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Friday, December 11, 2009

Home.

Today, I have had this enormous and insatiable desire to go home. It's not the location, it's the people and the environment they create. I want to be in my house, where it's warm and there's a sort of happy yet calming glow about its rooms.

I want to be with my mother, who will take care of me but keep me humble and remind me that I have responsibilities to my family. There is a special connection between mother and child; I feel like I am still her baby, and that's something I want to be.

I want to be with my father, who spoils me rotten with everything I need and most of what I want, and whose relentless attempts at teasing humor and ridiculous jokes offer relief for the tension and stress that inhabit every day. He makes sure I don't take myself too seriously.

I want to be with my sister, whose sarcasm keeps me on my toes. Our conversations span the spectrum--we cover everything from ignorant gossip to thought-provoking discussions on literature and film and why people are inspired to create such things.

I want to be with my brother, who's always ready for a game. I need to share his energy. He is so resourceful and clever, absorbing himself in the most unique and thoughtful projects. His creativity astonishes me; he's unlike any other boy I have met.

This could have something to do with the fact that lately I have felt exhausted and wary. It could be that I feel like I am not living up to the expectations I have for myself. Regardless of my reasons, I need to be in that place. Even if I do not speak or move, I need to have its warmth surrounding me.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

The Perfectionist.

When I was a kid, I was always the one that finished her assignments last. It wasn't because I was stupid or didn't know what I was assigned to do or anything; it was mostly because I had this perfectionist complex that wouldn't allow me to complete anything without checking and re-checking or tweaking and perfecting it.

This problem (if you can call it a problem, to me it's more of a trait) climaxed twice (as it did many times) in first grade. In the first incident we were writing a personal narrative about the circus. It was a rather large project that we were given at least two weeks to complete. We were required to write a rough draft, proofread it multiple times, and eventually complete a final copy--which only turned out to be about a page total, if that, but for a second grader it seemed like quite a task. For the final project as a whole we also had to color illustrations and particularly a very detailed front cover printed with the face of your typical circus clown (come on, you gotta make it fun for the kiddies somehow, right?). It was impressed upon us that making this front cover as aesthetically pleasing and enticing as possible was a crucial part of the grade. Our teacher even gave examples of enticing children's books that we could sort of imitate.

So here was my first grade self, literally believing that I needed to put intense amounts of effort into the cover alone so that I could make it look as much like an Eric Carl cover as any second grader with any type of artistic talent could. While most of my peers finished coloring their clowns in unoriginal ways with rainbow hair outside the lines, typical white make-up and red nose and exaggerated smile, I was determined to make mine unique and as professional-looking as a page out of a first-grade teacher's manual can get. Needless to say this took me more than two class periods to complete, which was much more than the allotted time had originally been. My teacher was frustrated with me and encouraged me to move on so that I could complete the actual writing part of my assignment. So when I was finally pleased with my cover (although I still found it imperfect), I moved on to finish filling my final draft in the booklet that was encased in said cover. Thanks to my use of exceeding amounts of time on coloring, I was unable to finish filling in my final copy. This ended in tears and a less-than-perfect grade (I got a B instead of an A, since apparently the coloring was worth less than I had thought). So although I had misinterpreted my teacher in thinking the coloring was the most important part of the grade, I still let my perfectionism get the better of me.

This happened once again later in the year in math. We were doing two-digit subtraction and I just didn't seem to have a knack for it. Either I had missed the lesson or just plain couldn't comprehend the idea of borrowing ones from the tens' place. When the two-digit subtraction test grades were returned I immediately burst into tears. It was the first test I had ever failed, and I was appalled and ashamed. I got a 41, and felt like I would have to remain in the first grade forever. My mother was even called over my hysterics. It was arranged that I would stay for the afternoon after school to receive some individual tutoring. It only took me that afternoon to really learn it, and they let me retake the test for an A, but once again I had allowed my innocent cravings for perfection determine my emotional state in life.

I say the emotional state of my life; this seems dramatic for a child, but I never knew any different--I always expected perfection from myself because my grades so constantly reflected that. I had straight A's until I took algebra in the 7th grade. That is why I call it innocent.

But however innocent and admirable that I strove to do the best I could do, expecting total perfection is detrimental to one's psyche, considering that such is impossible. I became too hard on myself for anything less than as close to perfection as possible. It was counter-productive and anti-beneficial to achieving the goals I had for myself.

It was something I have been working on getting over for quite some time. College studies have been quite humbling. Perfection is, indeed, impossible. Yet I have also learned something much bigger. Life is not all about having the perfect marks or even being the best at something. It's what you get out of what you're doing. If you're the best in your class at calculus, but hate math, where are you? Are you really happy? Sure, you may be pleased with yourself, but unless you have some sort of devilish superiority complex I doubt even being the best at something you hate will make you happy.

I have to stop seeking perfection. I have to stop trying to be the best, and strive to do my best. I will seek happiness, and try to truly enjoy what I get out of everything I do. If that means accepting a less-than-appealing grade in organic chemistry but truly enjoying the activities I'm involved in or even finding a smidge of time to relax, I'll take it. Life isn't about being THE BEST or being PERFECT, it's about being happy.


Saturday, December 5, 2009

The Tooth Fairy



I just recalled a dream I had when I was very young to two of my friends, so I have decided to share it because it is quite humorous and reflective of my childhood.

