Cavities.

It's a little like this. It's like reaching out toward the doctor's hand when she's handing you the sucker.. your mom is nodding her head, it's okay, it's okay to take it. But then you remember what the dentist said about your teeth during the last visit. You had to have a cavity filled. It hurt. You cried. But you also got through it.

You take the sucker (green apple flavored, your favorite), but don't unwrap it. It stays hidden in the cupholder all the way home. You want it. You even roll the smooth surface around in your palm, knowing it's going to taste amazing. It's green apple, of course.

After the twenty minute drive home, your mom looks back at you and tells you to take out your trash. You tell her there is no trash, you never opened the sucker. You take it in the house, holding it tightly in your palm.

Finally, when you can't stand it anymore, you sit on your bed and tear off the clear plastic wrapper. It tastes a million times better than you remembered from the last time. The dentist's warnings dissolve..the cavities are nonexistent..one sucker couldn't possibly hurt.

Right?

It's like that. There is no logic anymore. These are matters of the heart, simply. Or rather, not so simply. Because matters of the heart are not simple, ever.

Hmm.

Some meaningful words, perhaps?

"To create a family with a spouse is one of the most fundamental ways a person can find continuity and meaning in American (or any) society. I rediscover this truth every time I go to a big reunion...and I see how everyone is held so reassuringly in their positions over the years. First you are a child, then you are a teenager, then you are a young married person, then you are a parent, then you are retired, then you are a grandparent - at every stage you know who you are, you know what your duty is and you know where to sit at the reunion. You sit with the other children, or teenagers, or young parents, or retirees. Until at last you are sitting with the ninety-year-olds in the shade, watching over your progeny with satisfaction. Who are you? No problem - you're the person who created all this. The satisfaction of this knowledge is immediate, and moreover, it's universally recognized. How many people have I heard claim their children as the greatest accomplishments and comfort of their lives? It's the thing they can always lean on during a metaphysical crisis, or a moment of doubt about their relevancy - If I have done nothing else in this life, then at least I have raised my children well.

But what if, either by choice or by reluctant necessity, you end up not participating in this comforting cycle of family and continuity? What if you step out? Where do you sit at the reunion? How do you mark time's passage without fear that you've just frittered away your time on earth without being relevant? You'll need to find another purpose, another measure by which to judge whether or not you have been a successful human being. I love children, but what if I don't have any? What kind of person does that make me?"

-- Elizabeth Gilbert
Eat, Pray, Love

Day 89.

Last night, I stared and stared at my GRE books (which I bought in anticipation for, you know, actually studying this summer), and I panicked. You see, I am not a test-taker. I have never been a test-taker. After how many years of taking tests and watching the material dissolve before my eyes, I still don't know how to really, truly study.

I opened the first GRE book, which I paid a hefty amount for, and began to cry. Why, oh why, does my future have to be measured by standards that I cannot live up to? It's not that I'm incapable of comprehending (well, when it comes to all levels of math, I very well might be), nor am I incapable of preparing myself the best I can ... this is just ten and a half times worse than the SAT and ACT.

I took the SAT twice and the ACT twice. And I am not your average over-achiever. Does this tell you anything? What most people take once and send away for college, I suffered through 4 times.

So... my plan? I stayed up into the wee hours of last night registering myself a date for this (kill me softly) test. Saturday, October 23rd, 8:30AM. That's my date. I paid $160 dollars, and it took every ounce of my being to push the "complete registration" button.

Day 1 of studying starts now. I have exactly 89 days to prepare myself, to hopefully score a cumulative score of at least 900.

It seems like so much time, too much time, but it's not. Not when I'm trying to keep up with my 20 credits of everything, extra curriculars, two jobs, and maybe a social life on the side?

Oh Lord.

Milestone?

I attended my first viewing/memorial service/burial today. It was terrifying. And lovely?

Death, so close, makes me want to listen, be attentive to every story, everything. I don't know about you, but thinking about death makes me want to become a better person, so that when it's my time to go, everyone that knew me can nod their heads and say, say.

I don't think I've cried continuously for 3 hours in a very long time, if ever.
It was one of those good cries, though. The kind of cry that left me exhausted and numb and questioning every aspect of everything. I will greatly miss my Mamaw. She was, indeed, loved.

What am I saying?

Of course there's hope. There's always hope.

O's and musings.

Brown.

