Rage Against the Machine: Or, More Accurately, My First World Problem

It's been over a year since my last post. That was a difficult piece for me to write, one that I anguished over. It was intensely personal, and that terrified me. I've been trained to be wary of posting things on "the Internetz," and even though my social media habits are pretty un-extraordinary, the paranoia is hard to shake.

This piece is another one I've been hemming and hawing about for a while.

On the evening of December 1, 2014, my boyfriend got down on one knee. When he stood up, he was my fiancé. Both of us tend to counteract our affection for each other with sarcasm (or do other people follow up their proposals with "Gotcha, sucker!"?), so just writing those two sentences has made me uncomfortable. So I'll just leave the mush with this: I love him more than bears. All the time. And I am very excited to marry him.

Taking cute engagement photos like a coupla schmucks.

If you're thinking "Hmmm...that sounds like a disclaimer," you'd be right. You see, I've been struggling with how to discuss my wedding with other people. I'm really excited to marry the love of my life (okay, that's the last of the mush), and I'm really excited to have a party with booze and good food and cupcakes, and I'm really excited that I have an excuse to drag beloved friends and family members from across the country to celebrate with us. And it's a pretty significant part of my life at the moment--in fact, get me going, and there's a distinct possibility you'll regret bringing it up or letting me bring it up.

But a lot of people are telling me how much I should enjoy planning my wedding. I love how positive and excited people are, and I try to match that energy, but I'm not sure if "enjoy" is the word I would use sometimes.

There are things I have enjoyed doing. I loved picking out our save the dates. I loved dress shopping with my mom. I love making flowers out of book pages, the one DIY thing I'm capable of. I can't wait to have a menu tasting later this summer. There are some things that aren't so fun--paying deposits, setting up appointments, keeping track of the budgets--but that comes with the territory of planning a big event.

But frankly, the closer the wedding day gets, the more anxious I get. Not about my choice in future husband. Not about something going wrong on the big day (though it would be stressful and upsetting). Nothing has to be "just so." Right?

After all, we'll be surrounded by people who love us (or, at least, generally tolerate us). They're excited for us (or at least excited enough for the free food and alcohol to fake it). As long as we get married and they get to celebrate with us, we've done our job. A fancier party with beautiful (and themed) décor is just a bonus. Right?

Yes and no.

And isn't my wedding day supposed to be MY day? Isn't this the day where the bride gets to be pampered and adored and loved and celebrated and complimented and just be a princess? Isn't this the day where everybody else--mom, grandma, bridesmaids, planner, officiant, vendor, even the groom--has to drop everything and solve the bride's problem? Right?

Yes and no.

You see, that's what the blogs and the shows and the magazines and general culture tells you: it's your day, honey. You're the bride. You want to wear a tiara? Great. Bedazzle yourself--we've got edible rhinestones to add even more glam to the cake. Want to wear your cowboy boots? Show 'em off! You can even do bandana pocket squares for the groomsmen! Is your favorite color purple? Here's a selection of color palettes to coordinate those plum bridesmaid's dresses with the groomsmen's bow ties!

That's what the "biz" tells you: it's your day, and we have this great machine that churns out all the advice and tools and props to make it everything you want it to be.

Here's what it doesn't tell you:

You're upset because the napkins aren't "just the right shade of green?" Wow, way to be a demanding bridezilla. You don't care if your bridesmaids wear their hair up or down? Everybody hates a bridechilla (I swear I'm not making this up) who can't make her own decisions. You want to save money? DIY your centerpieces, sure, but how can you think about nixing a videographer or photo booth? You have your heart set on the art museum? That's so funky and reflective of your personality--but you have to have a full meal, and you can't afford one from any of the three caterers that they allow you to use.

They tell the bride* that the only expectations she has to meet are her own, all the while feeding her new expectations on Pinterest boards and reality shows and wedding blogs. (*Caveat: Grooms can be affected by this too, but brides are the target audience of most of the wedding industry.)

And I've bought in to it. Lord help me, the wedding industry got me good.

I thought I'd be immune--I was never the girl who had many ideas about how my wedding day would look. I figured my dress would be white, my family would be there, and I would get to slow dance with the boy of my dreams. I didn't even attend a wedding until I was sixteen, so I had no point of reference. And when my mom talks about her wedding, it's usually about one of two things: 1.) how she disliked her dress, the simplest one she could find in 1984, and 2.) how it only mattered that she, my dad, and God were there. I guess it's accurate to say that my mom is a marriage person, not a wedding person.