I was about 5 or 6 years old. I had just lost my first tooth pretty recently at my Grandmother's house after she pulled it out by force (don't worry, the tooth had been so loose I didn't feel a thing). I had had this incredible fear of my teeth being pulled and had actually managed to let the new adult tooth grow in behind the baby tooth. So naturally my teeth were crooked (they had been crooked in the first place because my mouth was very small to begin with).

I went to the dentist's office to have one of my teeth removed so that they could determine my need for orthodontia. They removed the small tooth and gave it to me so I could put it under my pillow for the tooth fairy.

That night I placed the tooth carefully under my pillow in a little baggy. As I was sleeping I began to dream about what special things the tooth fairy may bring me since the tooth had been so uniquely removed. I fully expected something spectacular rather than your average trade of a dollar.

So, I dreamed that I woke up with a huge booklet of coupons for FREE PIZZA from Dominos. I was not disappointed by this; my 6-year-old self was obviously craving pizza and would give her teeth to have an unlimited lifetime supply of it. Delicious.

Obviously, you can probably deduce that this dream did not come true. However, I did receive something rather spectacular. I got a really pretty Barbie dressed in a purple blouse and festive skirt. I hadn't ever had a brand new Barbie, because mine had been hand-me-downs from my older cousins. Needless to say I was still very excited, and my mother ended up ordering me a pizza for dinner.


Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Inspired by a Dream:: First Blog :)

So, I have toyed with the idea of creating a blog for quite some time now.... several months actually....

However, today I was particularly inspired to do so by a ridiculous dream that I had while taking what I like to call an "Hour of Power" nap between Biology and Physics II classes. The nap really only lasted about 45 minutes this time, but somehow I managed to dream this incredibly absurd story....

We were told by some local judge that we would be required by law to clean and get rid of a murdered body. It wasn't punishment for anything, but I feel like we (we being me, a close friend, and others who I cannot recall) have been bystanders or had seen the murder when it happened.

For some reason, I, Caitlin (the close friend), and the others were staying at the presently vacated house of my former teammate, Emily. You could tell it was her house only because one of the bedrooms had her name and pictures of her on the door. One small poster had her large portrait and the word "INITIATION" on it--she had been welcomed to the Texas Tech softball team almost as if it were a sorority....

The house was very large, almost mansion-like but not quite. You could tell the family was well endowed. The entrance included an over-sized oak door with a decorative glass pane inside; the door was surrounded by a French-style parallel panel window on each side and a large arc window above it and decorative molding all the way around. The door was set in a red brick entry way with a large funnel-shaped set of stairs leading down to the path. Inside the entry were lots of lights in a chandelier that glowed gold when the outdoors was dark. Directly to the right as you enter the house there was a robust set of stairs that curved up to the second floor. The second floor landing was almost like a Victorian-esque balcony over the first floor den. The floor went around the perimeter of the landing and the bedrooms were all on one side. Emily's room was on the far left, and there were about four more to its right for her many younger sisters. The room I was occupying was on the far right, and had its own bathroom.

The body had been carelessly dumped here on the bathroom floor. Looking at it I could never get a clear view of the face, but somehow I knew it was male and his identity was of no importance or relevance to the ensuing events. He had been wearing navy wind pants and a burgundy wind breaker. There were many gaping holes through which you could see the mangled cadaver. You could tell the death was not recent. The skin looked severely burned and mostly dry with a dark pinkish-red color, almost as if the dead muscle had been exposed to the air for too long. It was unhealthy, almost skeletal. It was as if the people who had left it there had just dragged the body on the sheets he was killed on. A knife lay beside it, but it wasn't sharp or bloody. Both the butter knife and the body were covered in grape jelly. The first thought that came to my mind upon picking up the knife was that prior to his murder the man must have (however innocently, I don't know) making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich....

I was disturbed by the knife and was still holding on to it when I went downstairs to find someone to accompany and help me. I found them, including Caitlin, who I would have preferred as company, in the kitchen. They seemed to be making themselves at home there surrounded by the glorious marble counter tops and luxurious bowls of fruits and breads. Seeing as the owners were not home, it was an odd scene and I was further disturbed.

I didn't really gather much response and went back to the bathroom in my troubled state. When I got there, the body had been spliced in half at the hips. There was no blood anywhere. I ran to the top of the stairs to yell down to Caitlin to see if she knew what had happened. Before I could get the words out, I saw several unknown and curiously dressed people dragging the body down the stairs on my own pink sheets. I didn't know whether to stop them or not.... I yelled and screamed at them, pleading to know what they were doing and where or why they were taking the body. Finally one of them, and ash-covered boy in his teens that resembled a chimney sweeper, answered that "It was not my job to do; my turn was over; it was their turn to take the body." It didn't feel right....

I rushed down the stairs and Caitlin came rushing in and tried to grab one of them as they were about to leave through the oak door. She had a grasp on one of them until they fell, or rather disappeared through, the solid door. A final female one of the ghost-like people was left in the entry way holding the jelly-covered knife. She was dressed almost like a doll, with a childlike Cherub face and a small pink dress. I grabbed her and pushed her to the floor. I could tell I had hurt her feelings and immediately pitied the thing. Then, it was as if she was crying; her face became a watery-looking blur--it was as if i was looking at her reflection in a pond. I helped her to her feet out of pity, and watched her disappear through the door. The last glance I got through the window pane in the door was of one of the older people who had come back for the doll-girl. This one was wearing a white blouse and red cloak, and happened to be my high school Calculus teacher....

Feel free to analyze and comment :)