Kristie Was Here

Of Myths & Men: Excruciating Vulnerability

2013-05-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

i had not one, but two, gentlemen tell me the exact. same. thing.

the knight question is more about guys' expectation of women more so than a woman's expectation. our society (see: rom-com) teaches guys that we should be knights in shining armor, regardless of whether or not you (you specifically and/or women in general) need/want that. soooo you're going to have to deal with that...

so, let's deal with that.

first, i cannot speak for all women
or claim a united voice,
i can only tell you my truth.

and my truth is this:
a man who is kind,
a man who listens,
a man who is vulnerable and honest,
that is the man i want to make me weak in the knees.
rom-coms be damned.

i can tell you that to see a man vulnerable is, at first, a scary thing.
it is scary in a way that is unnerving, unfamiliar, disruptive.
and that is on me.

the intensity of having someone be completely authentic
is unsettling because it forces acknowledgement of this truth:
"in order for us to tolerate imperfection and vulnerability in other people,
we have to be able to accept what is imperfect in ourselves."

let that sink in for a moment.

in order for us to tolerate imperfection in another,
we have to be able to accept what is imperfect in ourselves.

and it is this that makes vulnerability a scary thing.
we must face ourselves, a mirror.

and so we see the great risk.
the risk of being vulnerable.
of sharing everything, ourselves, and then
and then what?

fear? rejection? shame?

imagine,
imagine for one moment
imagine that you risk it. you risk it because you choose to,
because choosing not to is no longer an option.
you finally say this is me. here is my story.
imagine then that someone chooses you.
someone knows you and still chooses you as a friend, a sibling, a partner.

can you see how devastatingly powerful this can be?

in order for connection to happen we have to let ourselves be seen, really seen. we must have the courage to be imperfect.

before we are male and female, we are human.
above all, we are human.
and we need help along the way.

we may pretend that men shouldn't need this help.
we pretend because someone told us to, on the playground,
they told us that you guys would be strong enough, you'd never cry, you'd fight, you'd win.
so we went on pretending, believing a lie, making each other silly, causing each other pain.

but how unfair and unnecessary, and utterly wrong this is.
we are making it unacceptable for men to posses
fear, uncertainty, loneliness and need.

ladies and gentlemen,
before we are male and female,
we are human.
above all, we are human.

and vulnerability is something only the strongest of us show.

Quotes and bolded phrases taken from Brene Brown's TED talk on vulnerability, which you should watch.
Post inspired by conversations with Jimmy & Rob, respectively. I realize you both are going to want to take as much credit as you can. So, beginning italcs taken from an email I received from Rob and editing advice taken from Jimmy.

Lessons from Her

2013-05-13T21:51:00.000-07:00

my mom is not the sentimental type.
she's the tell-it-like-is and let's-be-super-practical type.

but being a mom?
loving her children?
this woman's there, both feet, all in.
can't complain about that.

here are a few things she's taught me along the way...

my mom, after 5 kids. geez.

1. there are those who love math. they're people too.
2. do whatever the hell you want after you get that liberal arts degree.
3. mini vans are incredibly practical.
4. if it makes sense, buy in bulk.
5. flowers may not last, but a new blender will.
6. decorum is overrated.
5. you can either have creative children or a clean house.
6. a dinner with family is where the best stories start.
7. you can potty train a toddler OR a dog, but not both, at the same time.
8. dancing is never wrong, especially if you're latin.
9. laughter saves us from the weight of overwhelming grief and insurmountable sorrow.
10. we survive so much more than we think we can.
11. true beauty is practiced by the soul.
12. there are those who have more and those who have less. you have what you have, so clean your room.
13. bookstores are sanctuaries, don't rush the process.
14. it's money well spent if you buy the pens you like.
15. if you're bored, do the dishes.
16. show your work.
17. do something that matters.
18. create.
19. share food.
20. drink tea.
21. stay warm.
22. read slowly.
23. make music.
24. let laughter.
25. tell the story.
26. write it down.
27. fight for truth.

Bliss Dance

2013-05-12T22:18:00.002-07:00

Sometimes art is enough.