Is there a flicker of hope?

tag, you're it.

Apparently there is a weaponry near our house. To be more precise, it's on the left side of our garage. It consists of a large rock. And two trash cans. This is where my brother sits to collect and sharpen his weapons.

...

Should I be worried?

No. Because he sells his masterpieces to me when he's done. It's this game we play. He names each rock after its sharpening, names like "Triple Blade" and "Killer". I ask him why he names them so (is dangerously the word?). Because this one slices through your neck, he replies calmly. Of course. I should have known this.

After all, I was a tomboy growing up. I played as hard as I could just to come home at the end of every day with an accomplished dirt ring around my neck.

It's just funny. Last night I spent some time looking at some of the goofy things my Uncle bought off me as a little girl. Pieces of paper, folded like squares, colored in sloppy designs with the intricacies of little girl hands. McDonalds toys, still in the clear plastic wrapper. Crayons. Begging someone to let me clean their shoes (a dollar per shoe, mind you). I was quite the little sales person.

It's neat seeing Gavin take up where I left off, one killerdangerous weapon at a time.

Contortionist, much?

Various roommates and friends who for some crazy reason have a taste for exercise have (finally, somehow, I have no idea why) inspired me to try yoga. I have this awful purple mat that I bought on one of my spurts a few years ago and I pulled it out, watched the dust fall off in snowy chunks, and smiled at it as if it were an old friend.

I can do this, I told myself eagerly. I can so do this.

I move daringly toward the living room, pop in the 30 minute DVD, and roll out the ugly mat. As soon as I feel my feet squish into the whatever-it's-made-of, I sigh. This can't be too bad. Michelle does this all the time. Granted she's probably way more limber than I am..because she actually uses her body in the gym...but oh, I can do this.

The DVD is set somewhere between Hawaii and Heaven. Immediately, jealously kicks in. What the hell? If I'm going to contort my body into various, ungodly positions, I at least want to hear waves rush at my ankles, and feel the tickle of wind on my sweaty, dripping forehead.

So I closed my eyes. I'm a good pretender.

The woman, Susan something or other, held her hands to her face in a prayer-like position and uttered "Namaste". I burst into fits of laughter. My sister came downstairs and asked what I was laughing about. I told her she should join me in this fantastic endeavor. So... she did.

Before we got too started, the instructor pulled out a set of "bricks" - two blue, soft-looking square..bricks - and began to place her hands on them and sit on them...and so I paused the video.
Nobody told me I would need bricks. Ugly purple mat? Check. Sports bra? Yep. Bricks? Uh.

So I used my resources; books. I used a thick Shakespeare compilation for my right brick, and a mix between a novel and a Bartender's Guide for my left brick. Let's just say none of these "bricks" worked out too well. At all.

Then the twisting and stretching and laughing ensues. Instructor Susan wants us to touch our toes. Um. After finally, a little, brushing my toe-skin in an exhausted huff, Lacey starts to laugh, saying I'm doing it wrong. How in the world can I be doing it wrong? Your knees are bent, she points, and the whole laughing process continues...

And as we place our butts high and mightly in the air, and Susan tells us to close our eyes, feel our bodies, I can't keep track of when to exhale and inhale, and how can you not feel your body when pangs of utter un-stretchable ligaments are tearing and ripping at the seams? My goodness, Susan, take it down a notch!

Finally, after my books have slid all over the mat into places where they are not supposed to be, and my legs feel like jell-o and my purple ugly mat lied to me several times about its comfort, turned to Lacey and said, "Well. That was fun. See you tomorrow morning?"

Virginia is for

Lovers.

Comparing Crème brûlée to Jello.

I tried converting this post into a poem that ended up sounding like nails on a chalkboard, so writing a narrative must suffice. It's the middle of the summer...and where have I gone?

Today, last summer, I was with Michelle doing flips into the Adriatic Sea along the coast of Croatia. I was more tan that I have ever been in my entire life. The smells of Italy and the foods of Greece lay just within my reach. I managed to call a ship my "home".

Where have I gone? What is marking this summer as unforgettable? It marks the last summer I'll be at home, that's for sure. But what stands out so far?

I've worked for a month in Ohio, which became more a part of me than I care to admit. I've come back home to stay with my family, who I miss more than I care to admit. I've spent a week in New York working with Dan Chaon and a group of talented writers who instructed and pushed me forward in my own writing. In three days, I'll be spending a week in Virginia, relaxing and catching up on my reading.