And, thankfully, I was in college before Pinterest became a thing (or I was in college before I realized Pinterest was a thing. I'm pretty slow to get on any social media bandwagon). When I did join, it was weird to see so many girls my age--most of them not even dating--with wedding boards. But I quickly learned that this was pretty normal on Pinterest. There were even women with wedding boards who are already happily married. But, knowing that it would be unhealthy for me to have one (and, yes, because I'm a little judge-y), I made and kept a pact with my best friend that I wouldn't start a wedding board until I was engaged. So I rarely gave wedding-related pins more than a passing glance.

In my naïveté, I also thought I'd be immune to most wedding trends because, frankly, a lot of them don't interest me. I didn't want an over-the-top wedding with a ballroom and five-tier cake, but I didn't want an outdoor wedding with hay bales and mason jars either. I didn't want to spend a ton of money, but I'm too lazy and untalented to do 99% of DIY projects. So I thought I fell into the between place, the happy medium. I thought all those "perfect wedding" photos and articles wouldn't affect me, because I'm a special snowflake with my own ideas.

In a way, I'm right. I'm engaged now, with three months until The Big Day, but I've still ignored at least 95% of wedding pins. My family (and his) have been nothing but supportive and helpful. My fiancé and I have decisively prioritized based on what we want on our day and at our party, and most of the advice we've gotten has been solicited. I'm a lucky bride in my little bubble.

But still, the doubt creeps in. Every decision I've made has been colored by fear because of the expectations I've unknowingly swallowed and accepted as my own. Does my beloved wedding dress really fit my also-beloved venue? Do I need to have a theme? Is my color palette in keeping with the season? Will Grandma be mortally offended if I don't give her a corsage? Do I have to buy wedding favors? Should I cover up my tattoo? How long can I talk about my weird wedding anxieties before someone wants to smack me?

Answer: their mileage may vary.

The crazy thing that I've found is that my lifetime of experience with anxiety has actually been a blessing (never thought I would say that). It definitely heightens these worries and fears, but it has also made me very good at recognizing their source. I can pick my voice out of the chorus of doubts (though sometimes a stressed-out phone call to Mom is necessary) and forage on ahead. That, combined with the aforementioned fortune of such a supportive family, has prevented me from being a blithering idiot for more than a few hours at a time.

Based on the many articles I've read, I'm not the only bride or groom who feels the tug-of-war between self and others. Your wedding is supposed to be a reflection of you and your values and your tastes. After all, everyone likes a spin on a classic, a bit of a change-up--but there's a reason why you never deviate from the family recipes on Thanksgiving. A lot of people at that table are going to be disappointed that Grandma's sweet potato casserole or the French's green bean casserole has been replaced by some imposter with truffle oil or pancetta. Not that the new dish necessarily tastes bad--in fact, it could taste way better--but it's not what you've been looking forward to all year.

Your wedding is supposed to be what you want--but it still has to feel like a wedding.

But no one seems to agree 100% on what is absolutely necessary for a wedding to be a wedding anymore. In a truly traditional Western wedding, the bride's job was to show up in her best dress (white not necessary), say the vows to her groom in a church, and then eat the food her parents/community/servants had decided was best for the occasion. Now? Couples write their own vows. They have fun photo shoots on the courthouse steps. Grooms have ditched the tux. Cake can be replaced with ice cream sundaes or pies. Flowers can be replaced with books and brooches and even Lego figurines. Stiff family portraits aren't as important as goofy shots of the wedding party. The way couples of all shapes, sizes, genders, and cultural backgrounds have turned their Big Day into THEIR Big Day is pinned and shared and liked and commented on and...judged.

One of my new favorite blogs, Offbeat Bride, specializes in showcasing the weddings you don't normally see on Pinterest--Celtic handfastings, brides in ridiculously dapper menswear, and cosplaying wedding parties abound. But even they, with their community so dedicated to uplifting and helping couples who want to throw some or all tradition out the window, have been plagued by judges. The creator of the site even wrote a post calling out the meanies (read it here: http://offbeatbride.com/2008/07/tacky). My favorite line?

Tacky: the dark monster that creeps in at night … tacky is the manifestation of your fears that people won't approve of your wedding.

Weddings have become so deeply personal, yet so subject to the judgment of others. I've been so guilty of that judgment, even as I worry about it being turned on myself. I know someone is going to be disappointed or disapproving, because there if there is one sure thing about this word (besides death and taxes), it is that you can't make everyone happy. Period. As a people-pleaser, that stresses me out a little (and sometimes more than a little).

To be honest, it makes me angry. I want to enjoy wedding planning without having to deal with all this stuff. Parties aren't usually my thing, so to have one tailor-made for me? Unbelievably exciting. But I constantly find myself asking the same question: Is this necessary because it's necessary to me and mine, or is it necessary because it's what the wedding business tells you is necessary? And sometimes the answer is hidden way deep under layers of tradition and etiquette and Pinterest and doubt. Sometimes I can't find the answer at all. (I still have no idea why wedding favors are a thing, especially since it's the first thing wedding websites tell you to ditch if you're on a budget--but also the thing they've tried to sell me the most.)

