Motivation

I have no motivation right now.  Zero.  None. It's scaring me.  I have a lot I need to be doing, even more things I should be doing, and a fair amount of things I could be doing, but instead I am doing nothing.  I am doing absolutely nothing, and I want to keep doing nothing for as long as I live.  But I have to do things.  I have so many things I have to do.  Why can't I bring myself to do them?

It's not like not doing anything is that great anyway.  So far today I have lounged in my bed, lounged on the couch, eaten some food, watched some youtube videos, brushed my hair, lounged some more, attempting homework in several forms, and now I am doing this.  Boy, is my self esteem taking a hit today.

My homework isn't even hard.  I'm intimidated to start writing my portrait, because I don't really know what I want to say.  I'm sure if I started to write, I would be able to get some words on a piece of paper, but I'm scared to even try.  My attention span is shot, and I'm worried if I start reading a book I won't get anything out of it, I'm worried about everything. I'M WORRIED ABOUT EVERYTHING.

Wow, this blog post is counter productive. It is just me wasting a bunch of time talking about how I'm wasting a bunch of time. But I literally just can't bring myself to do anything.

It's going to be okay.  I am going to go try doing stuff again.  Wish me luck.

My Roommate (no, the other roommate)

As alluded to in the previous post, I have a roommate who is pretty close to engagement.

How long have they been dating, you ask?  A year? Six months?

Close.  When I think about it, I guess it's been...almost 3 weeks.

But don't worry, guys, they've known each other for over a month.

When I tell people this, they ask me if this is a surprise, or if she is the kind of girl you would expect this type of thing from.  I never know what to say, because I don't really know her.  I knew her for a total of one day before she met her boy toy, and after they met, it went from "Where's Shelby?" to "Do I need to ask where Shelby is?" to "Where are Shelby and Ryan?".  And now it's more like "What are their wedding colors going to be?"

It was amazing, really, how fast she got him.  One night, they're meeting, chatting, and awkwardly flirting with all of us around, the next day they are leaving FHE together to go get dinner, two days later they're holding hands while we hike the Y, and by Sunday they are already DTRing (he wants to make it official, she wants to "take it a day at a time").  Tuesday they're macking, Friday and I've yet to even see Shelby because she's gone before I wake up and is with Ryan all day, and the next Sunday they are official.

He's met her mom, she's been to his house for the weekend, and I am in the hunt for a new roommate.

I'm not really sure what we were expecting with things moving so quickly, but when Ryan called Amanda to ask about Shelby's ring preferences, we all went into freak-out mode.  Emily has the worst of it.  It could happen to any of us, she keeps saying.  No one is safe.

Everyone says it's not going to happen to them.  But really, really, it's not going to happen to me.

I don't even know.

I got some really bad bug bites the other day, so bad that they woke me up during the night. It was one of those half-asleep times in the middle of the night where all you can focus on is solving a problem. That problem to me was stopping the itching. The next thing I knew, my legs were in the kitchen sink, and I was trying to somehow wash the histamines away. That morning I forked out an entire five dollars for some anti-itch cream, which I greatly resented, but it turned out to be the best purchase of my entire existence.

While waiting between two of my classes, I ran into two good friends, and instead of doing my work as I know I should have, I spent some quality time catching up with them and planning our mutual friend’s bridal shower. That was bizarre, as well. It is my first experience being so close to a bride of my own age, and it’s constantly becoming more and more real that this will be me sooner rather than later.

My roommate looks like she's pretty close to getting engaged.  Maybe I'll write about her tomorrow.

On Showering

Some things in life will never end.  You will accomplish something, and yet it needs to be done again, no matter what you do.  Showering, laundry, eating, doing dishes, making your bed.  These needs will never be satisfied.  I will do them, and have to keep doing them on a regular basis for the rest of my life.

My roommates judge me sometimes because I hate showering so much.  But I just hate showering. SO. MUCH.  I have very thick hair, a blessing I am thankful for daily, which can pull off not being washed for nine--count 'em, nine--days without anyone even noticing.  Now, I wash it more frequently than every nine days.  Specifically, once or twice a week.  And I shower more frequently than that.  Why is this such a bad thing? No one can tell, it's healthier for your hair, I am using less water, I have to buy less shampoo, and that is time I'm not wasting drying my hair, which is no small feat.

Boys don't appreciate how lucky they are.  Hair washing is probably not something they have to put on their to-do list, to set aside a chunk of time for.  I do.  I schedule my hair washing.  Otherwise I just don't do it.  Perhaps this isn't a gender thing.  Perhaps this is just a me thing.

Either way, I hate showering.  The End.

My Roommate

My roommate and I are very different.  Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love living with her.  She is clean, hardworking, funny, nice, supportive, and a good influence (and single...fellas...).  The fact remains, we are extremely different.  Take tonight as an example.  I'm sitting on the couch, internetting as usual, when my roommate comes and flops on the couch.

