Bedside Baptist

I, for one, got sick of those jokes about people sleeping in instead of going to church and making awful jokes about going to "the church of the Holy Comforter" or hearing "Pastor Pillow" preach. People who make jokes like that are the worst kind of insufferable.

I guess that is the worst possible introduction to say that a friend of my was ordained into the Anglican church on Sunday. Even though I went to a very Christian liberal arts college, this week was the first time I had been to church in multiple years.

Freshman year of college, I roomed with a very nice, very faithful churchgoer. I went to church when the weather was nice, and, basically because I was following the herd. But as the nice summer and early fall dissolved into the classic Chicago winter, and any motivation I had to go to church was shot to hell (so to speak).

The truth is that I really haven't been to church regularly since I was about 16. I grew up in a family where we never missed a Sunday at church- never. It's not that my parents were tyrannical about it, but that was just the understanding- on Sunday, you went to church. We didn't know better, so we would have never thought to dispute this weekly tradition, or even really ask the reasons behind it. I guess you would classify us as a religious family. Besides the church every Sunday, my siblings an I went to Christian schools all the way through high school (except for my sister, who went to high school with a huge lot of fish-eating, wine-drinking Catholics. I can't tell..... is that offensive? Note to self: take informal poll of Catholics to see if that's offensive).

But religion was never a topic of discussion. Ever. I guess that's a marginally WASP-y quality about our family, but I think we're also a family that doesn't talk a huge amount emotional, irrational subjects.

But in my teenage years, I just no longer saw the point of church. By no means did I then (or do I now) reject what I grew up believing about religion, but I never made the emotional religious connection that seemed to be so key in the evangelical church and the Christian summer camp that I went to every single summer. So around the age of 16, I just stopped going to church regularly. I don't remember there ever being a discussion, and certainly not a fight with my parents about this.

Since then, I haven't really been back to church. In the back of my mind, I think that I will go back someday, but probably not soon. I want to believe- I really do. But I can't stand the thought of blind acceptance based on emotions that seems to be so characteristic of what I've seen in evangelical churches and in college. Religion has to make sense to me intellectually, and until then, I'll be sleeping in on Sunday mornings.

It was good to get back to church on some level. I like the Anglican service- I love the history behind it. But going back to church usually sparks all this in the back of mind. We'll see.

What if I can't do it?

I'm plagued by this question. I'm 22, and feeling very much like I'm having to make decisions and start thinking about things that I'm not ready for.

I'm right now (for whatever reason) on the UT MBA site, and thinking about the very idea of going to graduate school. Joe did it- in spades. He got in to a great school (well, the aforementioned great school) and has done amazingly.

I want to do well. I want nothing more than to throw myself into something and be rewarded for doing so. But I can't help but think that I'm maybe not up to it. What if I can't do it? What if I can't make it in a male-dominated industry? What if I can't handle the math side of getting an MBA? What if I don't get a good internship or job? What if I don't make friends?

Maybe it's justification for the surfeit of TV in my life, but I think there is validity in TV and movies, and what they have to say. I say this because, all during this failure-centric thought process, this section from Finding Forrester has been running through my mind:

" Someone I once knew wrote that we walk away from our dreams.afraid that we may fail, or worse yet,afraid we may succeed."

I don't know what the answer is. Maybe it's just "work hard" and maybe the answer will kind of.... find me, once I find the right thing I'm supposed to do with my next few years. I don't want to be an aimless wanderer.

I think it's all so daunting because there's no "safe place" anymore. It's this feeling like treading water.... with no end in sight. You can't just... stop. I have to keep working, keep advancing, keep preparing for the future.

I'm so paralyzed by it all. And meanwhile, I want nothing more than to write for online magazines, and I do nothing. partly "afraid that I might fail, but worse yet, afraid that I might succeed." But to be honest, a big part of it is just laziness. And that's sad. But if you don't try, you can't fail. It's easier not to try. For so many reasons.

Brie.

I'm not a hummus and raw green pepper kind of girl. Let me explain.

I just finished living with someone for one year who was (or at least wanted to be, and thus pretended to be) the type of person that had friends over for "dinner" and they would eat hummus, sliced green pepper and expensive Brie. I guess that's fine for the Whole Foods set, but I was always marginally uncomfortable around these people. I felt like we had to compare Anthropologie findings and talk about the respective qualities of Pottery Barn vs. Pier One candlesticks. I should add, for the record, that living with this girl was a hugely miserable experience and contributed in very large part to one of the hardest years of my life.

Tonight..... I had my people over. We mixed Tequila Sunrises before we ordered pizza, and ate that and drank gin and tonics while we watched three episodes of LOST. No pretense, no bullshit about triple cream brie. Fun was had by all, and I think that tonight, we will all go to bed resting assured that we don't have giant sticks up our asses.

Mother's Day

Just a quick thought. I'm so confused when I hear girls my age say how much they want to have children right now. I don't understand it. This phase of life, and I'm not being glib about this, is about selfishness. Outside of work, your time is your own, the money you make is your own, and you are allowed to do with it what you please. And I adore this. I can read, or blog, or stay up all night, or have the freedom to make unwise decisions. I'm not ready to give that up. I think it's that freedom that has helped me to figure out who I am and what I want. While those kinds of things can never be determined in a vacuum- not having other human lives depending on you helps.

