Riddle Me This

I just woke up. Correction- I just got out of bed. Is it strange that I simply cannot sleep past ten anymore? I mark it as a decidedly grown up thing…this being unable to stay in dreamland. It’s weird. I don’t like it. I want to be able to sleep until the middle of the afternoon like my friends. Instead, I am forced to kind of wander about my house and wait for them to rouse themselves so that I can have a life. Interesting huh? My life in a nutshell right now is boring. I am bored. There is nothing worth doing in Evanston. Everyone is out of town or going back to school already. Even New Year’s Eve lacked it’s normal excitement. I was excited-and then I wasn’t. It just kind of wasn’t as fulfilling as it usually is. That could of course be associated with the fact that we were stuck in a basement with only a few people because:

A) Not enough of us had IDs

B)Everyone and their mother decided this was the year to spend away from home

My friend Amanda and I sat on my porch last night talking about childhood-we’d been looking at some old pictures of mine that my mom has pack ratted away in a few boxes. Anyways, we’re talking about how grown up we feel. Amanda turned to me and said, “You know I used to wonder what adults talked about when I was little, and now I realize they talk about the same things we do. You just can’t define adulthood by age I guess.” It struck a chord with me because lately adulthood has been on my mind.

So riddle me this: Am I now a grownup?

I mean let’s see… I’m 19 and will be 20 in February. 20 it has this gruesome ring to it, but lately my life has revolved around work and school-and I am content with not going out as much. I’m not always fiending for a party. It seems that I let some of that go in high school-okay a lot of that go in high school- which now leaves me with this feeling that bars and parties aren’t such a big deal. Ew. It makes me squirm to read it-I sound like such an old man. Sadly, however, I may actually be gravitating towards that age group.

So am I adult because I feel like I”m leaving youth behind? Or am I an adult because my age denotes it? Can you stay a kid forever? Just because you’re over 35…does that mean you are an adult? Is it your own personal opinion or the rest of society that dictates adulthood?

These questions are yet to be answered. I’ll keep you posted.

It’s true, we should perhaps have written those papers that are due this week during break. We could have studied for that final tomorrow over the weekend. We probably shouldn’t have gone out all weekend. We probably shouldn’t have watched the finale of The Hills (oops) when we should have been reading that last Shakespeare play. But, hey, this is college and it’s probably more realistic to realize that we’re just not going to.

Today, I was trying to find a place to write a paper in The Pub and it was like a war zone. Why aren’t there more outlets in that place? Unless you’d been there since noon, getting an outlet was completely out of the question. I walked around campus today and it struck me how harried everyone looked-bags under the eyes, clothes that look like they’ve been slept in, set jaws, and determined faces. The line for coffee was heinous, even at nine o’clock in the morning.

It is upon us. The week from hell. The week that every that has been threatening to happen-is going to. The work that you’ve been putting off for weeks-has caught up. The teacher that was super nice all semester-will probably turn down that extra credit assignment that you just remembered to turn in. The partner you really like in class-turns out to be the laziest person you’ve ever met. You’re running on three hours of sleep-no chance of a longer night in sight.
Hey, it happens. It’s not our fault. We’re college students. It is necessary to have that added thrill of possibly not making it through to the end of the semester. We are all guilty of that little twinge of doubt and the wish that it was the holidays already. I know I am. I found myself spacing over lines of poetry, and instead wondering whether or not my parents got my Hannukah presents that I sent them and if they did-more importantly what am I receiving. I watched The Hills finale instead of memorizing that French poem I have to recite on Wednesday. Everyone does it. It’s called procrastination and this time of year it’s like cabin fever.

So riddle me this: Is the challenge of getting everything done better than actually getting everything done on time?

Sometimes, I think that the adrenaline that you get from the possibility of failure is better than finishing your work all on time, in a highly organized fashion. I mean it’s priceless really-that last bit of focus that suddenly comes on in the most futile of hours and the most crucial of moments. And you feel like you could take on the world. You could tackle any challenge that your life could possibly create for you and nothing at all that pertains to trouble could scare you. At the same time, we are seeing our strengths at their best. It’s the ability to survive anything, and we are able to test our limits and really show ourselves that nothing we are asked to do and nothing that we dream can defeat us.

So do we flourish in our achievements with this kind of rush? Is it better to get your work done in this fashion? Do we get more out of it because we succeed and are victorious in this kind of craziness? Can you actually get high off life?

It’s in these moments that we suddenly see with great clarity that life is just like that proverbial box of chocolates: you get what you are given-and you have to make the best of it.