This is what I've done as far as travels go, and although I still manage to compare last summer to this summer, I wouldn't trade art class with my siblings or listening to Moni tell stories about her childhood for Turkey or Egypt.

There is, indeed, a time for everything under the sun. Accepting this fact is an ongoing process for me, but I think I've finally come closer to smiling about it.

How nice it must be!

The coolest aspect about my summer art class is that since I'm officially the "old woman" of the group, 7th graders make me friendship bracelets and beg me to trade whatever silly band I decide to sport that day.

My brother, sister, and I are all signed up for this art class, which is to say, a beginner's course introducing different styles and techniques. It's an absolute blast. The fact that I can mingle with elementary and middle-schoolers just means more writing material.

One girl, Abby, is officially devastated that I will not be attending next week's session because I'll be in Virginia, so she vowed to have me a friendship bracelet made by the time I get back. She gave me two of her prized silly bands and gave me a hug at the end of today's class that probably means we'll be BFFs by the end of the summer. Oh man.

As we hovered over our boards, each trying to be exact and precise about the scales on our fish, we conversed about her college-aged sisters and her family's uh-mae-zing lake house in New York. She wants to be an artist when she grows up. I told her I want to be a writer when I grow up.

We slurped down two crayon-shaped popcicles without dripping on our papers, and after 2.5 hours, we'd managed to cover more topics in conversation than most of my friends and I can cover in a week's worth of time.

With every word that popped out of her mouth, I tried to imagine myself again at her age but could not seem to conjure my 13 year old self. It's nice, every once in a while, to be reminded of the days when all I needed to care about were battle wounds from riding my bike and which outfit I wanted to wear the next day.

Pick me! Pick me!

I may not be writing every day, but I have been doing my research in the field of prospective grad schools. Finally, I've come up with my top 3 places to apply - all with intricate, tightly-woven programs that can not only further my writing skills, but push me toward my passion for travel.

1. University of Wyoming, Laramie.
2. University of Nevada, Las Vegas.
3. University of Alaska, Fairbanks.

After months of ongoing research into these programs, I can picture myself, finally, somewhere after I graduate from Behrend.

Now all I have to do is apply and writewritewrite.

Frou Frou.

As children, all we want to be are adults. We want to dress up in Mom's dresses, we want to wear Dad's ties, we want to play house and pretend to yell at unruly children. We want to cook dinner for a family of six. As teenagers, we want to drive cars, and drink beer with the guys on a porch under the stars. We want to kiss the mouths of people our age instead of the rosy cheeks of grandmothers and aunts.

As children and teenagers, we want to dream and pretend and play. And at that age, it's okay, even expected.

As adults, we are taught how to drive cars and handle money and not overdraw bank accounts. We are given educations and provided with the skills needed to have jobs, careers. We are decision-makers and financially independant and stressed out.

As adults, as adults.

What about the in-between? Where does freedom come into play? I feel like I'm stuck, somewhere between retirement age and child. I am an adult who struggles with commitment and contentment and wants nothing more than to break loose.

I don't think the black and white statistics cover people of adult age who don't want to live in a proper house with a proper family, holding a proper job, relying on proper financial coverage, or me.

Over pizza and wings tonight, I sat with a good friend and we talked about how our plans for this summer both somehow went awry. We were both okay with it. And then she asked me what I planned on doing next summer. Our conversation went something like this:

"Well, I don't plan on sticking around here."

"Really? Where do you plan on going?"

"Across the States. Maybe Europe. All I would need is a plane ticket for Europe."

She covered her mouth, eyes wide. "With what money?"

Well, I'm not going to touch that argument, but I shrugged and said something else, and then we switched conversation topics. I remember thinking, it doesn't matter. I work two jobs during the school year. That's what money.

And.

When the hell am I going to have no other commitments like this ever again? I'm tired of friends, family looking down upon the fact that I don't have 'acceptable' ambitions. I'm not a cookie-cut 21 year old. I suffer severely from curiosity and the urge to act upon my daydreams. I'm not a stranger to fantasizing and acting upon my whims. I'm going to make mistakes, and it's okay.

"Just let me go."

That's what I told her.

Revelation, of sorts.

I just realized I have dimples in my lower back.

Wow.

It's so nice to learn something new everyday!