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"It's not gossip, it's research."

During exam week, I did something very bad. I can rationalize all I want, but when it came down to it, I teased an old teacher of mine because of the way his looks had changed—and, Lord, I feel like the worst person alive in saying this, but I judged his weight— since I saw him last. And after saying it, I wanted to kick myself.

He was an asshole. But, still. What does weight have to do with anything?

Kathryn and I have a saying, “It’s not gossip—it’s research!” We commonly use this when we are attempting to understand another persons behavior, rather than only badmouth them.

So, when I kept my mouth shut long enough to hate myself for saying those negative things about my old professor, I began to try and look at his changes as a character in a story. I started by examining my own thoughts. I’d always felt comfortable in my own skin, until I started a family. I am/was a young mother and seeing my body change drastically in comparison with most of the women my age often left me feeling worthless. I have gained weight recently, since I stopped breastfeeding my youngest in the spring, I have gained over fifteen pounds. Ugh, it makes me sick just thinking about it, but why? I should embrace this new body, right? But no, I haven’t. Not yet. I’ve grown complacent towards exercise since school started back up, I’ve enjoyed one of my oldest pleasures, baking, a little too much, and I’ve ate terribly while on campus. I’m twenty-four and have definitely gotten wrinkles under my eyes since nursing school began, and it takes double the amount of cover up to hide the deep purple bags beneath my barely open eyes than it once did. Most days, I just go without it.

Save for no longer breastfeeding, my old professor has probably dealt with a lot of the same issues. Who I am to judge? I have no right to attempt to appraise another person, and I don’t want to, especially since when I am of sane mind I feel like weight and appearance is mostly irrelevant!  I say mostly because I can’t help but think of jaundice. That’s an appearance that is not irrelevant in an adult!)

Obviously, when I acted like a catty sixteen year old, I was projecting my own insecurities onto another person. Not only is this the kind of thing an asshole does, these apparent insecurities can show up in my writing, often in a negative way. My own lack of physical confidence manifests itself into my work, but this insecurity can also be used to my advantage. In thinking over my grievances, I was able to create for myself a writing assignment in which I wrote out a character description of a man once feared as he handed out tests, but was now a joke because of the terribly petty nature of his students. I shoved it away and may never use it again, but the concept of “practice makes perfect” rings just as true for writing as it does for anything else.

Still, I think my own insecurities do me more harm than good. A person, whether it is an author, a nurse, or a waitress, needs to be able to make choices with confidence and stand by them, and part of making these choices, is believing in and loving yourself.

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It is the Holidays...

Before the most recent semester started (said semester is now over, thank FSM), I called my husband on his way home from work—when we’ve been apart all day, sometimes waiting until he gets home is just too long of a wait—and gave him a quick list of the day’s events.

“Cleaned out the fridge, did laundry, started two loaves of bread, ran errands. Oh, I bought eight-hundred dollars’ worth of books at the bookstore.”

In hindsight, it would’ve been wiser for me to haven extended that sentence: “I bought eight-hundred dollars’ worth of textbooks at the Northern Michigan University bookstore.” But I did not.

“You bought eight-hundred dollars’ worth of books?” Kyle asked, his tone fearful but without an indication of shock.

“Books for school! Jeez, Kyle, do you think I would empty our savings account at Snowbound?”

A moment of silence.

“I wouldn’t!”

When I think about it, I might have a problem. It’s nearly impossible for me to walk through the doors of our town’s greatest locally owned bookstore, Snowbound Books without purchasing something, and I’m fairly certain that I’ve never left there empty handed. The store clerks are well-versed, kind, and, after hearing a sampling of your favorite books, very talented at matching books to your interest; is it my fault that they are always able to help me pick out the perfect next read?

The shop itself is small; there are books in every visible space. Something about the close quarters magnifies all of the love and hard-work that surrounds every piece of paper in their shop. When I walk through Snowbound, which is always cozily warm,—I theorize this is due to the great insulation all the books along the walls provide—I always leave feeling inspired.