I've been doing my best to maintain my sense of self--after all, I'm not just a bride. It's one pretty exciting day, but the plan is to have a lot more of those--just with a husband as my partner in crime. I've made choices from the beginning to make The Big Day more low-key. I've kept my now-extant (and, yes, helpful) wedding board secret. I've asked for the opinions of people I trust--my mom, my fiancé, my best friends, my future mother-in-law--but also try to keep the majority of our discussions unrelated to the wedding. And, knowing that I'm totally buying into the wedding machine and enabling my not-so-nice snarky side by allowing my inner wedding critic to opine, I'm trying to exorcise her.

As the wedding day gets closer, the more I realize that I need an attitude adjustment:

Good for you, not for me. --Amy Poehler

Don’t pick on people, jump on their failures, criticize their faults— unless, of course, you want the same treatment. That critical spirit has a way of boomeranging. It’s easy to see a smudge on your neighbor’s face and be oblivious to the ugly sneer on your own. Do you have the nerve to say, ‘Let me wash your face for you,’ when your own face is distorted by contempt? It’s this whole traveling road-show mentality all over again, playing a holier-than-thou part instead of just living your part. Wipe that ugly sneer off your own face, and you might be fit to offer a washcloth to your neighbor. --Matthew 7:1-5 (The Message, purely for the use of "boomeranging")

If they don't like it, they don't have to come. --Mom

Right now, I'm selfishly focusing on the hope that others will give me the grace and space conveyed in those words. I need that hope to quiet all the voices of the wedding machine, which are totally cramping my style. But it's a two-way street--I need to be more thoughtful about applying that grace and space to others.

I can't think of a wedding where I haven't had fun--dancing or not, booze or not, perfect weather or not, sit-down dinner or not, wedding favors or not. So I'm going to focus on that
--for everyone else's sake as well as my own.

Except if there's fondant. That stuff is gross.

Pictured: something that is not frosting pretending to be as delicious as frosting.
(from recipes.howstuffworks.com)

A Weight on my Mind, Or: When I Knew I was Fat

I didn’t used to feel this way. I barely remember it, but I know that time is there.

I was 8 when my struggle with food began, though I didn’t know it at the time. How could I? I was a child, and all I knew was that food tasted good. My tonsils had just been removed, the surgery freeing my taste buds far better than it freed my airways. The thin, tired child of my second grade yearbook photo began to fill out as I luxuriated in my newfound sense. I spent my pocket change on candy at the mini-mart, savoring each mini M&M, my favorite, one at a time.

It never crossed my mind that there could be too much of a good thing.

Three years later, I was half a world away. I had only lived in Japan a short time—long enough to have survived the breaking-in period of a new school, but not long enough to have found my sure place in it yet. We all filed into an annex building to have a check-up. The metal bar weighed on my head to measure my height. Hands ran down my spine, checking for the slightest curvature. And then I kicked off my shoes and stepped onto the scale.

It was the last time the scale wouldn’t scare me.

As we filed out, we started talking about the physical, comparing our numbers like scar stories. "I was 123 pounds."

"123?" One of the other girls asked. "Really? That’s a lot."

It wasn’t a supermodel on a billboard. It wasn’t a photo-shopped celebrity on a magazine cover. It wasn’t an emaciated teenager strutting down the catwalk. It wasn’t struggling into a pair of skinny jeans in a fitting room. All those things would contribute after the fact, but in the beginning, it was an innocent comment. Just one. And that’s when I knew I was fat.

11 is far too young to feel ugly or unwanted, but there it was.

Photographic evidence belies that deep-seated belief. I was a healthy, athletic kid—maybe with a bit of baby fat left, but nothing that was unhealthy or unattractive or unnatural. But the camera ham—the same girl who refused to get out of the photos of her older brother’s first day of first grade—began to disappear. Bright colors and shorts were traded for baggy t-shirts and jeans. By the time we left Japan, there was no trace of the well-adjusted girl I had been.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever get her back.

Twelve years of negative reinforcement—from both within and without—have ingrained this belief into my very identity. My logical self struggles to end the fat talk. After all, I am not physically limited by my weight. I can fit in an airplane seat comfortably. I can find clothes in my size without having to go to a special section or store. I can exercise normally. I am not at risk for diabetes or heart disease. There is nothing about the number on the scale that prevents me from living the life I want. By all accounts, I am not fat.

By all accounts, except my own. It’s me. I am the one who frowns at the sight of dimples on my thighs. I am the one who agonizes over the size of my "pooch." I am the one who refuses to wear a bikini or short shorts. I am the one who looks at photos of myself and grimaces. I am the one who chastises herself after enjoying a donut or milkshake. I am the one who equates my weight with my attractiveness, and my attractiveness with my self-worth. I am the one who engages in the fat talk.

