Cheery Philosopher

Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.

That would be me.

Bad moods are the pits. Especially when they make no sense. Even a cheerful boyfriend serving me eggs and coffee this morning as I scowled at him from underneath a mane of bedhead could only crack my face into a smile for the short commute to work before I proceeded to brood at my desk about my purpose in life.

With my grad school application constantly on my mind for the past three months, but no time yet to actually put pen to paper, my stress level has reached that embarrassing point at which the smallest point of tension causes me to erupt into an irrational explosion of "What am I doing with my life?!"

BUT, the good news is that after only about an hour wasted by staring blankly at nothing in my little corner cubicle, I remembered this lovely blog and suddenly felt something close to inspiration and excitement. Writing has always made me feel grounded and helped me to find direction, and so as soon as I take the opportunity to put some coherent sentences out there into the world, I feel like I have a focused purpose again.

Not only that, but it cheers me up! I went from sulking about my bank account and questioning every plan I've ever made, to appreciating the little things that are worth writing – and thinking – about. Like the lunch date I have with my mom in an hour. And the work out I have scheduled for the morning. And the free Starbucks drink loaded up on my card. And the trip to Costa Rica happening in three weeks!

All the big things work out eventually and all the little annoying things don't really matter. And a good mood is simply so much easier than a grumpy one. ("The only one you're punishing is yourself," lectured the boyfriend, who has some sort of invisible shield that defends his chirpy mood from my early morning evil eye.) It's harder work to frown than smile!

Apparently writing goes one step beyond helping me prioritize my thoughts and turns me into a nauseatingly cheery philosopher (first one ever) so let's end this before it gets sickening. 

Happy Friday!

99 B-line

Throughout the summer I think I did quite a good job of shedding the student label and immersing myself in the work world. Not only did I stick with my two retail jobs, but also I started my internship. This allowed me to take the career girl mentality to a whole new level as I wore my adult dress pants and stationed myself at my little cubicle from 9 to 5 (allegedly) every day. But, as the September rain started to fall and the 99 B-line became increasingly stuffed with textbook-toting coffee-chugging UBCers on my commute every morning, I realized more and more that I belong with them. It feels a little strange to hop off the bus at Granville Street and make my way to an office building where I have to exchange pleasantries in the elevator and swap stories at the water cooler (actually . . .) rather than continuing down Broadway for another twenty minutes and falling out of the overflowing bus doors onto campus.

I always thought that I loved being a student because I love reading, writing, and learning. This is all true. But it's so much more than that! Being a student is a complete lifestyle, and it suits me much more than this one. I prefer to carry my coffee in a travel mug from home and wear my oversized sweaters and scarves to a cozy library where I can read in peace. Instead, I am currently sitting at a desk with a giant Starbucks beside me in shoes that hurt my feet and the constant buzz of activity around me, waiting on edge for the next dreaded pop-in (my boss has developed the uncomfortable habit of incessantly popping his head into my cubicle at whim). I prefer to spend my afternoons and evenings in Calhoun's writing and editing papers, surrounded by other wired students simultaneously loving and hating their lives. Instead, when I am finished work for the day, there's nothing I have to do! (True, the freedom to then do whatever I want is a refreshing change that is appreciated once in a while, but for the most part it just makes me feel listless and useless.) I prefer to organize my own time, making lists and plans of all the books I need to get through and tests I need to study for and checking things off as I go. Instead, I am given assignments at any given time that need to be completed immediately, resulting in an irrational cycle of having nothing to do (hence random 4pm blog post) and then suddenly having a whole lot to do. (Now!) My days are made up of mellow lulls followed by frantic panic, which surely can't be too healthy. (I prefer the healthy dose of constant and tense stress doled out alongside a full course load and a $600 textbook bill.)

