Everyone always asks the same question on you birthday: Does seven feel any different than eight; is 16 drastically different than 15? How about 21 versus 20?
Having just done the last one, I have to admit that for the first time, it does feel a bit different.
I have just passed into American adulthood. In the United States, you can drive at 16, vote and serve your country at 18, but you're not really considered an adult until you can mosey up to the bar and order a beer (or whatever). It was weird to sit at dinner yesterday and drink a margarita with my Mexican food. It all still feels very dangerous and foreign.
My friends and I have been talking a lot recently about growing up. Since most of my friends are graduating, this is a topic of great interest, one that brings a barrage of uncertainty and general terror. Yet, there is a surprisingly low concentration of excitement in this mix.
As American children, adulthood is the coveted status. As little girls we play house, wanting to be mommies with husbands and houses and families. As teenagers we wear make-up and dress to simulate age beyond our years. But I've noticed recently that once adulthood is actually within our reach, we seem to hit a wall. College undergrads forgo jobs and responsibility for two more years of graduate school. Middle-age women get Botox and boob-jobs.
It seems to be a case of situational dissatisfaction. We all want what we can't have. To children, the responsibility of adulthood and the ability to make decisions for oneself is incredible because the ability doesn't exist. For adults, the idealism of being young and free of responsibiliy is the utmost desire in the face of "grown-up problems" like a job, a mortgage and kids.
Why can't we be happy with what we've got? As some one standing in limbo, on the edge of the knife of adulthood and childhood, I'm scared to tip both ways. I'm not quite ready for one and I'm not quite ready to leave the other.
I think it's all a matter of adjustment. With time, hopefully I'll learn to accept my new place. Either that, or come 40, I'll just invest in some plastic surgery. Only kidding.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Sunday, March 9, 2008
fitting
Have you ever had one of those moments when you realize that your life fits? I hadn't had one in a while.
Friday night was Fellow's Mixer Night - the incoming freshmen vying for a place in Elon as a Journalism and Communications Fellow come to our building and meet the current Fellows.
I was in demand this year, being the managing editor for our newspaper, and it was weird to suddenly be somewhat important. But it wasn't the power that got me, it was the conversation.
As I was standing there schmoozing with the students, selling Elon and its glories, I started talking with a few of my professors. The conversation turned to grammar and punctuation, and split infinitives. I marveled as I listened to these people discuss something so esoteric as a split infinitive, passionately debating whether they're actually a grammatical error or not.
I stood there, smiling, offering my input, and I realized that I could not have chosen a better place to try to belong.
All my life, I've been a wordy. No one ever really seems to get it - boyfriends, parents, friends, no one seems to understand how I can find extra spaces between words, or anguish over dangling modifiers, comma splices or the correct use of affect versus effect. No one seemed to understand, until Friday. They got it. My professors, I'm just like them.
I feel like it's easy for cinema buffs, or painters or biologists -- there are plenty of people who get excited about those things. Copy editing, that's a niche market. There are so few of us. It was so nice to finally feel like I fit in.
Call me a nerd, or a dork, or a geek, whatever. But you know that when you're writing your resume, cover letters, grad school applications and/or wedding vows, you hand them to me, and they'll never sound better.
Friday night was Fellow's Mixer Night - the incoming freshmen vying for a place in Elon as a Journalism and Communications Fellow come to our building and meet the current Fellows.
I was in demand this year, being the managing editor for our newspaper, and it was weird to suddenly be somewhat important. But it wasn't the power that got me, it was the conversation.
As I was standing there schmoozing with the students, selling Elon and its glories, I started talking with a few of my professors. The conversation turned to grammar and punctuation, and split infinitives. I marveled as I listened to these people discuss something so esoteric as a split infinitive, passionately debating whether they're actually a grammatical error or not.
I stood there, smiling, offering my input, and I realized that I could not have chosen a better place to try to belong.
All my life, I've been a wordy. No one ever really seems to get it - boyfriends, parents, friends, no one seems to understand how I can find extra spaces between words, or anguish over dangling modifiers, comma splices or the correct use of affect versus effect. No one seemed to understand, until Friday. They got it. My professors, I'm just like them.
I feel like it's easy for cinema buffs, or painters or biologists -- there are plenty of people who get excited about those things. Copy editing, that's a niche market. There are so few of us. It was so nice to finally feel like I fit in.