It’s unproductive. It’s hurtful. But I can’t stop. I am addicted to the idea that I am unworthy.

There are support groups for many kinds of addiction, programs with steps and meetings and sponsors. But what about an addiction that is socially ingrained as normal?

After all, it’s a cliché for a woman to ask her hapless male partner, "Does this make me look fat?"

The two most vocal responses to the fat talk phenomena I’ve encountered are the "fitspo" (or fit-inspiration) and "body positive" (or fat-acceptance) movements. I think there is value in both movements, and I’ve gained helpful advice and tips from both. But I don’t think they reach the root of my addiction. After all, these movements represent only pieces of the famous Serenity Prayer used by AA and other addiction recovery programs:

1. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, (Body positive, or accepting my body as worthy and beautiful)
2. The courage to change the things I can, (Fitspo, or making sure I am living a healthy lifestyle)
3. And the wisdom to know the difference. (…wisdom?)

Without the wisdom to know the difference, how can I recover? How can I know the difference when the fat talk still poisoned me when I was at my lowest weight? How can I know the difference when I can’t trust my eyes to tell me the truth about what I see in the mirror? 　

For that wisdom, I need objectivity. It is my objective mind that reminds me that I am healthy—and I can always improve my habits if that changes. It is my objective mind that reminds me that I am loved—and that love will not disappear if I gain 5 pounds or grow if I lose 10. It is my objective mind that reminds me that I am accomplished—and my accomplishments are neither negated nor made more impressive by my appearance. It is my objective mind that overrides the fat talk.

It is my subjective mind that subjugates me. It mires me in the negative comparisons and the self-doubt and the inadequacies that have filled my mind and my conversations for twelve years, making calories and scales and mirrors enemies rather than tools. It ruins days and darkens what should be happy memories.

 

Even in the safe spaces—at church, at the dance studio, at home—and with safe people—my friends, my family, my boyfriend—the fat talk creeps in. Why are girls nights punctuated by the same sheepish-expressions as someone picks up another slice of pizza or opens another cold one? Why are healthy women self-conscious of the cellulite that the stretch fabric of gym pants only seems to emphasize? Why do I think about the teeny muffin top created by the waistband of my dress pants when I get up for the benediction?

I must take responsibility for my addiction. I must take responsibility for the hurt it causes myself, and for the hurt it perpetuates in those around me. I may be skipping a few steps in the usual 12-step program, but I want to apologize.

1. For when I start the fat talk, I apologize for my selfishness by allowing conversations to center around my insecurities.
2. For when I join in the fat talk, I apologize for my abetting any insecurities others may have.
3. For when I believe the fat talk, I apologize for my lack of trust in the opinions and love of those who try to convince me otherwise.

And I apologize for comparing myself to others—whether they be celebrities, friends, or strangers on the street—for focusing on their outward appearance rather than what is intangible and far more valuable.

This is the season of sacrifice, of giving up, but I can’t promise to give up the fat talk for what’s left of the Lenten season. Or even for a week. But I can promise to try, one day at a time.

In the future, I hope to celebrate ten years of sobriety from the fat talk. And I will give myself a chip. It will be fried and made out of potato and I probably won’t eat just one.

But each and every one of those calories will be entirely and truly guilt-free.

Current Events

This morning, I woke up later than I had planned. This happens often, mostly because my boundless optimism regarding my abilities as a morning person has never quite matched up with the realities of 6:30 in the morning.

Like many publishing companies, Baker has a summer schedule. So instead of the daily plod of the proverbial 9-5 (or 8-4:30 in this case), we work 7:30-5 four days a week, giving us the precious resource of half day Fridays. At least, that’s the idea. But lately, (read: the last three months), the concept of a “normal” schedule has become rather laughable.

Previous posts have detailed one of the big “highs” of the summer (my trip to Singapore), as well as the darkest “low” (the loss of a friend and mentor), but those are just the extremes.

So what have I been up to?

1.       Moving:

Due to unforeseen circumstances, I found myself packing up my room in a hurried rush, leaving my first postgrad house almost a full month before I had planned. After playing several games of adult Tetris in the trunk of my station wagon, I got all of my belongings across town, where a gracious coworker had offered up her spare bedroom.

Usually, my moves are quick and efficient. A lifetime of training and a propensity for frequently donating accumulated un-necessities has made transition a fairly simple task. I need help carrying the heavy stuff (see posts regarding my book collection for further reference), but I’m fairly well equipped to handle the actual packing on my own.