That's not to say I'm not loving my internship. I learn a lot - about a lot of really random things. (For instance, today I did extensive research on safe injection sites, Lululemon, Chris Hadfield, Botox . . .you name it.) It's all very interesting and I do enjoy it. But I don't love the context. It's just not part of my personality to be satisfied by sitting still all day and working for somebody else. And that is why I am so excited to start working on my grad school application. This time next year, fingers crossed, I will get to stay on the 99 all the way, hunched in the humid corner with a pile of books and papers. In comfortable shoes. With cheap coffee.

A Quick Rant

As somebody who has always enjoyed writing and considered it to be a strength of mine, it has been extremely eye-opening to leave the academic writing world and enter the professional (somewhat) writing world. In school I wrote dozens and dozens of term papers, and received high marks for the most part. I would spend weeks writing outlines and constructing sentences and paragraphs that were exactly what I wanted them to be, and then would have them returned to me with a few scribbles in the margins, sometimes a much appreciated comment on the last page, and a big red letter that was, usually, the one I was hoping to see.

Nowadays, I don't get the indulgence of my comfy desk in my quiet home and a due date months in the future. I don't even get the luxury of writing in my own voice. Instead, I have a little cubicle in the midst of organized (to be generous) chaos, an assignment with a deadline that most often is in the next several hours, and the task of writing about something I don't know about in a voice that sounds like somebody else's.

The result? A lot of editing, and a transformation of the words I crafted into other words entirely. My editor gives me an assignment - more often than not it is about a topic I know absolutely zero about - and I research as quickly as I can before writing the exact number of words she requested. I give it to her, and wait to receive a new copy of it that is completely unrecognizable. Words crossed out, words added in, and sometimes no sign at all that the words I'm now reading have been rewritten in their entirety. Often, it's pretty diheartening to see that somebody else didn't love your work as much as you did. And to sit back down and rework a piece that you have reread to death already can be quite draining.

Thank goodness for my own little blog that allows me to toss my destroyed assignemnt to the side for ten minutes so that I can let my thoughts flow as they come, with nobody to then take this from me and make it sound like an ominous anonymous voice. I can write the first thing that comes to mind and just leave it there, knowing that nobody else can touch it. How refreshing!

But now, because that deadline really is looming, I have to get back to work. This quick rant makes that task seem a lot less daunting.

Having It All

I'm one of those people who gets nervous when things are going too well because I assume that something will have to go wrong soon to even things out. But for the past couple months I've been on a roll (knock on wood) and I'm starting to believe that maybe (just maybe) you really can have it all.

That's not to say that it all comes down to luck. You obviously have to work hard to play hard and great things don't just come to you without a little blood, sweat, tears, and good karma. The good news is that I don't mind working up a sweat and shedding a few tears if the pay off is what I have now. This summer I have managed to score my dream job and my dream guy and maintain my self-sufficiency and independence, while working three jobs but making time for a lot of fun and adventure. I've never been more exhausted, but I've never been happier or more satisfied.

My "dream job" (for now at least - it constantly changes and tends to be whatever is happening in the moment) is working at the editorial department at Vancouver Magazine. This internship is ideal in every way - who wouldn't want to talk to the greatest chefs in Vancouver, drink our best local wines, and get all the inside details on every event in this city, all while writing and editing? - besides the fact that it is more or less unpaid. Which means that it is totally worth doing, I just also have to do a lot more. So I fit about 30 hours per week of work at my two favourite stores around my full time position at the magazine in order to keep my cozy and colourful little apartment all to myself. Needless to say, my day planner is almost as packed as it was when I was a student (which is saying a lot).

I often work two shifts a day, and I can't even remember my last day off, yet this summer has consisted of  an endless number of runs on the Sea Wall, a countless number of drinks at my favourite Yaletown and Kits bars, and a continuous exploration of summer in Vancouver. From The Chief to Bard on the Beach, from the Night Market to the Sea Wheeze, from beach days to movie nights, from the Rush concert to the Fun. concert, from the fireworks nights to The Bachelorette nights, and from the Sunset Festival to movies in the park, this summer has somehow been filled with all the love, laughter, and fun I could have asked for, despite my 70 hour/week work schedule. I really have had it all. Especially because the play time is not nearly as worthwhile without the work time.

