family

A few months ago, if you would have asked me for a definition of my family, I would have told you that it includes all people related to me. I also could have named all of those relatives without having to use any of my toes in the process. The problem I started to see with that definition, though, was semantics. Related is defined as connected or associated. So by my own definition, my family would be everyone I know. That is definitely not true.

What I really meant, I figured, was blood relation. Family is anyone related to me by blood. That made sense until I realized that on my very short list of family members, two of them were family by marriage, meaning I shared no blood with them. This was becoming slightly more complicated than I expected. Also, wasn't being family more than about who gave birth to whom? Having a family member meant being loving and helping each other through tough times. By that definition, then, were all of my friends my family members, too?

Then, my shifting thoughts of family were completely blown up by the recent (i.e. yesterday) marriage of my second cousin (by blood!), Lindsey, in New Jersey. The problem with Lindsey's wedding was that I met all of these people that my mom considered family that a) I never knew existed and b) weren't actually related to her by blood! These were my mom's maternal uncle's wife's family members. My mom spent years growing up with them. Being incredibly confused by the whole situation, I kept making the point to anyone who would listen that I wasn't actually related to any of these people. After I started talking to them more and more, though, my point changed slightly. "We aren't actually related," I would say, "but I want them as my family!" These were nice, fun, loving people who all had a good time together. Who wouldn't want to be a part of that?

The problem was that they didn't fit any of my definitions of family, except for my first one which I wrote off as lame. Sure, they were connected to me, but they were not related to me by blood, they did not marry anyone related to me by blood, and the hardest time they had helped me through was deciding what drink to order at the bar. And yet, I felt connected to them.

In trying to make me feel less confused about the whole situation, my mom explained that being family wasn't about how you were blood related, but having a shared history with someone. The only problem? I had no shared history with any of these people, except for the few that I had met at the bridal shower two months before. That hardly seemed like enough to be family, though.

As I continued to talk to them, as they let me dance my crazy-awkward-white-girl-from-maine style with them, as they talked to me about sports, as they hugged me goodbye, and as we promised to see each other again, I understood that family has nothing to do with blood, marriage or relatedness. All it has to do with is sharing love. When I love the same people you love, we are family.

laundry

for the first time in my life, i live alone. no roommate, no family, just me and those possessions i deemed worthy enough to box up and move with me. going into this situation, i knew there were going to be perks (yes, i did just leave my dishes in the sink for two days without washing them, thank you very much) and drawbacks (my stuffed animals don't talk back), but what i didn't realize was how my outlook on life would be drastically altered. the time i get in the shower in the morning is no longer determined by when it will be free, but rather when i need to get in there to get to work on time. that 78 pound box of furniture that i ordered without knowing the weight is no longer something for a group of people collaborate on carrying, but rather a way for me to meet the new neighbors as i bring up pieces of the table in 5 different trips. weekday evenings are no longer something that just pass by without much thought or effort, but rather events to be for which i need to plan.

honestly, i was frightened by these weekday evenings of being alone. five whole days of just me and nothing else. what does someone who lives alone do with four hours a night? i worried i would go crazy holed up in a studio apartment with no cable, no roommate, and no pet. immediately, i started to think of things i could do at night that involved leaving my apartment. the less time surrounded by no one the better. the first thing that came to mind was laundry. the building i live in does not have any laundry machines in it, and the nearest laundromat is about a five minute walk away, so i figured one night a week i could do laundry. it would get me out of the apartment, take up some time, and be productive.

little did i know, that my focus on doing laundry would help me cope with the new lives-alone version of myself. first, it gave me purpose in figuring out how to plan for and get through my other nights alone. it turns out that having small, mundane goals for each night is exactly what i need. doing a load of laundry only takes an hour, but it somehow makes those four hours easier to get through. i now try to come up with a small goal for every night of the week. some nights i make myself a nice dinner, others i watch a movie, and sometimes i even make a goal to clean my apartment. that small bit of direction to start out the evening makes the rest of it feel like something to enjoy--a reward for accomplishing what i set out to do.

now that the laundry has helped me figure out how to structure the rest of my life, i realize that i actually enjoy going to the laundromat. that's right, laundry, a chore i used to hate doing, is now something i actually enjoy. how did that happen? logistically, doing one load of laundry for an hour a week is much better than doing two, or three, or even four at a time once a month. one load isn't that heavy and takes very little time to fold. hanging out at the laundromat isn't even that bad. i can read my book and i've even made friends with the man who works there. so if i ever feel like i am missing out on social interaction by living alone? i can just go do some laundry.

as i was sitting in the laundromat tonight, i realized doing laundry once a week wasn't just about making my life a little easier, or talking to some random people about cats. it's not that i don't mind doing laundry now, i actually have a fondness for laundry that was never there before. when i felt like my life was spinning in many different directions and i couldn't see anything through the fog of alone-ness, the simple act of doing laundry helped me center, focus, and move forward. is it weird that i now have an emotional attachment to doing laundry? probably. but every week for a few moments as i sit and watch my clothes spin around and around in the dryer, i am reminded that if i can do laundry on my own and have it be okay, i can do anything on my own and have it be okay.

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.