This time, however, it was a mess. Caught in a time crunch and wrought with the physical symptoms of anxiety (adrenaline rushes, nausea, hyperventilation, and the inability to focus or sleep), I was at the end of a very frayed rope. And just as I recovered, rejuvenated by my vacation, it was time to do it all over again.

One of my new roommates, Alice the Chinchilla

 

 

And I was ashamed. Every so often, I would hang my head behind my boxes as friends helped me move into my new, more permanent residence. And as my things began to stack up in the basement, a jumble of books and clothes and papers and whatnots, so did my shame. How had I, the girl with more moves under her belt than a backup dancer, messed this up? My car was basically a mobile storage unit. I couldn’t find my migraine medication. I was stymied by items that seemed to multiply while my back was turned.

I still tried to be a good plant mama.

 Even as my biceps trembled, my back ached, and my calves bruised, I fought the battle against my perceived failure. My rope began to slack. Slowly, carefully, I allowed myself to let it go.

My belongings, the physical representations of my life, were quite literally coming apart at the seams. But despite that, and even though I was sharing a room and the new neighborhood was filled with strange sounds and the new-to-me-but-really-old house creaked in unfamiliar ways, I slept well for the first time in over a month. 

Making myself at home

2.       Driving:

My best friend moved this summer, foraging a new path in Lafayette, Indiana (for science!). And since pictures can’t alleviate how much I miss her face, I drove down to visit. The weather was terrible, but we only let it dampen our hair, not our spirits.

She introduced me to her new haunts. We bought cupcakes and hummus at the farmer’s market and snuck donuts from a local bakery into the movie theater. We wandered through the surprisingly interesting (and free) zoo, and I forced her to show me where she worked on Purdue’s campus.

My spirit animal, perhaps?

My beautiful bestie

A wallaby walk-through

 

 

And, in the midst of it all, we curled up on her new couch and ate Chinese food and cupcakes in our pajamas while having a movie marathon, and it was like we hadn’t ever been separated by new jobs and new homes and way too many miles.

I love this girl!

3.       Geeking Out:

I was snooping through a list of West Michigan events, idly trying to guess what concert a friend’s boyfriend had bought surprise tickets for. I never figured it out, but I did discover something far more interesting: Neil Gaiman was going to be in Ann Arbor.

A year or two ago, I would never have gone alone. I’ve been to Ann Arbor a handful of times, but always accompanied by others. Driving to a mostly-unfamiliar town at night with no idea where to park so I could sit by myself in an auditorium full of strangers would have been terrifying then. It was still slightly scary, but it was Neil Gaiman.

Let me repeat that: Neil F-ing Gaiman.

And it came with a free copy of his new book, The Ocean at the End of the Lane.

Sassy, adventurous me took hold. She paid for a ticket even before advertising the awesome opportunity on Facebook. She didn’t care that no one might want to come with. 

Sassy, adventurous me was going to go see her favorite author, come hell or high water.

Sassy, adventurous me is a smart cookie. Because even as I left the theater at 1 AM, with a two hour drive and a full work day ahead of me, I was incredibly happy. I had seen Neil Gaiman. I had heard him, one of my idols, speak about life and writing and even cats. He was funny and smart. His new book was just as mystifyingly cool as the ones I had read before. He had signed my books (with a fountain pen, no less). I had not made a fool of myself in front of him while he did so. And I did it. I had indulged my passion and geekiness, logistics and all, on my own.

4.       Meeting Family:

Due to our travels, family reunions are a rare occurrence for me. We make sure to spend time with aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents, but beyond that is a sea of faces I’ve never met. So when my mom couldn’t attend my third cousin’s wedding in Wisconsin (my grandmother has had previous success using such distant relatives to engineer family togetherness), I was called in as my dad’s wedding date.

By working 10-11 hour days Monday through Thursday, I was able to take last Friday off and fly to Chicago (via Detroit), where my dad would be waiting to drive us up to Elkhorn, Wisconsin. Strangely enough, my flights were completely stress free. No delays. No hurried treks across the terminal. I even got an entire row to myself! Due to approximately 6 years of bad travel juju, I was suspicious, but I accepted my blessed circumstances with wary gratitude. My dad managed to find me in the maze of O’Hare’s terminals, and we hopped into his Mini Cooper (a very me-sized car), and darted up to Lake Geneva for a bit of sightseeing before heading to our hotel.

Lake Geneva has all the requisite cafes, cute stores, and posh houses of a holiday town. Because of the weather (unseasonably chilly and rainy), we indulged only in the former two. I was very excited to be spoiled by a new book: The Cuckoo’s Calling, the murder mystery written by the now infamously pseudonymous Robert Galbraith. 

It was a great read, by the way.

Precious treasure in hand, we abandoned the rainy town for the warm embraces of family. 