I think perhaps the biggest sacrifice I've made in the name of "having it all" is (besides sleep . . .) this blog! My poor little blog has been so abandoned! So I am making a vow to myself now that this becomes a priority on the list. It will be scheduled into my planner if that's what it takes. Writing is far too important to me to allow it to fall by the wayside. Once I've got that under control, I really will have it all: the most supportive family ever, the most wonderful friends in the world, the best boyfriend a girl could want, a home that is all mine, a job that I've dreamed of for years, constant laughter and adventure, and my own little blog that keeps me company on rainy and slow days at the office. Could you ever want anything more?

Knock on wood. (The cynicism isn't completely dead just yet.)

Doing Nothing Alone

My phone has picked up the annoying habit of spontaneously shutting off for no reason at all and refusing to turn back on again. When this happened in the middle of my lunch break yesterday as I was making plans for later that night, I had a minor panic attack resulting in a hurried trip over to the mall to track down a Telus store that would allow me to charge it up quickly. By the time the sales associate there grasped the concept that I did not want to purchase either a new charger, a new battery, or a new phone, my poor little guy only got about three and a half minutes in the "recharge center" before I had to rip him off life support and run back to work. This meant, unfortunately, that he didn't make it, leaving me disconnected from the world for the rest of the afternoon.

Of course, my initial plan was that I would rush straight home after work to get my phone plugged in and charged up so that I could commence communication with those people who had been so rudely interrupted and subsequently ignored due to my phone's malfunctioning. But over the course of an afternoon in which I did not find myself repeatedly grasping for my phone, giving and receiving constant updates, I started to feel a little more relaxed about being disconnected.. And I had a brilliant thought. What if my day didn't revolve around texts and plans and expectations? What if I just gave my phone a little time off, and did whatever I wanted to do, all alone? The sun outside added to the appeal of this novel idea, and so I decided that I would not, in fact, sprint home the second I got off work, but instead would wander aimlessly and easily wherever I felt like going.

Me being me, I happened to have a book, a Starbucks card, and a PB&J sandwich in my purse, and that's all I really need for a date with myself. I spent the evening downtown, wandering in and out of stores, reading and tanning at a park on the water, and exploring the city I've always loved but am still getting to know. I didn't talk to anybody; I never even checked the time. And I noticed on my way home after several hours on my own that not only was I meandering at half the speed I normally walk at, but also I had been standing at an intersection for about five minutes and had never pressed the button that I usually incessantly push in my frantic hurry to get to wherever I'm going.

Alone time doing nothing (without a phone!) left me relaxed and gave me time to think through those thoughts that everyday life blocks out. It forced me to enjoy my own company and to make myself happy. It de-cluttered a brain that is often overflowing with lists and plans, allowing me to focus purely on the present moment. It was a much needed break from a hectic life that is often concerned with balancing schedules and accommodating others. Alone time doing nothing made me focus on myself, right now, which is something I rarely do, but is something that is very necessary.

But, it was able to be so positive because, even though I was alone, I never felt lonely. I knew that once my phone sputtered back to life I'd be thrown back in the midst of family and friends who, although they may keep me glued to my screen a lot of the time, they also keep my life full and happy. So, even though I enjoyed my afternoon date with myself, doing nothing alone, I think I may start carrying my phone charger in my purse. Because a date like that will need to be scheduled in next time; I don't know if I've grown enough to be able to handle another impromptu phone coma quite yet.

The Real World

I've had an addiction to the MTV "reality" show The Real World for the past five years or so. I watch every new season, and I've even spent some time perusing the first few seasons online.. The show started out twenty years ago as an attempt to actually portray the real world by putting six or seven twenty-somethings from all different walks of life in a house together so that the gay man with AIDS can become friends with the struggling cartoonist and the sorority girl (The Real World San Francisco, circa 1993 - my favourite season). The show has developed over the years, changing from portraying the work and relationships of smart, unique, and entertaining young adults to exposing the drama and horror of dumb and hot, but just as entertaining, individuals. Nevertheless, the show has remained a constant guilty pleasure in my life. There's something about the illusion of reality that makes disgusting television feel less pathetic.