Bliss Dance by Marco Cochrane

Their Story: Kathryn & Drew

2013-05-07T05:00:00.000-07:00

Kathryn is one of my many sisters and I think she's pretty cool.
So, when we she asked me to be in her wedding and maybe make a video, I said yes.

This is what I do when I'm not blogging.
I hang out in the woods in Virginia.

Fairy Tale Endings

2013-05-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

So no knight in shinning armor? No fairy tale ending?

Uh, yea...

I don't want someone on a white horse to come and save me.
Fairy tales aren't really my jam.

I want someone in normal blue jeans who can look at me and say, "Shitty day? How about Thai food and a movie?"

Because you know what?

That'll be a man who does right by me.

Enough

2013-05-01T06:00:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self respect. And it’s these things I’d believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn’t all she should be. I love her and it is the beginning of everything.
F. Scott Fitzgerald

I hate that nagging feeling that you're not enough—
enough of this or that or it.

That feeling that you did something wrong or broke something fragile or simply made an ass out of yourself without knowing how.

To be sure, things are never always-simple. I know that. But it starts that way, these half-truths on the rainy days, bits of a story that is no longer. There are questions in the margins, notes scribbled with a pen, and we want it all to be the final published draft.

And, yes, sometimes I'm an ass, a perfectly inconsiderate 20-something hormone. I must say: I'm sorry; I'm a shit friend; you were right; sometimes I have horrible ideas. And other days I remind myself that perfection is not the goal, here. The story of being human, that's where we are. We're living it, creating it, being it.

And that—I'm pretty sure—that is enough.

Sonder

2013-04-17T06:00:00.000-07:00

n. The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own--populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness--an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you'll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk. {via}

There was that one place in Seattle, the floor of a bookstore, across from a theater,
sandwiched in between journals and fiction, music and shelves.
It was the place I escaped into stories and coffee, dark films, and red Twizzlers.
It was safe,
almost home.

Here.
Here in San Francisco, some days it feels like that.
The city feels like that paperback store:
a girl on the floor, a pen in her hand, writing it all down, and trying so hard not to forget.

And I remember again how much I need these moments when I'm in them, when I arrive, on the shore, in the wind, on a day. I remember to laugh and listen and discover.

And I remember again how it's good to be human.

On Dating or Not Dating or Nothing at All

2013-04-03T23:05:00.000-07:00

you'll wake one morning, a product of all you've seen and done and known and you'll find yourself restored. [...] and you'll continue on. because it's from there that you begin. - Meg

I know enough to say I only barely know. It's okay.
To not know, that is. To not know is always okay.
Therein lies the adventure, the spark,
the maybe, just maybe this could be better than...

I know that human beings are often fragile but mostly resilient.
We are a strange sort of alive, wanting more, working harder, pretending mostly,
and then asking for it all to be real when we can no longer take the game.

I know we should be kind—always.
I know that try as I might, I sometimes fail at this—miserably.

I know I can be perfectly dreadful without a proper meal.
I can dance and laugh and feel the weight of happiness so deeply
that I hold back tears so my eyes can embrace it all, slowly.
I know that when this happens, I hide it like a secret,
afraid that words will make it disappear.

I know a man once thought I wasn't like other city girls.
For the life of me, I still don't know what he meant.
But I'm sure it was a compliment because kindness lingered behind it.
There was a smile, and I think I know smiles.
They are usually good and honest, genuine—
at least this one was.

I know I can become like an adolescent girl whose been forced into
her Sunday best, complaining about an outing with a new stranger or
pretending to never quite care. Ever. But I do care.
I care because to not would be silly and wrong and quite unhelpful.
It would be untrue.

I know that one day, while trying to not quite care,
a man's hand will find mine and I will feel safe.
This will be enough.
I will pull this someone close
because it will be the best thing in that moment.

And I will probably never know how, or why, or when
it all started to become quite real because I don't really need to know.
I think, maybe, eventually, the game may end
and it's from there one begins.

2013-03-27T12:44:00.001-07:00

In the depth of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.

—Albert Camus

How I Want it All to Feel

2013-03-26T05:00:00.000-07:00

I want it to feel like the moment you're finally warm after sitting in the cold too long.

I want it to consume, and linger, and spread.

I want it to feel like the slow smile that cannot be hidden when the sun is finally peaking through the clouds, onto your face, into your eyes.