As my head whirled with the names of great aunts and uncles and second and third cousins, I heartily enjoyed my first fish fry. The next day, after returning to Lake Geneva to check out the posh vacation homes on the lakeshore, my dad and I got ready and joined the caravan to the groom’s family farm.

This isn't unreasonable for a birthday present, right?

 The wedding was very nice, but for me, the main draw was spending time with my family. Even those I know and love very well are often too far away to see on a regular basis. And seeing my dad show off his dance moves reminds me just how much I’m a product of my amazing, loving, and odd parents.

My adorable cousins, Jordan and Riley, attacking Uncle Brian while I laughed from the safety of the other side of the booth.

Like father, like daughter.

5.       Reading books:

A friend and English department alum brought up the idea of starting a book club with some people we studied in York with. Finding that we all miss discussing literature with fellow book buffs (but not the papers or essay exams), her idea came to fruition. We meet in places with delicious food and beverages close at hand and discuss the book of the month (or so). So far, we’ve read Silence, Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne. This month’s selection is Babbitt. Speaking of which, I should probably go find a copy…

Not only that, I’ve continued to work through my library. Even with the distractions of Ocean at the End of the Lane and The Cuckoo’s Calling (both of which I highly recommend), I finally finished From Home to Harry Potter (an academic-type book on mythology and fantasy and its relationship with Christianity), and I’m now 1/3 of the way through Brothers Karamazov. I will finish it…I will. After reading Les Mis, I stopped doubting my ability to finish dense books on my own. Of course, I’m also more careful about which ones I start.

So what’s next?

1.       Writing.

Due to the stress and accompanying exhaustion, most of my writing has remained in my head. I have quite a few sketches of new material to add further richness and detail to Paladin, but I actually have to sit down and add it all in. I’ve just started to do that again, but it’s going to be a slow return.

2.       Belly dancing.

Yep. That’s right. You saw that. I found a Groupon and, spurred by a longtime secret desire to learn, I started going to classes near my house. And I love it so far. No matter how bad my day has been, five minutes into class I have a huge smile on my face. It’s already had such a distinct effect on my mental and physical health, so I plan on continuing to take classes after my Groupon expires.

3.       Going out (of town).

I’m quite excited to drive down to NC within the next month. I haven’t spent a non-holiday centered weekend with my mom, dad, AND brother in a long time. I miss them so much, and as my brother transitions from postgrad life to pre-grad school life, I really want to catch him when I can. I can’t wait to give him a huge hug…and then irritate the crap out of him.

And, with a belated birthday celebration as a partial excuse, my work bestie are going on a girl’s weekend to go shop and see a Cirque show. I’ve always wanted to see a Cirque performance, and shopping with her is always a blast, so to say that I’m looking forward to it is an understatement.

So more highs await—and I’m sure more lows will join them. But whatever happens, insane or inane, my life continues to be an adventure.

So allons-y!

A Dark and Stormy Post

Last Wednesday, I was sick and exhausted. Last Wednesday, I was ready to enjoy a relaxing evening. Last Wednesday, I only had the respite of a long weekend on my mind. And then I checked my Facebook.

Last Wednesday, I discovered that I had lost a professor, mentor, and friend.

I should have met Professor William Vande Kopple my freshman year at Calvin, nearly four years ago. I had decided to study abroad in York and began the application process to make that happen. That process required the signature of the English department chair.

I hadn't declared my major at that point; in fact, I hadn't even completed a full English class at Calvin. So I had no idea who the chair of the English department was. Or that there were, in fact, two of them. To figure out who they were and what they looked like, I turned to Calvin's friendly neighborhood StalkerVision for their photos and office numbers.

Vande Kopple looked rather stern in his photo, I remember. I went to Professor Vander Lei instead.

Two years, later, I was excited to take the Grammar interim. Taught by the always academic and constantly comedic duo Vande Kopple and VandenBosch, Grammar exhausted my brain with patterns and my diaphragm with laughing. Vande Kopple was no longer a stern face in a poorly lit picture--he was a friend. A Facebook friend to boot.

Later that semester, I went on my first writer's retreat. I'm not sure if I've ever admitted it, but I was intimidated by other students with far more confidence and writing classes than I. But, despite being secretly terrified to share any of my work, I fell sway to Vande Kopple's enthusiasm and submitted a sentence to the Bulwer-Lytton competition. And I won.

For those of who who don't wish to sort through my posts to find it, it goes a little like this:  

The relationship ended, she realized, the day he had shaved his beard--oh that magnificent beard, which preceded him with proud protuberance, putting the bushy tails of sleek squirrels to such a shame that they brought offerings of winter-aged nuts while weeping over their inadequacy--and every time she looked upon the balded chin bereft of the masculine, yet tender, homage to Sampson's strength, she was overcome with a poignant pain that overshadowed her once all-consuming love.