I am always losing things: my keys, my wallet, my mind. Only yesterday, my I.D. holder fell off my key chain. It contained everything-my license, my school i.d., my two fake i.d.s, and my gym membership card (which I never use, but still…) and I was hysterical. For a second, I felt like I had no identity. It is sad that I have come to rely on these tiny little rectangles of plastic to define myself. More importantly, I was embarrassed. It is the third or fourth time that I have run to an RA in my building crying about how I’ve lost something of great importance…he basically thinks that I am a nut job. My parents reaction was as supportive as ever: “We’ve got to start nailing things down or at least sticking them to you with glue.” Luckily, disaster was avoided-my other RA recovered it outside, where somebody had placed it on a step (thank God for nice people!). But it really got me thinking about what I consider to be organization.

I have always been a bit of a slob. Even now, in my single room, which some might construe as neat, there are bits of mess everywhere. I shove my cosmetics helter-skelter into three drawers of a plastic organizer, and my pajama pants are all thrown into white milk crates, there are purses and shoes piled in the bottom of my closet-so the appearance of neatness is really just an illusion. However, I can tell you exactly where that one sock is that I took off last week and threw across the room is…it’s next to the microwave that I’m currently hiding under my bed, and I see it every time I make a soup. It’s funny that the times that I have had a truly neat room, I have never been able to find the things that I am searching for.

This same phenomenon can be transferred to almost any walk of life. I mean, I write better papers when I haven’t planned them out-where ideas aren’t forced into straight lines and tight restrictions. I have always found the right guy when I stop looking for the perfect one. I always have that perfect day that originally started off in chaos and was scheduled to spiral into the usual horribleness that typically follows.

So riddle me this: is there a method to madness? Can disorganization equal organization?

Maybe we all just try to plan stuff out too much. Maybe my disorganization really is my form of neatness. I am always thrown off by perfect schedules and perfect rooms-I think that planning things too much ruins the spontaneity. But, I guess to a certain point, I am organized. Maybe I don’t write everything down, and color coordinate my closet or know exactly what my life plan is, but I know when I have to be somewhere, I know where all my clothes are-and I’m not really freaked by the fact that I have no idea what I want to do with my life.

We are all so preoccupied by finding our paths in life, that we forget that we are living one. We forget that everything doesn’t have to be written down. That life  cannot simply be defined by certain guidelines-we are allowed to make ourselves and we do not have to stick to the social norms. There is a method to all of our madness, you just have to find it.

Last night was the first night of Hannukah (and yes I spell it that way-deal) and I was working. Again. Of course. I called my mother on break thinking that it would be a nice gesture to wish my family happy holidays. You know, simple and sweet, assuming that they were missing me while they were lighting the candles. The conversation went something like this:

Me- “Happy Hannukah!”

My Mom- “Well, we’re going to go make some dinner now.”

I had this awful feeling suddenly that maybe Hannukah was a thing of the past. Like the holiday was less important than dinner. It seemed old and tired to everyone else, and yet to me, it still held this promise of fun and presents (can’t forget those because let’s face it that’s what this time of year is all about) and chocolate gelt. Except, I seemed to be the only one who seemed to remember that. My parents were disinterested in it, and I resented them a little for it. But maybe that’s how they’re supposed to act. Maybe they’re over it, and as an adult I will have to be over it too in a couple of years.

So riddle me this: Is the holiday season something you can only truly appreciate as a kid?

Do the holidays lose their charm as you get older? And Santa isn’t real anymore and presents are obligations that must be carefully budgeted for? Is the holiday season a concept that we must let go of as we leave childhood behind and enter the real world?

I am not content to simply watch my favorite time of year go down the drain. I am obsessed with the holidays. I love Hannukah. I adore Christmas (even obsessed my friends would say). There’s a magic in the lights and the snow and the music and the family gatherings. Maybe I made it up. Maybe I still subscribe to the commercial qualities of it all. But there’s a part of me that hopes that I never grow tired of December and the childish associations that I have with it. I hope that I will feel the same kind of excitement when I’m fifty as I do now.

Heading home for Thanksgiving last year was an exciting event- I sat next to Jesse Jackson on the plane back from Syracuse. Yes, that Jesse Jackson. So there I am next to this living legend, and all I can think to say is- “Oh.” Seriously. That’s all I said. I think I laughed a few times, this nervous giggle, when he said something about it being Thanksgiving. Up until our flight took off, his phone was ringing off the hook…literally every five seconds, and then we’re up in the air. Silence. I remember thinking that this man (towering and impressive) had only this short hour and a half to himself with a plane full of passengers. I felt this odd sense of compassion towards him; I got to share his privacy for just a few moments.