Call me a nerd, or a dork, or a geek, whatever. But you know that when you're writing your resume, cover letters, grad school applications and/or wedding vows, you hand them to me, and they'll never sound better.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
pulling back
I've been having trouble reflecting lately. My life, since my last post, has performed some serious acrobatics. And I find myself struggling to keep up. I'm terribly afraid that the continuous movement and forward momentum, the constant push ahead, is going to catch up with me soon, and it's really not going to be very pretty.
They say burning the candle at both ends is bad for you - but it's nothing a little vitamin C can't fix. Elon students, I've found, have an obsession with this tasty citrus nutrient. They believe, and I've realized that I do too, that orange juice cures all ails.
But as I sit here with my Minute Maid, I'm struck by the fact that orange juice, no matter how potent, will not cure a restless mind.
Two of my best friends at Elon were fitted for their caps and gowns today. They're graduating at the end of this semester and going on to start their lives. One is thinking of moving to Singapore or South Korea to teach English, and the other is considering moving to London to work for a study abroad coordinator as an RA. My entire life at Elon has involved these two in some way. The last year has not seen a day without them. Seriously. So what do I do next year? Make new friends, obviously. I know this sounds really very petty and third grade, but the prospect of a year without my surrogate family is terribly daunting.
In the last few weeks, I've learned more about myself and my friends than in the lifetime before that. I have found a strength in their unconditional love that I thought only existed in bloodlines. I was so wonderfully wrong.
I've always been a firm believer that true friends never leave you, that all relationships have something of value to offer and that no one ever enters or exits your life for no reason. And in today's technologically advanced, effortlessly connected society, it's next to impossible to lose touch. But nothing beats a late-night movie, a drive to Greensboro or Sunday night dinners.
I've never been very good with change, and I think part of the reason is I never anticipate it very well. I never expect it until it's bumping noses with me, pulling my hair and pinching me, begging me to take notice.
I find myself today wishing I could pull back a bit on the reigns. But putting a stop on life isn't living, and legs were meant to act as more than just pillars.
So I must move along with the changes, embrace the futures of my friends and myself, and know that in this Lion King-coined circle of life, there is no such thing as an end.
They say burning the candle at both ends is bad for you - but it's nothing a little vitamin C can't fix. Elon students, I've found, have an obsession with this tasty citrus nutrient. They believe, and I've realized that I do too, that orange juice cures all ails.
But as I sit here with my Minute Maid, I'm struck by the fact that orange juice, no matter how potent, will not cure a restless mind.
Two of my best friends at Elon were fitted for their caps and gowns today. They're graduating at the end of this semester and going on to start their lives. One is thinking of moving to Singapore or South Korea to teach English, and the other is considering moving to London to work for a study abroad coordinator as an RA. My entire life at Elon has involved these two in some way. The last year has not seen a day without them. Seriously. So what do I do next year? Make new friends, obviously. I know this sounds really very petty and third grade, but the prospect of a year without my surrogate family is terribly daunting.
In the last few weeks, I've learned more about myself and my friends than in the lifetime before that. I have found a strength in their unconditional love that I thought only existed in bloodlines. I was so wonderfully wrong.
I've always been a firm believer that true friends never leave you, that all relationships have something of value to offer and that no one ever enters or exits your life for no reason. And in today's technologically advanced, effortlessly connected society, it's next to impossible to lose touch. But nothing beats a late-night movie, a drive to Greensboro or Sunday night dinners.
I've never been very good with change, and I think part of the reason is I never anticipate it very well. I never expect it until it's bumping noses with me, pulling my hair and pinching me, begging me to take notice.
I find myself today wishing I could pull back a bit on the reigns. But putting a stop on life isn't living, and legs were meant to act as more than just pillars.
So I must move along with the changes, embrace the futures of my friends and myself, and know that in this Lion King-coined circle of life, there is no such thing as an end.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
getting stuck
It always happens to other people, a cousin’s best friend, an uncle, a coworker or maybe a professor. It’s not a cancer diagnosis, or a car accident, or any thing else as doom and gloom or tragic. This is on a different level of horror completely.
I’m talking about spending the night in Chicago O’Hare Airport.