Vande Kopple was so proud of that sentence, bringing it up weeks, months, even years later. And he made me feel proud of it too--as delightfully stupid as it was. He made me feel intelligent, funny, and worthwhile in front of my peers. I felt like I belonged. I felt like an English major of Calvin College. It was a gift without price.

Another year passed. I experienced my first relationship, tumbling head over heels down a path I didn't know. And just as suddenly as it began, it was over. It was over with a shock and a cliche and a back walking away from me.

It was two days before Christmas break began, and three weeks before I was set to go on a trip to Massachusetts with the New England Saints. And with the man who had just broken my heart.

When I got on the bus to New England, I was glad to have a row to myself. I didn't want anyone to see me. I wanted everyone to blame my red eyes on exhaustion, my sniffles on a cold, my silence on shyness. My heartbreak, exacerbating an as-yet undiagnosed anxiety disorder, had left me in a pit. I firmly believed that I was worthless. Unloved. And worse--unlovable. And now I was stuck on a bus with people I didn't know; people I couldn't trust to love me, not yet. I was stuck on a bus with a person who'd seen all of me and decided that it wasn't worthwhile.

What had I done?

I cried off and on the entire bus ride, adding hopelessness to my list of "-less" and "un-" descriptors.

After the enforced closeness of Plimoth, my mask was beginning to crumble. So when the group gathered for Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, I lagged behind. I stared at the moon--it was beautiful, yes, but it also gave me an excuse to set myself apart. In the dark, no one could see that I wasn't smiling.

But William Vande Kopple did. As my Facebook friend, he'd seen the status change, but hadn't heard the full story. He coaxed it all out of me, from the walk after class to the excruciating variation of "It's not you, it's me."

"He didn't give you closure?" I remember he was shocked and angry on my behalf, startling against his usual good humor.

It was a simple observation, but it had a profound impact on the broken girl walking next to him. He cared enough to listen to my little story. And, not only that, he stood up for the validity of my wounded emotions. He believed that I, even I of the "un-" and "-less," deserved something. He believed that I deserved respect, even when I could not.

At that moment, underneath the eerie moon in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, I got the first inkling that I was going to be okay. Because he was there for me.

To some, it may sound silly. Heartbreak, after all, is a part of life. But for the anxious girl stuck at the bottom of a pit, William Vande Kopple's listening ear was a rope. And it displayed, I think, the singular gift that made him such a beloved and effective teacher.

You see, Professor Vande Kopple watched when we thought no one was. He saw the smiles on our faces fall when others had their backs turned. He saw our grimaces of pain when we fell behind. He heard the sighs leave our lips when everyone's ears were tuned elsewhere.

I will miss the man who made me proud of myself, who made me laugh until my sides hurt, and who calmed insecurities and anxieties I hadn't yet named. Most of all, I will both wistfully and fiercely miss the man who watched me, who watched my friends and fellow students, and who now watches over us all.

Such Sweet Sorrow

On Tuesday, my dwindling vacation days hit me, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. However, the fun wasn't over yet! We began the day with more Swedish pancakes and the movie Rurouni Kenshin, a Japanese film based on a cult anime of the same name (also called Samurai X in the U.S.).

This is what a vacation should look like.

But the adventure couldn't stop there. It was time to explore another pocket of Singapore, one that I'd been looking forward too all week, as it promised the delicious food and cheap kitsch that make my (sometimes) simple soul happy.

I spent the bus ride continuing a list of interesting words and names I had collected over the course of the trip--both research and a way for me to remain present throughout the trip, rather than slip into unobservant daydreams. It was a long ride, but soon characters overtook alphabets, signalling our arrival.

Our first stop was lunch. I got a good chuckle out of having Vietnamese food in Chinatown in Singapore. But her recommendation was spot on--not much was left in this bowl when I was done with it!

After lunch, we wound our way through the shops. I finally gave into the comfortable (if questionable) style of pirate/harem/M. C. Hammer pants. I won't admit how many times I've worn them since I've gotten back to the States--let's just say that my body adores being in these pants. 

The shops offered a lot to look at--bright souvenirs, breezy clothing, and even a beloved figure from European comics. After a few purchases, we decided we had exhausted our options and headed to one of our favorite kinds of places--a nearby coffee shop for some. I loved looking at the brightly-colored buildings on our way there, as well as small glimpses of everyday life.

I liked this place already!

Not only was it a coffee shop, it was also a cafe, bar, and a bookstore! All of the books lining the nooks and crannies are for sale. I, however, had brought my own--Brothers Karamazov. I have a habit of reading Russian literature over the summer. S, brought her netbook (probably just as heavy as my novel) to continue composing her masterful prose.

Who disturbs my creativity?

Interspersed throughout the books was an eccentric collection of old phones.

