love the olympics and these two weeks every two years are my favorite in the sporting world. despite, or maybe because of, my utter lack of athletic ability i love watching sports. i like baseball, hockey and football and spend hours watching espn during the non-olympic times, but nothing compares to watching the olympics.

my love of these games seems to be at complete odds with my favorite sports analysts, though. many are only interested in the hockey games, and look down on nbc for airing what they call the marque events of the games--figure skating and skiing--and sending hockey games to the cable networks. the analysts make it seem that no serious sports fan can like watching the olympic games and that the most important sports are the ones that we are inundated with all the time.

in actuality, that is what makes the olympics so great. when else would i spend saturday night watching bobsledding? or a sunday afternoon watching cross country skiing? the competition is world class, so i know that the events are going to be exciting. the personal stories of athletes give me people to root for. most of these athletes have no real fame or fortune outside of their olympic experience, which puts them at a stark contrast to the over-payed, over-hyped athletes of the national sports leagues.

most of all, though, the teams in the olympics are not split by state or region, but rather country. when patriotism is combined with the sport and the stories there is really nothing better. when an otherwise unknown speedskater performs better than she is expected to, i'm excited by the sport, thrilled for her as a person, and proud that someone from my country could upset the best athletes in the world. the combination of those three things does not happen at any other sports venue.

i will root for the hockey team, but no more than i have rooted for the americans who had historic results in the nordic combined, or the american skiers who lived up to the high expectations set for them, or the american ice dancers--yes the ice dancers--for whom winning a medal was more than they could have thought. for two weeks, i had the opportunity to root for people who live ordinary lives with extraordinary athletic abilities. it is much more fun to root for them than the baseball, basketball, or football athletes that i will never be able to identify with because of their superhuman status. it is 2012 yet?

old soul

one of the biggest things i have learned about myself over the past several years seems to be one of the simplest--what i like to do. i began to notice that what i would ask my friends to do was a bit different from what they would ask me to do. one saturday night in college, instead of finding a party or a bar to go to, i had my two best friends over to make a gingerbread house in our pajamas. another time, a large group of us took a trip to the amusement park six flags. while everyone else was lining up for the roller coasters, i asked them all to ride the antique cars with me. even when i was beginning to hang out with and date my boyfriend, it was a little different than other people. our dates would consist of walking around the neighborhood, or sitting by the river and watching the boats. these days, i love spending saturday nights playing board games.

looking back, one of the best parts of this story is that my friends will totally humor me. they will do the things i want to do and actually have fun doing them. unfortunately, i had a harder time accepting this than they did. many times i felt myself feeling left out as all my friends were off doing something else. they would usually invite me, but i didn't want to do what they were doing. i did, however, want to be hanging out with them. i would also feel like i was crazy. there must be something wrong with me, i would think. why didn't i want to go to that house party with those people i didn't know? isn't that what people my age are supposed to do? instead, i wanted to do the things my parents and their friends wanted to do. or worse yet, i would want to do what everyone's grandparents wanted to do. this was clearly a problem.

recently, though, i've come to terms with this part of myself, and a large part of it is due to one phrase. my fourth grade teacher once told my mom that i was "an old soul." even when i was eight, she could see it. having an old soul seems like a compliment. it seems like something that i have that other people don't. it seems like it is a privilege to have. just as i was starting to embrace this idea of myself, my manager at my job told used the same exact phrase to describe me! if two completely unrelated people use the same phrase about me it must be true.

now i realize that what i have viewed as a problem all these years is actually just evidence of a larger character trait, and this character trait is something that i really like about myself. so if i like that i tend to be mature and composed, i will also like that i enjoy my valentine's day plans involve brunch and playing monopoly all afternoon.

balance

when i was growing up, i was constantly walking into things or, even worse, people. i would be lost in my own thoughts, absent-midedly pondering how it was that radios actually worked or if there were little men in the traffic lights who changed the colors from red to green. then, THWAP--there is a tree branch or BAM--into the back of my mom's legs. i was that cat you who is always under your feet when you needed to get somewhere quickly. more than once, my mom would sigh and say, in only the way that single mother carrying four bags of groceries who was just hit from behind by her daughter walking into her could say, "you are not the only person in this world!"

but, like the cat under your feet that you always let back on your lap, a minute later my mom would be listening to my latest revelation on the fact that there had to be some reason radios worked other than magic, or the fact that it was definitely little men in the traffic lights who changed the colors. all was forgiven because there was nothing malicious about my oblivion.

as i have grown up, i've gone to the other side of the spectrum. one of my friends once said that i would rather make myself uncomfortable than knowingly impose that on someone else. the other day a woman next to me on the train was talking loudly on her cell phone. i was more worried that she would think that i was annoyed at her than i was actually annoyed at her.

i imagine the best way to solve this dilemma is to find some sort of balance. of course i should never be so into myself that i tune out the rest of the world. that could be potentially unsafe, and just not something i would want to do. what if everyone was so self-absorbed that no one cared about what was going on in haiti? at the same time, though, i have to make myself a priority at some point.