I want it to feel like the laughter that comes from within: deep, with tears, unashamed.

I want it to feel grand
because it is simple.

I Am Not An Open Book

2013-03-24T01:03:00.002-07:00

I'm lying on my bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling, ignoring my bed a few feet away, sinking into the end of an almost perfect day. It was was a day so ordinary but in the most brilliant way: sunny, warm, delicious, kind. It was full of hilarity, stories, cold drinks, clever texts, a warm latte, and a walk home in the lingering sunlight. It's all feelings more than words. It is best not written, but rather remembered.

It's as if I've finally found home or maybe it has found me. Whichever it is, it makes no difference at midnight. A collision of moves and change and complete unrest has uncovered something I'd forgotten. There is a city, a place, moments completely and utterly free from what has been. It's bigger than San Francisco, although that's a part. It's the person I'm becoming, the people I'm meeting, it's finally creating what I know I've wanted and recognizing it with a sense of reverence—gratitude, humility.

Tonight as I walked to my second floor apartment, past the crowded bars and endearingly drunken crazies, I realized that while 2013 started out as a year I wanted to be "settled" it's quickly moved to be something more. It's becoming a year to be vulnerable, intimate, honest with the people closest to me. It is the year to find the safe places in my tribe and push myself to speak.

And while I may seem open here with my careful words and colorful language, there are stories that are not written, people you will never meet, and vague allusions that are still vivid memories in my life. I am not an open book. I never have been. This has kept me safe, it has been a decision, and it has meant avoiding risks that may just be worth it now. It is this I am realizing.

So, vulnerability, a letting go, speaking truth to the silence? Well, that seems like a shit ton of work. But I suppose it is the good kind. The kind of work that will keep me busy and writing and learning, and probably complaining. Yes, most definitely complaining.

But for now, let me have tonight, lying on my bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling, ignoring my bed a few feet away, sinking into the end of an almost perfect day.

January 12, 2013

I haven't said it yet, but my goal, my word for 2013 is settled or rather "to be settled." I want to be at home in a city I've been fighting for. I want to create a routine I can decide to ruin. I want to stay out late or go to bed early and be perfectly content with the consequences. I want to add to the dancing and honesty and resolutions of years past and know who I am, who I want to be, and where I might be going along the way. I want to be able to rest in my imperfection, struggle with the questions, and at the end of the day, open a bottle of wine and watch a damn funny movie.

I Promise...

2013-03-19T23:50:00.000-07:00

I promise I'll stay 5'4" or 5'7" with heels, which I'll wear because I want to, and not because they're comfortable. So we don't need to have discussions about this.

I'll get cold when it's 60 degrees outside, but I'll try really hard to remember a jacket, and scarf, and layers. I'll be successful in this 75% of the time. I will regret it the other 25%. You don't have to lend me your jacket or tell me I should know better. I'm 28, I should know better.

I will lose my keys or wallet or ID at the most inopportune time, but it'll be ok because at the end of the day I'll have a great story. And it should probably happen only once a year. Fingers crossed.

I will run and read and need time alone so I don't feel smothered or drained or incredibly annoyed with the entire human race. You should believe me—the first time—when I tell you I'm an introvert.

I will be sarcastic and silly and dance to music because I must.
You don't have to, but just know I will.

I will fill your phone with texts and gifs, but never voicemails.
Don't worry, I'm not really into emoji cons.
If you are, I'll make fun of you, but I'll use them too.

I probably won't answer the first time you call because my phone will be on silent.
I'll feel bad about this.
It will probably never change.

I will write you notes on post-its, send you emails, and use a pen to tell you my secrets.
I will not expect you to do the same because you are not me.
But should you choose to write a simple note on any normal day,
I will be the happiest when I read it.

I will watch movies, sleep in, and leave the bed unmade.
Some days I need my home to feel lived in.

I will travel, and you're welcome to come.
If you can't, I'll send you postcards.
But either way, I'm getting on that airplane.

I'll hug you on the regular and hold a kiss for you each night.
But I will never be a morning person, so tread carefully before 6:30 am

I will make mistakes and complain about things I should just fix, but I'll let you do the same.
This is so we can show each other a little grace on the journey.