I did it. Much to my dismay. I’m not proud, nor am I happy. But I did it. I can add myself to the list of unfortunate travelers who’ve been stuck in that terrible airport in the middle of the winter. I know that if I took a poll, everyone I talked to would know someone who’s been stuck there. One would think that the grand-poobah of O’Hare would have figured it out by now. It’s the Midwest. It snows every year. It shouldn’t be a big deal. But apparently snow is still a new thing in Chicago. Go figure.
I spent the last weekend of Fake Break in Grinnell, Iowa. I managed to make it out of that fine Midwestern state with no problem on Sunday afternoon. It was my layover in Chicago where things started to go wrong.
I arrived in Chicago at about 6 p.m. Central time only to find out that my plane had already been delayed about an hour. As we finally boarded the aircraft at 7 p.m., the snow outside began to fall lightly, ominously, but soon escalated to the snow equivalent of a downpour.
Before I even got on the plane in Iowa I knew I was in for an adventure. The trip out had been too easy; I kept saying to myself, I’m going to get stuck! I boarded the plane anyway. What is one to do when one knows they’re in for trouble but can’t help themselves? I couldn’t jump up and yell, Let me off the plane! I wanted to get home. I had to get back to Elon. And they probably would have arrested me thinking I was a terrorist. I was doomed. It’s hard to know helplessness until you’ve been stuck in the snow on an airplane that’s pulled back from the jet-way.
So I sat. And I sat. They de-iced our plane. We taxied to the runway. And we sat. Then the de-icing material stopped working, so we taxied back. And then we sat. Then the flight attendants were over time. So we got news ones. And then we sat. About two hours later, the captain comes over the loud speaker to inform his weary passengers that the crew has now gone “illegal” and it had become unlawful for us to remain on the plane. You see, at this time, we could have flown to Washington, D.C. and back about three times.
We got off the plane and there I stayed. Booked on the 8 a.m. flight the next day, on stand-by for the 6 a.m. flight. I could have stayed in a hotel, but to be back for the 6 a.m. flight, I would have had to have left the hotel at 4 a.m. I made the decision to stay in Chicago about a half hour after getting off the plane, which happened to be at 12:15 on Monday morning.
I found my gate, B5, and made myself cozy on a bench. At about 2:30 a.m. the cleaning lady came through with her industrial vacuum. Seemingly unaware that the pile of coats, bags and feet belonged to a person, she kept running the vacuum under my bed, hitting the legs of the bench with torturous inconsistency, slowly driving me mad.
I wanted to jump up suddenly and yell, STOP! But was afraid I’d give her a heart attack, for which I would have probably been sued. It wasn’t worth it.
I made it out on the 6 a.m. flight, only to find out upon my arrival in D.C. that the 8 a.m. flight had been canceled. I made it back to my house around 10:45 a.m. on Monday, took a much-needed shower, an hour-long nap and then hopped in the car for my ride back to Elon.
Five hours, one stop at McDonald’s and one speeding ticket later, I was back in Burlington, cursing my luck but happier than I’ve ever been to see campus across the railroad tracks.
I’m talking about spending the night in Chicago O’Hare Airport.
I did it. Much to my dismay. I’m not proud, nor am I happy. But I did it. I can add myself to the list of unfortunate travelers who’ve been stuck in that terrible airport in the middle of the winter. I know that if I took a poll, everyone I talked to would know someone who’s been stuck there. One would think that the grand-poobah of O’Hare would have figured it out by now. It’s the Midwest. It snows every year. It shouldn’t be a big deal. But apparently snow is still a new thing in Chicago. Go figure.
I spent the last weekend of Fake Break in Grinnell, Iowa. I managed to make it out of that fine Midwestern state with no problem on Sunday afternoon. It was my layover in Chicago where things started to go wrong.
I arrived in Chicago at about 6 p.m. Central time only to find out that my plane had already been delayed about an hour. As we finally boarded the aircraft at 7 p.m., the snow outside began to fall lightly, ominously, but soon escalated to the snow equivalent of a downpour.