I have finished my first semester of nursing school, and although I still read books during the semester, albeit at a seriously slow pace, I don’t read nearly enough as I’d like. My stack of books to read on break has grown tall and wide, and, in truth, there’s no way I will get to them all in four short weeks. The bookshelves at home are overflowing with well-loved books I have read and refuse to part with as well as new books I plan to get to. Someday. If not during this break, perhaps I’ll come down with some sort of disease in which I am bedridden and have nothing to do but read. I’m not saying that I wish it would happen, I’m just saying a person’s got to be prepared. What if we get invaded by aliens and the mail stops coming? I’m going to need enough new books to keep me preoccupied while the world rebuilds itself!

But, though my shelves are crammed two books deep, and falling off with even the slightest clumsy touch, I still cannot seem to keep myself away from Snowbound. I guess I feel like the local bookstore is the cornerstone of a town and since I live by the adage that we all vote with our money, I vote to keep their business around, as long as possible. My thoughts on this “cornerstone” idea were confirmed when I read Neil Gaiman’s American Gods and one of his characters said that a town simply isn’t a town without a bookstore. If Neil says it, it must be true. Right?

Now, Marquette Michigan has more than one bookshop, but the others just don’t cut it. They’re chain stores, brightly lit and cold. I fear it may be rude of me to make that judgment, but I simply don’t get the same connection anywhere else than I do from walking into Snowbound.

If you are looking for something to do on these chilly winter days, or if you are anything like my husband and I and have yet to purchase a gift for someone dear to you, stay warm and stop by the shop. There are books to peak all interests and gift cards too. There is truly no better gift than sharing with someone a window into another world.

Happy Holidays, my dear readers!

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When I Daydream

When I daydream you are wearing your flannel button down of fleece. I catch glimpses of you from our bed as you walk swiftly from room to room, lighting the wood stove, turning on the coffee pot, searching for your gloves. I watch you from our half-open door, waiting to catch your eye, waiting so that I can invite you to lie with me. My body is still warm, first heated by the fire in your veins. I lie wrapped in stiff, white sheets, my toes curling away from the heavy quilt’s edge.

Eventually, I will rise, pour myself a cup of coffee and put on your coat, your heavy leather boots, and stand on our square porch, just to look outside. I will stand outside only to see that, when I look up into the sky, the snow still falls noiselessly on my brow.

I’ll come inside and you’ll request your clothing back, so that you may leave for the day. In my dreams you will follow your heart deep into the forest, alone, where you’ve always felt you’ve belonged. We will kiss before your departure, with pursed lips, yours heavy on mine. And I, alone, will write about my heart—my heart masked by the vestiges of fiction.

The way I like it.

But, at home my daydream is interrupted by the rumbling of semi-trucks. They shake the house, and our feet quiver each time they pass. My daydream is interjected by the bonds we hold onto dearly: the security of modern medicine, the monotonous day to day grind of bringing home the bacon, your intermittent desire for easy comfort.

It’s too much, darling. Forget comfort. Let’s leave here today. We can break those bonds we’ve tied around our own wrists. Let’s take our beautiful blonde fairies and head north. I’m certain there is a cabin somewhere deep in those pine forests calling for us. Let’s not waste another moment waiting for those trucks to growl through and ruin our dreams. We’d be free.

Just say when.

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"Swirling Cesspool of Our Twenties" Part Two

(Click here for Part One)

I am not fit to give advice. Sure, I’m often accused—and yes, I mean that in the more deprecating sense— of having it all together, but it’s a farce. I’m not a girl with a plan, each life’s stage plotted out on a single line. No, I am seriously confused. Like the rest of us. Each night I lie awake because I’m terrified, and I’m floundering.

My life is lovely, and I am very fortunate. My husband works hard every day and brings in enough money for our family to live comfortably. We haven’t always been this fortunate, but we no longer have to worry so much about getting the bills paid or having food on our table. If we wanted, I would never need to work. But, many things have brought me to where I am now, and much of it started in high school when I came to realize my fallibility.

I once wrote for hours on end every day, and if I wasn’t writing, I was reading. I hid paperbacks in the pages of textbooks during lecture and endured ridicule when I hid to read books in public gym locker rooms, attempting to get a few more chapters in before I went home, rather than swimming with my friends. I relished every opportunity to compose a school paper, joined Forensics club to give speeches, and wrote for a children’s journalism group. When I didn’t think I’d be a famous journalist,—though I didn’t know what that would entail—I thought for certain I would be the next hot-selling novelist. I had no doubt I would succeed in whichever field I chose; I was impervious to failure, a consequence of my confident upbringing.