"I'm so booooooooooooooooooored," she cried, looking at me expectantly.
"I'm sorry," I said, still focusing on whatever it was on the screen keeping me occupied.
"Why don't we have any friendsss?"
"Speak for yourself."
"Let's go doooo something."
"I am doing something. I'm internetting."

Somehow, fifteen minutes later, we are going for a walk.  In the rain.  To nowhere.  Simply because my roommate is bored.

We're different.  She's assertive.  I am passive.  This is going to be an interesting semester.

Letter to my body.

Dear Body,

Thank you. Thank you for being able to hear music, Holden's cute voice, the sound of someone calling my name, my professors lectures, and the laughter of people. Thank you for being able to see pretty flowers, hot boys, cute children, fascinating architecture.

Thank you for being able to smell blueberry scones, and rainy pavement. Thank you for being able to taste chocolate covered pomegranates, fried macaroni and cheese, and mashed potatoes with cream gravy. For being able to feel my blanky, shoulder rubs, and snowflakes on my tongue.

Thank you for walking, for running, for riding a bike, for clogging, for skipping, for dancing like a maniac, for being able to sit still.

Thank you, hands, for being able to write essays, poetry, journal entries, and songs. You can scoop the guts out of a pumpkin, you can play the piano and the ukulele. You can draw pictures. You can cook food. You can hold the hands of those you love. You can type into the computer.

I can lift little kids on my shoulders. I can run through sprinklers. I can do a headstand.

I can sleep at night, I can wake up in the morning. I can taste food, I can chew food, I can swallow food, I can digest food, I can poop food.

I can smile, I can cry. I can sing, I can be quiet. I can be hurt, I can heal. I can get sick, I can recove

Moments

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I have a break between two of my classes.  One that is long enough to need something substantial to fill my time, but too short to justify ging home.  This leaves me with a daily decision of what to fill my time with.  I have inadvertently being doing the same thing with my time every week:  finding a new spot on campus, and sitting, thinking, and possibly doing some homework.  This experience has made me want to start keeping up this habit on purpose, because it is in these moments that I truly appreciate the opportunity I have to be here on this beautiful campus, where the spirit of the Lord is so strong.

It is in these moments that the fact hits me: I am really here.  I am a student at BYU.  I am in college.  I'm not here for a camp.  I'm not down visiting my siblings.  I am studying.  I am going to a singles ward.  I am living in an apartment.  And I love it.  I absolutely love it.  But I don't realize I love it until I have these quiet times to look at my life and really see what I have.

So far I have been by the waterfall at the of south campus, under a tree at the north side of the Wilkinson center, and on the lawn across the road from the JKB. Right now I am leaning against a pillar just outside the RB, looking at all the big, shady trees surrounding me and thinking of how nice the sun feels on my skin, but still acknowledging the relief my skin feels when a breeze picks up.  I feel as though I could stay here forever and be happy.  But alas, I have class to go to.  I have homework to do.  I have friends to make. I have skills to learn.  I have a self to improve. 

Just Sayin'

One of the most frustrating phrases in the world to me is the phrase, "Just Sayin'."  People only use it as a modifier for some of the useless sentences in existence.  It's purpose is to keep the sayer devoid of blame for saying stupid, mean, or thoughtless comments, so whenever you hear it, you can assume what ever predicated should be immediately disregarded.

People act as if saying your kidding erases what they said.  Mean things are still mean, even if you are "joking about it."  If you said it, you thought it, and that is what people are going to remember.  My mom would always tell me to be careful what you say, because even if you say you're sorry, they will never forget what you said.  They might forgive you, but no matter how hard they try it will still plague their mind, and they will always wonder if you really meant it after all.

It is a difficult thing to be funny without being mean. Sometimes the lines blur, and sometimes you really are kidding.  But it is important to keep in mind who you are talking to, as well as the subject matter you are joking about, otherwise people could truly get hurt, which is never worth your laughter.

Holden

It's possible that my nieces and nephew are the cutest human beings on planet earth.  My friends grow tired of Holden stories, I think, but i never will.  Whether it's a video of him singing call me maybe, or the most recent mannerism he has picked up, I could talk about him for days.  The sound of his little voice saying, "I love you," with the "L" sounding like a "W" can invariably brighten my day.  Even when he's being a terror, and won't stop biting or whining or sassing, I would still rather be with him than without him.  Going away for the college for the first time was hard. I didn't cry when I left my parents.  I did cry when I left Holden.