Before I even got on the plane in Iowa I knew I was in for an adventure. The trip out had been too easy; I kept saying to myself, I’m going to get stuck! I boarded the plane anyway. What is one to do when one knows they’re in for trouble but can’t help themselves? I couldn’t jump up and yell, Let me off the plane! I wanted to get home. I had to get back to Elon. And they probably would have arrested me thinking I was a terrorist. I was doomed. It’s hard to know helplessness until you’ve been stuck in the snow on an airplane that’s pulled back from the jet-way.
So I sat. And I sat. They de-iced our plane. We taxied to the runway. And we sat. Then the de-icing material stopped working, so we taxied back. And then we sat. Then the flight attendants were over time. So we got news ones. And then we sat. About two hours later, the captain comes over the loud speaker to inform his weary passengers that the crew has now gone “illegal” and it had become unlawful for us to remain on the plane. You see, at this time, we could have flown to Washington, D.C. and back about three times.
We got off the plane and there I stayed. Booked on the 8 a.m. flight the next day, on stand-by for the 6 a.m. flight. I could have stayed in a hotel, but to be back for the 6 a.m. flight, I would have had to have left the hotel at 4 a.m. I made the decision to stay in Chicago about a half hour after getting off the plane, which happened to be at 12:15 on Monday morning.
I found my gate, B5, and made myself cozy on a bench. At about 2:30 a.m. the cleaning lady came through with her industrial vacuum. Seemingly unaware that the pile of coats, bags and feet belonged to a person, she kept running the vacuum under my bed, hitting the legs of the bench with torturous inconsistency, slowly driving me mad.
I wanted to jump up suddenly and yell, STOP! But was afraid I’d give her a heart attack, for which I would have probably been sued. It wasn’t worth it.
I made it out on the 6 a.m. flight, only to find out upon my arrival in D.C. that the 8 a.m. flight had been canceled. I made it back to my house around 10:45 a.m. on Monday, took a much-needed shower, an hour-long nap and then hopped in the car for my ride back to Elon.
Five hours, one stop at McDonald’s and one speeding ticket later, I was back in Burlington, cursing my luck but happier than I’ve ever been to see campus across the railroad tracks.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
stress stinks, YouTube works
Winter Term. Wow. Where to begin? Perhaps with the monstrous work-load I've taken on over the past two weeks. Perhaps with my ever waining desire to work while it's 20 degrees outside. Or perhaps with my inability to keep in touch with my out-of-state friends due to my monstrous work-load.
That being said, my class is fantastic. I'm learning more than I could have ever hoped about Flash and interactive media. I find our class discussions so fascinating, and I'm really starting to feel like I can use my creativity to create something both functionally and aesthetically interesting and innovative. I'll have to figure out a way to post my projects for viewing. I'm not sure if I can do it here, but I'll figure it out.
In my class we've been viewing a lot of online interactive content. There's this Web site, which is essentially the Web site for an annual Flash convention, that has lists of award-winning Flash animated Web pages. It's mind-boggling and totally worth a visit. Look at the Ikea Dream Kitchen in the 2006 winners. It's amazing. I love the 3D elements and the musical accompaniment - the integration is so seamless and so perfect for their product. I love it! I've been "dorking out" pretty hard core the last week and a half or so, going through tons of YouTube videos and awesome Web sites for class.
My professor is big on breaking up monotony with fun YouTube videos, many of which I've been passing on to my friends. Please go watch David Blaine Street Magic. It's a bit vulgar, but oh so hilarious if you understand the context. We've been seriously discussing YouTube as well as this sort of new wave, or Web 2.0, of how people use the internet.
YouTube has become my savior. Sad, I know. But true. Mindless entertainment has become my vice. And to some extent, I'm really okay with that. There's a ton of stuff, good and bad out there, that can be used educationally and to just break up the day.
That said, I'm going to leave you with an embed of something I found quite amusing, albeit a bit odd...
cheers!
That being said, my class is fantastic. I'm learning more than I could have ever hoped about Flash and interactive media. I find our class discussions so fascinating, and I'm really starting to feel like I can use my creativity to create something both functionally and aesthetically interesting and innovative. I'll have to figure out a way to post my projects for viewing. I'm not sure if I can do it here, but I'll figure it out.
In my class we've been viewing a lot of online interactive content. There's this Web site, which is essentially the Web site for an annual Flash convention, that has lists of award-winning Flash animated Web pages. It's mind-boggling and totally worth a visit. Look at the Ikea Dream Kitchen in the 2006 winners. It's amazing. I love the 3D elements and the musical accompaniment - the integration is so seamless and so perfect for their product. I love it! I've been "dorking out" pretty hard core the last week and a half or so, going through tons of YouTube videos and awesome Web sites for class.