I will be seemingly high maintenance because I have a gluten and dairy allergy,
but I'll make up for it in other ways...
like taking only 20 minutes to get ready in the morning.

I'll laugh a lot and realize that while I had no say in my looks, I got a damn good smile,
so I'll share it as much as I can.

I'll think you're hilarious—I think all my friends are.
And this will be very good for your self-esteem.
You're welcome.

It will be the hardest for me to recognize you,
to let you in, to trust you like I should.
But if you're patient and kind and ask permission,
the walls won't last forever.

I will get my heart broken.
I will risk a bit more than the last time.
I will make mistakes—loads of them, actually—but my regrets will be very few.

I will be skeptical, relentless, thoughtful and confusing,
but I will love and give and be yours like something fierce.
I will be your partner and your friend.
And I will never complete you because you are enough.

I'll be restless forever, but the good kind—
the kind that creates change and adventure and meaning.

And I promise that if all else fails,
I'll keep writing it down
so someone somewhere can know we're not alone in this.

I Want...

2013-03-18T21:24:00.002-07:00

I want to be head over heals.
I want to laugh, and cry, and kiss
I want to trust and cherish and think How did I get so lucky?
I want to write about love because I finally feel it—all the way down.
And then? Then I want someone who reads what I write.

I want someone who doesn't ask me to be anything other than myself.
I want someone who thinks I'm funny—when I am.
I want someone who recognizes when I'm full of shit—when I am.
I want someone who can hold my story without trying to fix it.
I want someone patient, patient enough to wait for me to talk.
I want someone strong enough to handle my tears.
I want someone kind, kind enough to know that while my story has made me who I am,
some days it's all I can do to carry it.
I want someone with their own journey to be lived, a purpose to fulfill, a smile to share.
And I want to recognize this person like an old friend, the sense that we may have met,
or should have met or this meeting of two souls is something bigger than we could have planned.

I want all of this. I think I do.
But if I don't find it,
if that person doesn't exist right now,
that will be okay too.
Because it has been.
Because there are friends.
Because sometimes I don't need to choose
all the details in the chapters of my life.
Sometimes where I am is the only place
I need to be.

City View

2013-03-17T22:02:00.000-07:00

I f$%&ing love San Francisco.

Yesterday I met Joe.
He was probably 78, drinking cofee, looking cool with
his black jacket and brown cane. We watched the crazies walk
down the street on the eve before St. Paddy's Day.
We talked about music and where to hear it on the cheap.
He loves this city. He was sure I would too.
My friend and I ate rice pudding as he reminisced and
the sun shone. I couldn't help but love him.

We met two people from Kurdistan and a bartender from Oaxaca.
We toasted to brunch and food, and mainly that on a Saturday
we could all be strangers and then suddenly friends.
We laughed and ate and decided a home-cooked dinner should
be in our near future.

And I'm starting to realize this is the norm around here--my new city.
People are lively and friendly and in love with the streets that hold it all.
It's contagious.
I like it.
And as I said before,
I f$%&ing love San Francisco.
So, cheers to that.

A Crack in The Armor

2013-03-11T23:34:00.002-07:00

It occurred to me, suddenly, like a rush, that we are lonely. We are lonely and important—simple human beings. I'm not sure if it’s because the wine had worn off or I remembered the feeling of an empty house with creaks and echoes. Whatever it was, I opened my eyes in the middle of the thoughts and realized we travel through the days needing so much more than we let on. We need a touch, a smile, a reminder that we matter. And we matter not because of what we do or say or accomplish. We matter because we are here, existing, living, sharing space on the planet.

There is a tenderness that creeps out, that I try to hide away, tucked in journals, handwritten notes, unsent emails... But it finally surfaces when I remember all of this. I remember that underneath it all we need a little more than we say we do. We are all here together, getting on with it, trying, forgetting, pretending we do not care. We do not want too much love, fear, longing. Even with hugs and friends and a lot of laughter, there is a desire for meaning, for a purpose, for something to share deeply. But the feelings, the altering, explosive, penetrating feelings—come with the risk. And therein lies the rub.

It is that piece—that desire to share and feel, to be with—it is that inner sense of more that I am wrestling with. It's working its way through, tumbling around on the inside, making me uncomfortable, maybe slightly anxious. It’s doing something in the hidden corners—probably more than I know.