Turkey day this year stands for so many different things. I am going home to my friends and family. I am going home to rest and relaxation. I get a week of blissful privacy among the people I love most. I don’t think that I have ever truly contemplated what I was thankful for on Thanksgiving. It simply represented loud family gatherings and incredibly dry turkey (it’s not my mother’s best). Now, I feel as though I have gained an appreciation for everything that I should have paid tribute to in the past. For the first time, Thanksgiving is what it should be- a celebration.

So riddle me this: What are you thankful for this year?

I am thankful that I am alive and that I have lived almost twenty years of my life. I am thankful that I have a family that loves me. I am thankful that I have fabulous friends- both at school and college. I am thankful that I have a roof over my head and food to eat (even if it’s shitty dining hall food). I am thankful that I am growing up…even if the separation from childhood is a little difficult at time.

I am truly just thankful…that I am happy.

I wish that I could describe everything that I am so grateful for. Sometimes, I just get this wonderful feeling of joie de vie. And sure, it’s cliché and nutty and disgustingly mushy…but life is pretty sweet these days. And I am truly thankful that I am allowed to have all this. I spend so much time complaining and wishing about what I want or what I could have that many times I forget what matters most- what I do have.

The things that we are given, the people that are in our lives- these are the true gifts that life offers us. And I would ask everyone to remember that. To remember that everything that is good in our lives makes up the material of our existence.

I know, I know…I’m two seconds away from branching into some awful sort of mainstream movie monologue…but hey sometimes jumping on the band wagon isn’t so bad kiddies. I am just happy to be going home. I am just excited to see my parents. To sleep in my own bed. To shower without shower shoes. To play with my dog. To attempt to cook the 15 pound turkey my mom has bought me (I volunteered after watching the food network for too long and becoming obsessed with Bobby Flay). To read a book that isn’t school related. To go to lunch with my best friends. To talk football with my aunt. To sit on my front porch. To forget about finals.

It’s all there waiting for me. And I can’t wait. Happy Turkey Day to one and all! Enjoy.

That’s right. It’s Cortaca this weekend. For those of you who aren’t aware what that is, it’s a football game with our standing rivals: Cortland. This game was founded by Ithaca and Cortland’s breweries back when the drinking age was 18 in New York (oh how I wish that was the case now) and they figured they could make some money off students and their love of D3 football teams. Anyways, that law is in the past and the breweries no longer host, but the ritual lives on.

My freshman year Cortaca weekend was to say the least one of the more anticlimactic weekends of last year. First off, I never even went to the game in Cortland, probably for the best since I was so hung over from the night before that my skin had taken on this awful pale hue and I couldn’t even drink till at least 2 or 3 in the afternoon. It was a long day of watching other people play beirut (and yes it is beirut, beer pong is something else…involving paddles people PADDLES) and eating Gumbo that someone’s parents had made. So as you can imagine, I’m pretty excited. I was telling the cab driver who drove me home tonight how excited I was and he gave me a little tip which I will now pass on to you.

So Ralph (yes I found out his name) goes: “Let me give you a little tip. Anytime you wanna go out and drink a lot, eat a bowl of ice cream. It coats your stomach, keeps you from getting sick, and you can drink more. A glass ‘a milk will work too, but ice cream is the best. Coats your stomach right up.” I almost threw up, I’ll be honest, there was no way I could tell him that I’m basically lactose intolerate, but also the thought of eating ice cream and then shot gunning a beer…well quite frankly doesn’t exactly inspire thoughts of a wonderful evening, unless I am dating a toilet bowl. Which, I’m not.

Ralph’s comments aside, it got me thinking. I mean, there’s no way I’m consuming an big bowl of ice cream every time I go out drinking because let’s be honest I would be the size of a house. Or maybe just a shanty. Regardless, it would not bode well for my weight or my pants size.

So riddle me this: How much fun is too much fun? I mean, I’m going out this weekend. And I’m getting trashed, smashed, wasted, sauced, hazy, tipsy, retarded, wrecked, crunk, sloshed, FUCKED UP. No doubt about it, but what is the limit? I mean I had friends in high school and college (and who am I kidding I did this too) who drink until their sick and then keep right on drinking. So I figured that maybe I’d make some goals for myself, some guidelines to stay within. Just in case.