My professor is big on breaking up monotony with fun YouTube videos, many of which I've been passing on to my friends. Please go watch David Blaine Street Magic. It's a bit vulgar, but oh so hilarious if you understand the context. We've been seriously discussing YouTube as well as this sort of new wave, or Web 2.0, of how people use the internet.
YouTube has become my savior. Sad, I know. But true. Mindless entertainment has become my vice. And to some extent, I'm really okay with that. There's a ton of stuff, good and bad out there, that can be used educationally and to just break up the day.
That said, I'm going to leave you with an embed of something I found quite amusing, albeit a bit odd...
cheers!
Saturday, January 5, 2008
breathe out
The holiday season is always hectic for everyone. I don't think I'd ever experienced, or truly understood that until this year. I was home in Maryland for about 10 days total; the whole time rushing around running errands, seeing friends or just being occupied by something.
My family spent about a week in Arizona, like we do every year. This was the first year without my grandmother. It's funny how when someone leaves us, everyone else sort of scoots in to fill the space they left behind. It's like when you have birds on a wire, and one flies off, all the rest shove down. But we can only fill so much, there will always be a void, I think. My aunts, my mother, my cousins and I can make the cookies, the salad dressing, the mashed potatoes and do the wrapping, the cleaning and the laundry. But Christmas just didn't feel like Christmas this year.
New traditions must be forged, though in the company of ones still in tact. We did our annual cousins movie trip and our big family party. But they were held at my aunt Suzy's house instead of Grandma's. Oh that's another thing, it will always be Grandma's house. I mean no disrespect to Grandpa, but that's just how it's always been.
She's everywhere in that house on 44th Lane in Glendale. Her scent is still on her clothes, and her touch still lingers on the pots and pans and the candy dish that sits on top of the clothes dryer.
It was a very bittersweet Christmas, but I'm glad to be back at school. It's not that I'm an escapist, I am perfectly happy to face sadness and grief, but there are moments when you're ready to just breathe out and let the sadness disappear, surrounded by friends and family.
I'm excited about winter term this year. I'm taking a class about interactive and new media. Essentially, it's a class about Internet publishing and digital imaging. We had our first class yesterday (they started school on a Friday, I know, I'm taking it up with the proper authorities) and I think the class shows a lot of promise to be something both informative and engaging in terms of artistic growth and thought development.
I'm going to try to blog more this month. I've fallen off the wagon a bit. I'm going to be heavily engrossed in my search for an internship. So, if anyone knows anyone in the art publishing industry who's looking for an eager student to fill an internship position. Call me.
My family spent about a week in Arizona, like we do every year. This was the first year without my grandmother. It's funny how when someone leaves us, everyone else sort of scoots in to fill the space they left behind. It's like when you have birds on a wire, and one flies off, all the rest shove down. But we can only fill so much, there will always be a void, I think. My aunts, my mother, my cousins and I can make the cookies, the salad dressing, the mashed potatoes and do the wrapping, the cleaning and the laundry. But Christmas just didn't feel like Christmas this year.
New traditions must be forged, though in the company of ones still in tact. We did our annual cousins movie trip and our big family party. But they were held at my aunt Suzy's house instead of Grandma's. Oh that's another thing, it will always be Grandma's house. I mean no disrespect to Grandpa, but that's just how it's always been.
She's everywhere in that house on 44th Lane in Glendale. Her scent is still on her clothes, and her touch still lingers on the pots and pans and the candy dish that sits on top of the clothes dryer.
It was a very bittersweet Christmas, but I'm glad to be back at school. It's not that I'm an escapist, I am perfectly happy to face sadness and grief, but there are moments when you're ready to just breathe out and let the sadness disappear, surrounded by friends and family.
I'm excited about winter term this year. I'm taking a class about interactive and new media. Essentially, it's a class about Internet publishing and digital imaging. We had our first class yesterday (they started school on a Friday, I know, I'm taking it up with the proper authorities) and I think the class shows a lot of promise to be something both informative and engaging in terms of artistic growth and thought development.