He's almost four years old now.  I was 15 when he was born, an awesome age to be an aunt. I've always thought I was lucky to be able to be an aunt rather than an older sister.  What good is an adorable baby to a 10 year old? But to a 15 year old, babies are only the greatest things on the entire planet. And the older I get, the more I am grateful to have my sweet nieces and nephews, otherwise I might be in a big hurry to have some of my own.

Harper and Kelsey are the cutest little girls in the entire world.  They are only four months apart, so they can grow up being best cousin friends.  Harper is at the cuddly, wants to be held but can still sort of stand up kind of stage.  She is a chubbster and has the cutest rolls of fat I have ever seen.  At what age does that fat stop being cute and start being gross?  I wish it was never.  I'd be adorable.

Guilt

When I don't want to do anything, I usually just flop around from couch to bed to chair to floor complaining about life and how I don't want to do anything.  Generally, the times when I don't want to do anything are the times when I need to be doing the most, which leaves a general ache of guilt in my stomach at all times, spoiling the whole effect of not doing anything.  Really, I never am not doing something, because for me, feeling guilty is sort of an active verb.  It's an all consuming, irrational kind of guilt, one that no logical thought can eradicate. It comes whenever I'm not doing something I am supposed to be doing, or when I forgot to do something, large or small.  It comes when I can't read someone's mind, and do what they want me to do.  It comes when no one cares about my actions, but somehow I convince myself that they do and that I have deeply offended them.  Essentially, it comes and never truly leaves, because it will be there until I never make another mistake again, which won't happen.  It's an interesting way to see who my true friends are, though.  Only those who are close enough me to somewhat understand me know how to talk me down from a Guilt Attack.  My mom, Andy, Karlie, Maggie, Erin, Lacy, Emily.  On a good day, I can talk myself out of them. On a bad day, I suffocate myself with them.  But on most days, I just live with them.  I wonder what life would feel like when you don't feel responsible for everyone else's happiness as well as your own.  When there isn't a whole weight of imaginary pressures and impractical goals.  Maybe one day I'll figure it out.

Forgetting

Somehow, I already forgot to post in this blog.  The assignment only just started, but I already forgot.  I am already behind.  It's amazing how quickly one can fall behind.  One minute, you feel completely on top of things, like you could conquer the world, the next minute you are the most incompetent person that ever existed. Why is my self-worth tied so closely to how much I accomplish?  I suppose it is better than it being tied to how I look, or how other people perceive me, but in a way I am harder on myself than anyone else would ever be. But it is the same me that is judging me based on my accomplishments that refuses to find any motivation to do anything that is expected of her. She also does this thing where she tricks herself into thinking she is being productive, when really she isn't.  For example, I read all of Night today, which is good.  That is something I needed to do.  But it definitely is due far after the memoir I need to write, the laundry I need to do, and the shower I need to take.

But, hey, at least I am writing this now.  I am doing something.  And although I may have missed the past 7 days, I am doing it now, and that shouldn't be overlooked.  I will take a shower in a little while.  My memoir will get done.  I will practice my Sign Language.  And if I am a complete failure? I'll have to wear dirty clothes for a while, but it's okay.  Sometimes you wear dirty clothes until you muster up the desire to do your laundry, and life goes on.  I hear grunge is coming back in, anyway.

Toaster Strudels

This morning I woke up ravenous, probably because I went with some people in my ward went on a late night McDonald's run, revving up my metabolism.  Looking through my food supplies, I found a glorious forgotten treasure: Strawberry Toaster Strudels.

When my mom was dropping me off this semester, my first semester cooking for myself, she took one last trip tot he grocery store where she bought me things she knew I wouldn't be buying for myself:  ice cream, cookies, chips, and yes, Toaster Strudels.

I cooked the Strudel with the technique I have mastered over the years: 10 seconds in the microwave and then toasted on a medium setting.  That way, the inside isn't cold while the outside is burned.  I added the last swirl of delicious frosting, which started melting as soon as it touched the warm pastry.  As I brought the sweet to my lips, I literally closed my eyes in anticipation.  I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten a Toaster Strudel.  Even in my childhood they were a delicacy.

The first bite was exquisite.  Warm, but not burning, toasted, but not crunchy.  I recognized with each bite what a rare occasion this would be, and did everything in power to savor every moment.  I calculated that each Toaster Strudel was around 55 cents a pop.  That's a lot of money for something you can devour in 4 bites and forget you've eaten 10 minutes later.

Suddenly, a flashback hit me.  The years it took me to perfect my Toaster Strudel technique.  Sometimes, I made them too soggy.  Sometimes the middle still ended up cold as ice and hard as a rock.  I painfully remembered one occasion when I burned the outside of the strudel, and shamelessly threw it away.  THREW IT AWAY.  The thought alone made me want to go back in time and reprimand my nine year old self.  But that wouldn't do any good now.  All I can do is remember how to properly cook the delicious treat, and enjoy every last bite.