My mother would tell you that the moment I stopped wanting to write was when I fell in love with my now husband Kyle, she’s wrong, but not entirely. It didn’t happen overnight, but as I matured, I learned there was so much more to life than a career. I felt the engrossing jolts of love, the intense and fascinating joys of intimacy, and the excitement that surrounds the adventure of celebrating my youth. What would it mean to follow a journalism career? Move away, fight tooth and nail for every opportunity? I could, and most likely, would fail. The more I looked, the more I saw the possibility of a lifetime of disappointment. No, this competitive lifestyle, I decided, was not for me.

There was one thing I loved for certain and I didn’t have to compete for it. I didn’t have to leave my hometown, and I could be myself. I was, and still am, in love with Kyle. Every step I took away from a respectable career (I even hate the word), the more I seemed to disappoint people. But never him.

I took mostly liberal study courses my first year of college. I studied business and hated it. I took some anatomy classes and remained constantly distracted. Then, I was hired at Public Radio 90, and found myself once again writing. I loved my job, the people I worked with, and the opportunity to do something I felt proud of. 

Then, a few months later, at the end of my freshman year in college, I peed on a little plastic stick and saw two pink lines. I was pregnant.

Mothering is nothing short of fantastic, and the process of becoming a mom changed my life. Being a mother was something I could, finally, throw my whole heart into and feel right about. I quit school and changed my entire life. 
At home Kyle and I practiced attachment parenting (we still do), and this life style taught me the beauty of science—how our evolution has shaped our growth, and how, as humans, we all deserve the love and support of others. I was happy.

Still, I had an identity apart from my children, and my husband urged me to go back to school. His job is great but physically intense and, he said, our family deserves two parents who can both support their children if anything should happen to the other.

With my new found love for all things science and my love of human connection, I pursued nursing. I thought, “This is a job where I can be consistently challenged, help others, and work part time so that I can still spend time at home with my family.”

So here I am, in one of the most competitive and difficult majors my University offers. Pre-nursing students with great GPAs get wait listed for the program for semesters at a time. Nursing students who are accepted into the program, like me, work their asses off every day just to pass. I spend more time than ever studying, terrified of failure and, as I am no longer ignorant of my own fallibility, contemplating it with every move I make. As this very difficult semester winds down, I’m seriously asking myself, “What the hell am I doing?”

Still, writing has, yet again, found its way back into my life. During the day, I dream about how I’ll spend my time after graduation. Work maybe three to four days a week (though I often dream of working even less), write on my off days, and cook nice meals for my family. But mostly, I think about writing and how, at this very moment, I yearn to do it all day long. And I can’t.

This is why I flounder. Why am I spending all my time—and I still have two years till graduation—wishing for time to pass?

Some days, I consider giving up. I consider leaving nursing school and never looking back. Paying back thousands of dollars in loans bit by bit with money I’d make waiting tables and spending all my free time jotting down ideas for stories or poems on grocery receipts and taking daily adventurous hikes with my daughters.

Other days, I consider setting down my pen and never writing another word.

I’m wandering, lost, between two adages, (which, strangely enough, I read in “The Homemade Pantry” while I was writing this very blog post.) “Do what you love for free, then get a job,” and “Do what you love, and the money comes.”

People think I’ve got it all together, or so I’ve been told, but I don’t. I’m lost just like all the other twenty-something’s, and I throw veracious, confused tantrums over my future.

But if I’ve ever given good advice to others, it’s this: “Sometimes, you’ve just got to push through.” And I’m good at it, all thanks to my parents who gave me the confidence to do so.

So, here’s to swallowing my fears and pushing ahead—all the while doing both what I love for free and working towards a career that I know I will be good at and one which will always keep us fed should my husband’s knees finally fall apart.

Though my life is currently very emotionally, mentally, and physically trying for me, I honestly believe that every challenge is an opportunity for growth. Seeing these times as a reason to evolve is all I can do for now, and, because I’m a hedonist at heart, I’m damn sure going to find a way to be happy at the same time.

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