So these are the things I'm learning and sharing, slowly, and with much prying from those who ignore my “I do not want to talk about it” or “I’ll tell you later.” There are those that settle in for the hour, the hours, that it will take for me to walk around my stories and the lessons I’m learning, the very obvious mistakes I'm making. They, the friends, they know my silence is where the narrative lies. I’m learning this too.

And these friendships are becoming something more than they were yesterday. I think that is progress.
The sadness, desire, questions—somehow they come out over coffee and laughter, sunny days and San Francisco afternoons. I hang my head, hide my eyes, laugh at memories, make excuses, listen in agreement and share ridiculous stories. While it is quite clear I am a person with so much left to uncover, in a very small way, there is finally a crack in the armor.

The Warning Label

2013-03-07T22:31:00.000-08:00

I'm the worst sick person ever.
I should come with a warning label.

I go to work.
I come home.
I go to bed.
I repeat.

I get cranky. I get bored.
I can't seem to figure out
how awful I should feel to take
a sick day.
So, I keep repeating
the routine.

Last Wednesday, six people told me I didn't look good.
It was a really great Wednesday.

"Are you okay? You look awful."
" Well, I'm sick, and dehydrated, and I just blew my nose so that probably doesn't help."
"You should go home."
"I can't. My car is broken."

And that was all just last week. Last week.
My car and body broke at the same time.
It's like they called each other.
It was so cute.

And frankly, there is no point to all of this
other than the fact that I can't sleep.

We can blame it on the non-drowsy Sudafed
I took before climbing into bed.

Genius.

A Perfect Story

2013-03-03T15:46:00.000-08:00

No one wants a perfect story—really.
They want a story that holds a bit of their own.
We want to be reminded that we are not alone in this.

Coming Clean in Fragments

2013-02-28T23:07:00.000-08:00

Those untold stories, those unwritten memories are the ones that when they are shared—when someone has the courage to say "me, this, all of it," when we are finally allowed past the veil of pretend—we never forget. It is intimacy. It is vulnerability. And it is scary as hell. We recognize one another. Someone else knows life—the shitty parts— the parts you thought were just yours. And life become more bearable because you took that risk.

"What did you mean last week when you said, 'You have an interesting way of dealing with pain'?"

I was sitting across a coffee table in his office. It was dark outside, cold. We meet every now and then when work isn't consuming my life. So, I'm on his calendar, then in a chair, now in a room.

"Kristie, I think you compartmentalize. You box it up.

You put it away, and then you move it to the back of the closest."

I sat for a few seconds thinking about how much I disagreed with him.

"I do not. I don't think I do that. Okay, so maybe I compartamentalize, but I go back and pull out the boxes, look inside, dust things off, take them out, and then put the box back until I'm ready to deal with whatever is left. I don't just leave them there."

Boxes were obviously our metaphor for the evening.

"Can you give me an example?"

I told him again about moving to California, about ending that most serious relationship, about letting myself cry and be angry, scared, lonely. "I dealt with things as them came up. I gave myself permission to be miserable, to be unproductive, to feel the grip of pain and question it all. It helped that I was unemployed..."

I explained how, as a kid, I pretended things were fine when my dad died. I wanted life to go back to normal as soon as possible. I didn't deal with everything until it all refused to be ignored. "The box kinda exploded," I told him. "Not helpful. It was harder to figure out where all the emotions were coming from. It was bad. Plus there was all that PTSD stuff I had to deal with. So this time, this time, I decided I was going to feel everything as it came. It was horrible. It was awful. But it was much, much better than when my dad died."

We sat and talked about how I'm doing. How I'm managing all this.

How, in his (very qualified) opinion, I'm emotionally healthy.

There's one thing he wants me to try though.

"What do you think about intimacy? And I'm not talking about with a guy,

I'm just speaking in broad terms—really letting someone know you."

"I think it's good..."

"For other people?"

"No. Well, I think it's good. It's uncomfortable."

"It seems like it would be hard for you. I mean, simply based on your personal experience,

which is completely understandable."

"Oh, it is."

"So how does it feel when you're vulnerable?"