I know, it’s not necessary. It also adds conviction to this theory I’ve had about myself that I’m actually an 80 year old man trapped in my body, and that I’m turning into the biggest fuddy duddy on the planet, but if I’m not going to worry about myself, then who is going to? Everyone has had the lecture about alcohol, don’t drink and drive, drink responsibly, and be safe, but when it comes down to it…do we? Do we actually listen? Do we actually make the effort?

Sometimes I do, but not always. And I sure as hell am not treating my body like a temple, but I don’t necessarily tear it down and graffiti all over it. I kind of respect it or at least I try to.

So be careful is all I’m saying. Do it up this weekend. I’ll be out there, probably a drunken mess. Probably drunk dialing that number that I shouldn’t. I’ll be having a grand ol’ time. But I’ll be keeping track and watching out.

Just like that bowl of ice cream.

So I’m way overdue for a post, but I have a good reason, I promise. Last week-the week after Fall Break-was the worst week of my life. It was like all my classes collectively conspired (check out the nifty alliteration folks) to crap all over me. I was a toilet and they were dropping a deuce…a big one.

Moving on from my disgusting analogy, this basically sums up last week for me:

Step 1: Return home from break.

Step 2: Freak out about the amount of work that has suddenly piled itself sky high all the way to my ceiling (it was communing with my Audrey and James posters) and realize that I will never again have a free life.

Step 3: Work from 3-11 both Wednesday and Thursday (a negative nod to the amount of work, but a very positive to the folds at CTB- god love them all)

Step 4: Proceed to never sleep again.

That’s right. I didn’t sleep for 48 hours and if anyone ever told you that it was the right choice- let me be the first to clear up the confusion. It’s not. It is, in fact, the worst decision I have ever made in my life. I am still feeling the repercussions right now…almost a full week later and that includes the weekend. I am right now in the process of trying to find someone, anyone, to work for me tomorrow so that I can finish my work and get some much need R&R. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have leisure time in the span of seven days.

So, riddle me this: What the FUCK should I do? Here’s my dilemma. I like my job, I need the money- if I go I will collapse or cry…possibly both. I have so much work that you can’t even see the white of the paper in my assignment notebook anymore. My hands are tied- responsibilities v.s. health. The obligations are consistently winning, but I have to say that at this point, I am so close to not caring, Chapelle isn’t even smiling.

Yes, it’s true, the fat lady has commenced singing and let me tell you she’s cracking every single glass while she’s at it.

I used to think that I liked having a full plate, but 18 credits and two 8-hour shifts at work later, I’m using my face as a punching bag…literally. (The bags under my eyes are so large, I think I lost a contact in one last night) I hate this feeling, and it’s not the workload, it’s the fact that I can’t handle it that’s really got my goat. I mean, I can’t even handle this load? What the hell am I supposed to do when I really get out into the real world? How am I supposed to handle a real job? No vacations? Mandatory attendance? What then?

I can’t just say, “No dice.” I mean that doesn’t fly out there.

My mother asks me today as between my hysterical crying and the profanity that I was slinging out enthusiastically to her over the phone- “So what have you learned from all this?”

What have I learned? That I never want a real job? That I can’t take 18 credits? That failure is a bitter pill to swallow? That organization doesn’t always pay off because sometimes everything is too much to handle? That I’ve forgotten what eight hours of sleep feels like? That waking up with the imprint of the alphabet from your keyboard on your face is not an attractive look? That being a raging bitch all the time is not a charming attribute? What have I learned?

The only thing that I could think to say back to her was: “That I hate my life, and all I want to do is watch Love Actually and eat some Ben and Jerry’s.”

Pathetic, but oh so true.

“I like things blissful and peaceful…” It sounds like something straight out of a bad television show…and it was. But I still love it. The newest annoyance on MTV’s The Hills, Justin Bobby. Audrina’s dirty/greasy boyfriend who seems to have confused Hollywood with the rest of California. I find myself watching him and wondering what planet he fell from because you know… they’re definitely missing him. I wonder why Audrina would ever want to date someone that looks like a cracked out rock and roll star minus the fame and massive amounts of cash. He doesn’t even treat her well and talks like he’s secretly looking at some fucked up philosophy book every time our backs are turned.

It’s always like that though isn’t it? Good girls or guys dating people that treat them like shit. There’s something about us that likes throwing ourselves into the crapper. We rejoice at the self-inflicted torture that we put ourselves through.

So riddle me this: Why the hell aren’t we more like Justin Bobby? Wafting through life letting other people screw with the drama and letting things just go all “blissful” like. Why aren’t we waiting for peace and quiet? Why are we always stirring up the anger in ourselves and putting ourselves through one unrequited love affair after another?