unknowingly, starting this blog was a major step to finding that balance. it's here that i can get lost in my own head without accidentally walking into a moving car. maybe being in my twenties isn't really about finding myself, but figuring out how to be myself. it's about figuring out how to balance the different parts of my personality. maybe it's about knowing that there are other people in the world, but also knowing when to ignore them all. or maybe that's not what my twenties are about. maybe that is what life is about.

civil rights

when i was in elementary school, i asked my mom what she remembered from the civil rights movement. i know there was some sort of school assignment involved--i didn't just come up with this topic of conversation myself--but the details of exactly why this conversation happened are in the blurred area of the fish eye lens through which i tend to focus on memories. the focused part of my memories are usually dominated by my emotions toward the situation, with a few key details thrown in there.

the details i remember are of what my mom was telling me she remembered. she lived in the south in the 1950s. one day, she went to a water fountain to get a drink. i don't remember where she was or why she was there. there were two water fountains. one said white and the other said colored. she drank out of the colored water fountain because she thought that colored water was going to come out of it. needless to say, she was a bit disappointed when it was just regular water.

at the time she was telling me this, i was probably about as old as she was in her memory. i remember being dumbfounded by her innocence. (perhaps i wouldn't have used those words at the time, i might have described it best as "whoa.") my mom, who didn't seem to be ancient in years, had a point in her life where she didn't know what segregation was and didn't understand why there were two different water fountains. there was a time in her life when the word "colored" did not have the stigma associated with it today. there was a time in her life where she was expected to use a different water fountain that black people.

at the time, i also began to form small sense of awareness about my mother as a person. there was so much that i did not know about her life. of course i knew she had a life before having children, but at that moment i started to understand just what that meant. having a life means she was living, and living means that she had many moments and experiences that had nothing to do with me as a child.

in college, i developed an affinity for studying recent history. i took about 6 classes that covered america in 1900, many of which specialized in 1968 to the present. i wonder if my interest in the recent history might have stemmed from this conversation with my mom. the history of the '60s seems far more personal to me because of how it could shape one little girl's life.

for me, martin luther king, jr. day is not necessarily about the man. he was a great man, an inspiring man, and a man who died because of that. but i was not shaped by him. i was shaped by the people he affected--the people whose lives he changed. the holiday is not really to honor the man, but rather the movement that he represented. it's to honor a movement that completely changed the the social structure of my mom's life. it's about the fact that i have only ever known water fountains that anyone can use.

resolutions

at the beginning of the month i joined a gym. the fact that the beginning of the month was the beginning of january, and in turn, the beginning of the new year, had little to do with my decision. the gym, being the gym of my alma mater, offers discounted membership to alumni. in order to receive a greater discount, you need to join for either six months or a year. in order to join for six months or a year, you have to join in one of two specific time periods. one of those is january.

as i began telling people about my new membership, i was constantly asked if the reason i joined was because of a new year's resolution. i would calmly explain that no, in fact, i joined in january because i wanted the discounted rate and to be able to exercise during the winter. as more and more people began to question my motives, i got more and more defensive. IT'S NOT A RESOLUTION, i wanted to shout at anyone who would listen. but no one seemed to care.

so, to make myself feel better, i started thinking of all the reasons why resolutions are silly. first and foremost, there is the stigma. i felt this even though i didn't have a resolution. everyone asked me what my resolution was. then they skeptically asked me if i was really going to stick to it. it wasn't even a resolution and the whole world seemed to think i was going to fail already.

next, i thought, who needs new year's anyways? if i wanted to make a change in my life, i could do it anytime during the year. the change of the calendar was a silly reason to think about what in my life needed sweeping change.

then, i continued, there is the fear. what if my life does need sweeping change? and what if i actually fail at it? what if people remember this was my resolution and ask me about it? making a resolution usually means broadcasting it to the world. if i don't make a resolution, i don't have to tell anyone, so no one will know if i succeed or not.

and finally, i surmised, there is the whole theory of it. making a resolution for the year means that i am not happy with something in my life. by focusing on the negative, i am just reinforcing what is wrong with my life instead of appreciating what is good. then if, and when, i do fail at the resolution, it will not only make me realize that there is one thing that i want to change about my life, but i will feel even worse because i can't even change it!

so i had myself convinced. resolutions were not for me. i want to be happy, so that means keeping any hint of a resolution to myself. but something about that conclusion just didn't sit right with me, because when it comes down to it a resolution is no more than a goal. am i really saying that having goals is bad? do i really believe that i am destined to fail at my goals? is it really so bad to be held accountable for that which i strive to accomplish?

i realize now it is not so much that resolutions are wrong, it is that my attitude toward them is wrong. a successful resolution-ist should be able to see goals not as something that means life now is bad, but rather that life in the future could be different. not drastically different, just different enough to put a new spin on next year's existence. resolutions are goals and goals lead to change. so in fact, i do have a resolution this year. i want to accept enough change to be able to create some goals so that next year i can proudly share my resolution to anyone who asks.