When I was in school, The Real World was a weekly hour-long study break during which I could feel my mind melting and shutting down as I watched drunken catfights between half-dressed crazies unfold before my glazed over eyes. It was a welcome relief to embrace the mindlessness of ultimate stupidity. Now that I am no longer a full time student, the hour I spent every week for the past two months watching The Real World Portland can't be justified so easily. Not only is the necessity of sixty solid minutes of not thinking slowly fading, but also my entrance into the real world makes the act of watching The Real World all the more disheartening.

Everybody always warns that the real world isn't as magical as imagined by us youngsters, but that doesn't stop most people from jumping at it as soon as possible. I was never like that; I was never itching to be done with school so that I could take on the responsibilities of an adult. I was genuinely satisfied with the trials and tribulations of student life, and even though I definitely had more than my fair share of stressful moments, I always knew that I was lucky to be a student in the first place and I was content right where I was. I was pulled and pushed into the real world against my will, but now that I'm here I'm finding myself to be quite content once again.

My real world now consists of balancing two jobs and enduring that annoying ache at the back of your mind labelled "financial stress" that never really goes away. And it involves having to deal with all the little day to day things by myself when they would be a much smaller deal if endured alongside a parent or partner. But it is also defined by independence, freedom, and adventure. I have a home that is only mine, I have easy jobs that are fun and that I actually enjoy going to, and I am busy purely because I want to be. I have had many moments of daunting loneliness and uncertainty, but ultimately, I have yet to discover the horrors of the real world that were supposedly awaiting me. I go to work to pay my bills, and other than that I do whatever I want to do.

Now when people ask me what I am, I can't tell them I'm a student anymore. So my answer has become "a recent graduate who is going back to school asap" because, as much as I'm enjoying the real world, I can't do this forever. I am a perpetual student, and am itching to crawl back to the pale-faced, sleep-deprived, red-eyed world of reading and writing all day every day. The real world is a fun place to be for now, but I think I am much better suited as a student who emerges from her textbooks every so often to enjoy being a spectator of The Real World.

For now though, I have another year and two months of the real world spread out before me, and the only thing to do is run at it full on, grasping those moments not taken up by lectures and libraries, and making my world as exciting as it can be. It's time to live in the moment and do whatever I want. I may have to put The Real World on hold for a bit, but it will be there waiting for me when I return to my true self.

Running

I love to run!

My love of running has developed slowly but surely over the past several years. I first learned that I could run when I was in grade eight. For PE we all had to run six laps of the track, and having never run more than about two laps before - due to my insistence that, if anything, I was a sprinter (which most definitely was not the case) - I had no idea what was going to happen. I ended up finishing second in my class, after a girl whose legs were the length of my body, and suddenly I was a 'long-distance runner'. (Nevermind the fact that 2.4 kilometers hardly qualifies as 'long-distance'.) Due to the unfortunate coincidence that my PE teacher at the time was also my track coach, I spent the rest of high school running cross-country races in the Fall and 800, 1500, and 3000 meter races at track events in the Spring. I did a decent job, but I hated it, and preferred to put my time and energy into school and dance. It didn't help that I was forced against my will - even in those seasons when I refused to go to practices, the coach still insisted that I go to the meets. I would never run on my own time either, but then would find myself lined up at a start line amidst a bunch of other fourteen year old girls in their weird track cleats and intricate braids. I was not happy. So high school was the start of my relationship with running - but it was a rocky start. I was starting to get to know it, but really didn't like it.