It’s screwed up really, the way people are never satisfied. The girls who have boyfriends, don’t want them or want them to be better. The boys who have girlfriends wish they weren’t theirs or have a secret penchant for another girl. And then there’s the other ones…the girls who are single and are constantly jealous of their committed friends. The girls who are single, love it, and treat boys like toys (’scuse the rhyme). The boys who are single and run around racking up conquests and bragging about it causing more havoc than it was worth. The boys who are single and really want to have someone to share their time with. No one is ever happy. And even the ones who are, they’re just waiting until the next amount of drama comes along.

As humans we test ourselves. Part of our endless cycle of dramatics is that we like to see how far our boundaries extend. We want to see what we can break and what we can repair. We like to see how far our reach is. We like to see how much people actually want us. So what are we trying to accomplish by acting like that? What are the real wishes that drive us to act like crazy pathetic maniacs?

Is it that we want someone to love us? Do we want someone to truly know us? Are we actually searching for a soul mate? Are all our dreams being realized? Is it that we are lonely?

Can we really not be happy without unhappiness?

I guess it’s all a balance, a way to find the best of both worlds. Of having our cake and eating it too. Of ying and yang. You know…impossibilities.

Sometimes though, wouldn’t it be nice to think that we could be as cool as Justin Bobby and just simply…coast?

Riddle me this: where do you draw the line? The line, you know, the one. The imaginary boundary between you and your family or friends. You know, it’s dangerous not to put up that space. It invites problems. When you surrender your own feelings and always defer to others…you never find true happiness.

I have always been someone that prides themselves on being outspoken, not only outspoken but obnoxiously independent. I walked around telling everyone how awesomely separated I was, but I was lying. There is one part of my life that I cannot seem to draw any boundaries. And that’s when it comes to my older sister, my half sister actually by my dad’s first marriage. My family and my sister have issues as do all families, but for us it’s a little different. You see, my sister is bi-polar and also has a myriad of other problems that stem from a childhood that she has described as difficult and hellish. Which it was, there is no doubt to that (with warring family members, it’s never a walk in the park).

Somehow, over the years, I have taken on the mantle of her protector and crusader. I would fight her battles for her, I would mediate her problems for her, I would explain again and again to whoever would listen that she had her reasons for her actions, I would…I would do anything for my sister because I love her. But that doesn’t mean that I haven’t suffered for this; no good deed goes unpunished. Because of this role that I created for myself, I have become an automatic fix it. Not that anyone asks me to, but I now feel obligated and to be honest there are some hurts that will never mend no matter how much you try to glue them back together.

When do you stop? How do you know how to? I have talked to my brother numerous times about this problem I have because he has often had to step in and be in the middle of everything. And he said to me, “Sometimes, you just have to say this is not my issue. This not my problem and I need to not be part of this because if you don’t, it can destroy you.”

It’s true you know. No matter how much you love your family members or whoever you have that weakness for, you can’t let it take you down. You can’t let it hurt you so much that it’s irreparable because you’ll only regret it and live to resent them for it.

So where do I draw my line? Where do I find the strength to withdraw from the fight that I have been a part of for too long? How do I do this without betraying anyone? How do I say that I still care? Because sometimes, I don’t. Sometimes, I just want to be a kid and get shitty (which I do a fair amount) and forget about all the obligations I owe to my family and friends.

As I teeter along between guiltiness and selfishness, I realize that everyone has their limits. And after nineteen years, I have finally reached mine.

I have reached mine, and I can’t walk that line anymore.

Riddle me this: what is the heart exactly? Tell me why we refer to our hearts when we discuss emotions. There’s about a million phrases that tie our hearts to our lives.

My heart is broken.

You’ve gotta have heart.

Follow your heart.

Who decided that our hearts should be what makes or breaks us? Why isn’t it another body part? Perhaps…your elbow? I was watching something on television earlier today, and I realized that it was entertaining because it held the key elements: action, drama, and of course love. Love makes the world go round, right? And there was this line.

“The heart is a complicated little muscle.”

It got me thinking. The thought of my heart, the muscle that makes my blood flow, actually having anything to do with my emotions seemed…ridiculous. It’s really just a metaphor for emotion, which to be quite honest has to do with your mind. I know, I know, I’ve heard the whole your head and your heart (they aren’t the same thing and they don’t think the same way either) story, but I’m not completely sold.

I have been there. I have had “my heart broken” and I have felt it shatter, but what was it that actual was broken? My spirit? My ego? My hopes? Maybe all of those things, maybe something even deeper than that, but certainly not my heart. I’m still alive and well, living my life with all my inner scars and insecurities.