At sunset, the lights were dimmed as the cafe transitioned to a bar. When no reading light remained, we surrendered to the night and headed out.

For once, it wasn't an early night. Instead, we went to the mall, Vivo City, for some more shopping. The selection was just too cute and too reasonably priced for me to think about the confines of my carry-on suitcase. Practicality quickly returned, however. With our departures rapidly approaching, we had to (reluctantly) abandon our retail adventures to do some laundry and pack.

The next day was a continuation of our preparations. Mine were fairly simple: collect all of my scattered belongings and cram them into my luggage. S., however, had a more complicated task ahead of her: not only was she returning for an extended vacation at home in Sweden, she was also stopping in the UK to travel with old friends of hers. Around errands to the Central Business District to tie up loose ends, we managed to pack and clean, reinforcing the bittersweet fact of our leave=taking, a fact my mind was desperately trying to deny.

But the time came.

Dragging our suitcases down the hall of the empty, silent building, midnight came and went as we waited for our taxi. One week had already passed. The adventure was so nearly over; I found it hard to summon words as the cab took us to Changi Airport.

But I did my best at our last coffee shop conversation, knowing that it would be another long while before I enjoyed the company of S. Gabriel. We laughed and snacked on chai lattes and kaya toast (toast with butter and a coconut spread), while fellow travelers passed us by, trundling their suitcases under the eyes armed gurkhas.

Her plane left first; we hugged tightly and prayed for each other's long journeys.

I lost my words again.

The High Life at High Tea

As I was preparing my "Should Do" list for Singapore, both of my parents recommended that I experience High Tea at Raffles Hotel. High Tea is something my mom and I have done together before--once at the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong and once at a hotel in downtown Tokyo. They're fond memories--dressing up, eating little cakes, and (in the case of the Tokyo experience) giggling our way through an adventurous train ride home with our friends.

There weren't too many things that I "had" to do while I was in Singapore, but this was one of those things. Taking heed of the hotel's website, S. Gabriel and I took our time getting ready, finishing the Bollywood film Dhoom 2 (starring Hrithisk Roshan and Aishwarya Rai) while we donned our finest.

Sanna went for a modern take on the Gibson Girl look.

While I went for comfortable style

 After getting off the bus, we wandered the halls of the hotel, trying to make ourselves at home in the impressive marble hallways.

We've arrived!

As excited as we were, however, we couldn't match the excitement of a younger visitor:

A little Superman in training, that one.

We finally found ourselves in the tea room and, despite our lack of a reservation, they decided that we were too well dressed to be riff-raff off the mean streets and seated us anyway.

When most people think of tea, they think of dainty food--finger sandwiches, little cakes, and scones. Raffles also served fresh fruit, various kinds of dumplings, and even berries steeped in (what else?) tea. I left filled to the brim with delicious, tiny food.

The running joke between my mom and I is my choice of "unconventional" beverages at high tea. My previous experiences had taken place while I was in middle school, before I became a tea drinker. In Hong Kong, I had the most delicious chocolate milkshake I've ever had. Ever. In Tokyo, apparently I drank hot chocolate rather than experiment with the then-suspicious liquid known as "tea."  In the past ten years, however, I've grown to like this strange brew known as tea in many of its forms--green, black, iced, and most of all, sweet. Still, my mom's first question upon hearing I'd made it to Raffles: "Tea or hot chocolate???"

Good thing I had photographic proof that I had, in fact, had tea during High Tea:

I also had a Singapore Sling, Singapore's signature cocktail, to keep up with my non-traditional beverage habit.

 

 

  

 In keeping with the classy atmosphere, there was a harp player. At first, I paid little attention to the airy notes, focused more on the fascinating spread of food and drink (I was hungry). Soon, however, I began picking out familiar tunes. The two most distinct were "Someone Like You" by Adele and "Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely" by none other than my childhood favorite boy band, the Backstreet Boys. I found the song choices rather funny, and, inspired, I penned a brief aside I hope to include in Paladin:

With a smile, Lia noticed that the chamber musicians were playing an instrumentation of an old drinking song; one so lowbrow, however, that none of the present company would admit to knowing it as a matter of course.

After finishing our tea, we explored more of the hotel, including the Writer's Bar, where one day, perhaps, our names will join those of Rudyard Kipling and Joseph Conrad as literary types who once graced the hotel.

We (read: S. Gabriel) took some more selfies to document our fun in finery.

As in the Botanical Gardens, we couldn't resist the siren song of beautiful surroundings to take some more demure portraits.

Finally, we quit the luxurious confines of the hotel. We briefly explored Chijmes across the street, where the restaurants and shops fill the rooms and corridors of a former Catholic convent. But, wearied by maintaining our elegant appearance, we quickly called it an evening and returned home fashionably early.