I'm going to try to blog more this month. I've fallen off the wagon a bit. I'm going to be heavily engrossed in my search for an internship. So, if anyone knows anyone in the art publishing industry who's looking for an eager student to fill an internship position. Call me.
Monday, December 17, 2007
successes big and small
My grandmother will turn 90 in a week. Not many people ever get the chance to say that. I tell people my grandmother is 90 and they all congratulate me, as if I had something to do with it. They say, "You're lucky you've got good genes," or it's just a, "wow."
We had a surprise party for her on Saturday, and as I looked across the dinner table, I realized that it's not her good genes I'm so lucky to have, but her in general.
My grandmother is Armenian. When she was three years old, she and her sister came through Ellis Island to escape persecution in their home country. My great great uncle was drawn and quartered and left on a doorstep. They had to get out. They left for America seeking a better life, bringing with them very little and setting out to meet the rest of their family, a few siblings and a couple cousins and uncles who had come before them.
To say it wasn't easy is a great understatement. I don't actually know how they did it, but they did. And their posterity thanks them immensely. But through it all, growing up in a new, strange place, living with adversity because of their race both in their homeland and in America, some how, my grandmother turned out to be one of the most fantastically optimistic people I've ever met. Nothing gets her down.
It's funny when you look at your parents and grandparents and realize where your traits and attributes come from. I have my dad's eyes and hair, my mom's smile and cheek bones. I have my dad's laugh, and his habit of eating everyone else's food. And I have my mom's sensitivity and talkative nature.
But then I look at my grandparents. All of those traits come from them. My maternal grandmother was about 5 feet tall had the same blue eyes that I have; she was just as stubborn, and just as gossip-prone as I am. My paternal grandmother is the same, about 4' 9", stubborn and sure, but still sweet, that is until you give her a juicy story. I was doomed to be a little person with a big mouth. It's in my heritage.
As I watched my grandmother this weekend, and thought about all she's done in her life, all the people she's met and all the things she's seen. I became more and more proud of myself. At the age of 20, things are really coming together for me.
I was just named Managing Editor for Elon's student newspaper, The Pendulum. I had an article published on the front page of the Burlington Times-News. And over the past few weeks, I have sort of mapped out the rest of my life. I've decided to go to grad school for art history or art criticism, something I've always loved but just never thought I could do.
I still miss London every day, but I think my life is slowly leading me back there. We'll see.
We had a surprise party for her on Saturday, and as I looked across the dinner table, I realized that it's not her good genes I'm so lucky to have, but her in general.
My grandmother is Armenian. When she was three years old, she and her sister came through Ellis Island to escape persecution in their home country. My great great uncle was drawn and quartered and left on a doorstep. They had to get out. They left for America seeking a better life, bringing with them very little and setting out to meet the rest of their family, a few siblings and a couple cousins and uncles who had come before them.
To say it wasn't easy is a great understatement. I don't actually know how they did it, but they did. And their posterity thanks them immensely. But through it all, growing up in a new, strange place, living with adversity because of their race both in their homeland and in America, some how, my grandmother turned out to be one of the most fantastically optimistic people I've ever met. Nothing gets her down.
It's funny when you look at your parents and grandparents and realize where your traits and attributes come from. I have my dad's eyes and hair, my mom's smile and cheek bones. I have my dad's laugh, and his habit of eating everyone else's food. And I have my mom's sensitivity and talkative nature.
But then I look at my grandparents. All of those traits come from them. My maternal grandmother was about 5 feet tall had the same blue eyes that I have; she was just as stubborn, and just as gossip-prone as I am. My paternal grandmother is the same, about 4' 9", stubborn and sure, but still sweet, that is until you give her a juicy story. I was doomed to be a little person with a big mouth. It's in my heritage.
As I watched my grandmother this weekend, and thought about all she's done in her life, all the people she's met and all the things she's seen. I became more and more proud of myself. At the age of 20, things are really coming together for me.
I was just named Managing Editor for Elon's student newspaper, The Pendulum. I had an article published on the front page of the Burlington Times-News. And over the past few weeks, I have sort of mapped out the rest of my life. I've decided to go to grad school for art history or art criticism, something I've always loved but just never thought I could do.
I still miss London every day, but I think my life is slowly leading me back there. We'll see.
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