"It's really uncomfortable, but I do it because I know it's good for me—like flossing or grocery shopping."

"Who are the people you're closest to?
How do you feel about trying to get to know one of them better?"

"What if I already know my friends well enough?
I don't really want to know them any better than I do now."

We both laugh. That's exactly his point.

So we get over it by getting out of the way. And letting life happen.

And acting courageously even when it's not in our nature.

(Meg Fee)

Black & White & Sick

2013-02-27T22:45:00.000-08:00

I imagined a weekend to rest,
a warm cafe,
my moleskine,
a pen, chai tea, music,
sunlight streaming through the windows...

But I got a respiratory infection instead.

It all went to shit.

So, pictures...for now.

Until I write down
what's really going on.
Because what's going on is good,
and a bit hard,
and made me finally understand
the reasons to the whys.

But like I said, a respiratory infection.

So, on a different day, perhaps.

seattle

nyc

belgium

madrid

ibiza

rome

my neighborhood in san francisco

sf pretending to be italy

paris

madrid

the spanish steps in rome

The Small Big City

2013-02-06T21:50:00.001-08:00

No one told me that when the sky is black and the city is awake, you can still see the stars in San Francisco. But you can, and I did, and it reminded me again what a small big city this place really is.

It was December when the cab driver said it finally felt like Christmas, and he was right. It was crisp and clear and the lights sparkled above, highlighting wreaths and glistening off the leaves. It mixed with the damp cigarettes and lost newspapers. I pulled my scarf above my smile as I stepped out into the middle of it all.

The buzz, the grime, the noise—like that one song on the radio—it's my jam.
I have a thing for the inconveniences—the soundtrack of crowds, people, dogs, taxis.

So I've moved. Again. Just up the 101 to the place I've been avoiding for too many months. I moved right into San Francisco and found another home address. I moved my books, got rid of my couch, and unpacked it all one Saturday morning in February, just in time for the Super Bowl. I suppose that's what you do when you've known all along home is a place where it should take you 25 minutes to find a parking spot. Finally you give in.

And if nothing else, Russian Hill could use a few more Puerto Ricans.

We Are Not a Sad Story

2013-01-28T23:28:00.002-08:00

It's the anniversary of his death—another year, another day. And I'm okay this time around. It’s not all tragedy, but rather a piece of complicated narrative that has shaped me, haunted me, and freed me.

It has given me permission to pursue adventure, embrace love, risk heartache, and fight for truth. It has given me the courage to venture from the predictable in order to chase the extraordinary.

It has given me permission to be myself unashamedly—to write, dance, swear, laugh, fail.

Some days I look around and realize we’re all living these stories we’re not talking about.
But what if I can’t do that, at least not anymore?

What if we were a bit more honest with each other—with ourselves? What if we believed that truth is so much greater than any lie we could trade for reality? What if we understood that our lives are written with notes in the margins, and scribbles on the page? What if it’s okay that our stories are full of fragments,
run-ons, complete and utter nonsense, chaos, and peace?

Because it is, you know. It is okay. I’m sure of this.

We may hide it all for fear of being too different, too troubled, to undefined, lost.
We never write it all down for fear of recording failure.

But what if we did—what if we did write it down? What if we made a few good sentences, a few life-changing memories? What if we listened to music that filled us, laughed with people once strangers, hugged family we missed, shared secrets, and decided to not to care too much about the consequences? What if? What would come of it?

What if we quit trying for perfection and tried for a real, honest, gut wrenching, hilarious life?

We might finally have something worth sharing. We might have that moment.

That moment we realize we’re not a sad story.

We are alive.

The last two lines of this post were inspired by the movie
The Perks of Being A Wallflower and the corresponding book.

If you don't risk anything...

2013-01-22T00:38:00.001-08:00

Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk everything.

Erica Jong

I first read this here.
Then I re-read it, copied it, stared at it.
It surprised me.
For whatever reason, it surprised me.
I'm going to sit with it for awhile.

set·tled, set·tling, set·tles

2013-01-12T21:15:00.001-08:00

Tonight I went to bed at 9:45pm and woke up an hour later, too stressed to sleep, too tired to work. Simply in need of a good cry, a hug, a few gummy bears? I don't know. Probably all of those things and a glass of wine watching a damn funny movie.