In university, I had to start working out of my own accord. There were no more dance classes, field hockey practices, or soccer games to keep me in shape by accident, and I needed to stay active. The gym was good for some things, but what I really wanted was to be outside. And so I started running voluntarily. I had no idea how fast or how far I was running, but I'd work up a sweat and feel good about myself. I still found running to be pretty boring, but at least it had a purpose for me this time. It was keeping me in shape. So running developed from something I despised to something I found useful. It kept my legs toned and my cardio in check, and I got some fresh air and sun along the way. I still didn't love running, but I was beginning to value it.

Last year, I decided I wanted to run a half-marathon. That goal came out of the blue, driven by my competitive spirit when a few girls I knew told me that they would be running the 21.1 kilometers around Vancouver in August. I signed up completely on a whim, and drew up my own sad little training plan based around my LSAT study guide. I spent all of April-July alternating between LSAT practice questions and long runs up and down hills in the summer sun. Training for that half marathon was an interesting revolution in my relationship with running. Unlike high school, I'd chosen voluntarily to run a race. And unlike the previous couple years, the goal wasn't to simply stay in shape and get a work out. However, I still wasn't really loving running. I was doing this to compete, pure and simple. But I wasn't even doing it for myself, I was doing it for my boyfriend. I didn't want to, or need to, show off to him, but I wanted to show off for him. I was always bragging about him to my family and friends and I wanted him to have something to be proud of me for. I thought that maybe running could be that thing. I ended up running a pretty good race considering my complete lack of experience, and  it worked: we were both proud of me. Yet my relationship with running remained stagnant. It had served its purpose, but I didn't love it.

Despite my cry when I crossed the finish line - "I am never doing that again!" - I almost immediately registered for two more half marathons for the following summer. The sense of accomplishment that overcomes your body and mind when you've pushed yourself to your limits is something that needs to be felt again once you've experienced it once. I ran regularly throughout the Fall and Winter, but didn't take it too seriously until the upcoming race was a couple months away. This time frame just happened to coincide with my life falling to pieces, and suddenly my relationship with running reached a new height. Running was one of my best friends when I was all of a sudden alone and confused and overwhelmed. To be able to go outside and run anywhere, being totally alone and allowing my mind to either think or not think as my body exhausts itself, is completely amazing, and helped me through many rough days. I was falling in love with running.

My first half marathon of the year was a couple weeks ago, and that was a big day for me. I thought I was ready to run the race, but in the day leading up to the run I was depressed. Last year, I ran it for my boyfriend, who cooked me dinner the night before and got up early to drive me to the start line, and who ran almost as much as I did that day so that he'd be able to cheer me on along the way, because I wanted him to be proud of me. Now, I was standing at the start line, alone in a crowd of 10,000 people, with nobody to run this race for. Just like the year before, my family was waiting along the route with signs and cheers to keep me going, but I still felt lost, because my purpose for running was gone. I didn't want to do it, and I must have looked pretty dejected because people I didn't know were patting me on the back and telling me, "Don't worry! You'll finish!" I wasn't worried if I could finish the run or not, I was confused. Why was I doing this?

It wasn't until about ten seconds before the race began that I finally realized I was going to have to do this for myself. I was going to run because I want to, and I enjoy it, and I can do it on my own. So that's what I did. It wasn't a pretty run - I hurt my knee after about only four kilometers and spent the rest of the race nauseous and limping - but it was still amazing. Not only did I not stop, but I actually finished faster than I did last time. I proved to myself that I can do these things on my own, and, just as importantly, I fell in love with running for the sake of running. Not as a work out, and not as a competition, but as something that I enjoy purely for the feelings it gives me.

Now, I love running. We have a great relationship. I don't run simply because it keeps me in shape. And I don't run just because I can compete. I run because it is what I love to do. It calms me down when I'm upset. It gives me energy when I'm tired. It releases tension and stress, and emphasizes excitement and purpose. It allows me to clear my head and organize my thoughts, to make plans, to let my mind wander. It keeps me company. It lets me be alone. Most of all, I love running because it is through running that I learned how much I am capable of, all on my own.