It's not one thing. It's all the little things piled up, taking over, weighing heavy, making it a bit hard to breathe, relax, let go. It's frustrating to know I need to change it and still stumble over where to start.

Someone told me I had a lot of potential. I'm going places. I know what I want and I'm going for it. And I'm apt to trust that someone who's been around a few decades, seen his share of life, knows my story--the one that isn't anywhere to be read. It's hard to trust myself sometimes. It's hard to believe somewhere something is working, growing, living it all out and I can still keep doing all of this. I told him it all felt like just the right amount of scary.

I haven't said it yet, but my goal, my word for 2013 is settled or, rather, "to be settled." I want to be at home in a city I've been fighting for. I want to create a routine I can decide to ruin. I want to stay out late or go to bed early and be perfectly content with the consequences. I want to add to the dancing and honesty and resolutions of years past and know who I am, who I want to be, and where I might be going along the way.
I want to be able to rest in my imperfection, struggle with the questions, and at the end if the day, open a bottle of wine and watch a damn funny movie.

set·tle (stl)

v. set·tled, set·tling, set·tles

v.tr.

1. To put into order; arrange or fix definitely as desired.

2. To put firmly into a desired position or place; establish.

a. To establish as a resident or residents: settled her family in Ohio.

b. To establish residence in; colonize: Pioneers settled the West.

c. To establish in a residence, business, or profession.

4. To restore calmness or comfort to.

5. a. To cause to sink, become compact, or come to rest.

b. To cause (a liquid) to become clear by forming a sediment.

6. To subdue or make orderly.

7. To establish on a permanent basis; stabilize.

v.intr.

1. To discontinue moving and come to rest in one place.

Heyo! It's 2013!

2013-01-01T22:58:00.000-08:00

I owe you a Merry Christmas,
and more than a few stories.
I did make a video.
So there's that.

Last year was one of the hardest and most eventful years of my life.
I checked some bigs things off the life list:
I went to Europe,
I danced,
I cried,
I moved...twice,
I met strangers,
I played a lot of dodgeball.
I made some bad decisions,
I made some really, really good decisions,
and I lived.

I fucking lived,
and survived, and met damn good people.

And however this new year looks for you, for me,
I wish you well. I wish us well.
I wish us hilarious stories,
and family memories--
at least one adventure we'll never forget.
I wish us the right amount of change,
with the right amount of challenge,
and few friends and loved ones to share it all with.

I wish us a year that is unforgettable.
I do. I wish us something to work for, live for, strive for and enjoy.
I wish us the year we need, the year we've prayed for,
the year that is exactly what we've been waiting for,
even if we don't yet know what that means.

When the clock ticked to midnight,
and I was surrounded by my favorite people who
I only met this year, I threw both my hands in the
air and wished the entire world a "Happy New Year!"
Loudly.

That's how I know, how I absolutely, unequivocally know that 2013 is going to be a good one. It's new, and we're free, and we get to live another year, another day, a few more seconds--loudly.
That's already something to celebrate.

Click here to watch this Christmas video on YouTube

Hipster Specs

2012-12-09T14:37:00.001-08:00

{image credit}

I actually need prescription glasses.

And by need I mean I've always wanted glasses and was thrilled when my eye exam proved I could get some to improve my movie watching and night-driving skills. They supposedly help my almost invisible astigmatism. So, that's cool. Plus, I can go from business casual to hipster chic using one accessory. It's like having a super power but all I actually have are Firmoos.*

These suckers are...

Durable
I sat on them, put books on top of them, and misplaced them under a load of clean laundry. Let's pretend I did this all under the guise of market research.

Affordable
Think FREE. Firmoo has a First Pair Free Program where you can try Firmoo glasses for free by paying shipping only. I recommend clicking this link to claim your pair.

Glasses
Duh. And I got some. These ones, specifically (and then I instagramed the shit out of 'em).

My one complaint is that I couldn't order glasses that were anti-reflective, and anti-reflective lenses actually make a difference with my prescription (and in pictures). So, there's that. But for someone on a budget and without the cash for RayBands, I'd say Firmoo is a great option.

Now, I'm gonna go be all hipster-like in a San Francisco coffee shop...

*My Disclosure Policy