I'm also very scared by the prospect of having children. I say this because I've seen and know moms who in all honesty don't like their kids. Growing up, I didn't know that people like this existed. I was naive, and gladly so about the existence of unfit and unloving parents.

At lunch today in the office, one woman said that what she wants for Mother's Day is for everyone to get out of her house. And I immediately thought what my mom would say if she were asked what she wanted for mother's day. I could picture it at once because it's something I've heard her say many times before. She would say (and I know she'd be tearing up while she said it): "I just wish the three of you could all be home." As a mother, what she wants for mother's day is just to be close to her kids. And while my parents weren't perfect (whose were?), we always knew we were loved. And I don't know I'd be thinking that about my mom if she just wanted me gone on Mother's Day.

I feel that I wandered off into to separate points there, but oh well. I'm thankful for my Mom, and hope that I can be like her.

I never write anymore.

I just don't. And I don't exactly know why. I mean, there are any number of logical reasons. Writing is active, and reading and tv watching are passive. It takes work, and effort and giving of myself and introspection, and I guess at the end of sitting in front of a computer emailing people I don't like, and creating presentations for still other people I don't like, I don't have the emotional energy to come home and give more of myself.

I think that's true on some level. On another level, I think that's a huge cop-out. I think the "desire to write" vs. "actually writing" (metaphorically speaking) is the very thing that separates mediocrity from excellence. Those who excel are those who recognize the easy, passive pleasures and instead choose the active, creative functions instead.

Maybe I don't write out of fear of failure. Fear that what I'm writing isn't as good as it could be, or as good as the writing of others is. I realize this is silly. Everyone can't only engage in the things that they are already good at. Simple logic begs the question of how these people get good at these things. The answer, obviously, is some mix of natural giftedness and hard work.

In the back of my mind, I keep thinking that one day, I'll find one thing I want to do, whether that be write a book or go to graduate school, and that one thing will provide me with all the motivation I need to slog through the daily hard work of achieving that goal. And while that's a nice idea, I just don't think it's true, or has much bearing on reality. Yes, I think there are some goals that will better suit me, and for these things, I'll have a greater desire to work. But I think the other part of this is creating the motivation where none exists. I think this is just part and parcel of working towards something longterm, but this is just also part of maturity. Putting off something you want now for something you've wanted for years of your life, and something that will benefit you for years to come.

This is one of those principles I grasp rationally, but am only very slowly coming to grasp it in actuality. I think it's something I mull over because I'm terrified of the day when I don't care about this anymore, and am perfectly happy to settle for mediocrity. I think most like-minded college graduates have a deeply instilled sense of purpose, and drive, and desire, and these qualities are very much nurtured in college. A rude awakening, then, to come into the corporate world, at the bottom rung of the ladder, when creativity is rarely encouraged, and the intelligence and hard work that got you in the door is so little utilized.

So, this is a step for me. Writing out my thoughts on.... writing. But also on creativity, and the act of creating. I hope it's something that becomes a habit in my life, and the act in and of itself will keep me away from the ever present pull of passivity and mediocrity.

Sigh.

All I want in life is someone to sing the Ben Folds part while I sing the Regina Spektor part.

Eat, Pray, Love, Part 2

I think I' m honing in a bit more on what bugs me about this book. I think Gilbert approaches basic human emotions as if she were the first one ever to experience them. And while I understand that they are meaningful to her, I guess I would like to see some indebtedness to.... humanity? Just some recognition that- oh, this has to be trite- I just know it is, but it felt new to me...

But she lacks that. And her writing thus has an air of pretentiousness that I assume is unintended. More to follow.

Something something art.

Here's my short thought (sparked by reading Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat Pray Love"): Is all art self-serving to some degree?

I read her book, and for many a reason, don't fully connect with it, partially because I think her style of narrative is self-serving. But I know this is inherent in non-fiction, especially non-fiction memoirs. But is it more than just that? Don't many people create art to record something of themselves, or for the catharsis? Aren't these things, then, self-serving.

I don't know. Just curious.

Let's Part with the Disclaimers....

I'd like to part with the disclaimers.... but that's just not totally in my personality. I blame it on partly on the gorgeous spring weather, which is very transition-y or, the st. Patrick's Day drinks, or mostly listening to Ben Kweller's "Falling"- one of those bittersweet songs that reminds me of being a teenager, and transports me back to being in Texas, and makes me feel a sense of loss, and makes me feel like I need to grow up in a hurry- all at once.

There are just time when I want to cut all the bullshit in relationships (many times, under the aforementioned conditions, one of which being Gin + Tonic), and just say what's really going on. I realize completely that this is a fully cliched and ordinary statement- but at the same time, not an unimportant one. It is common and trite for the simple reason that it is a shared experience.

I don't want to dwell on the lofty (ish) principles of how cliched and prosaic principles prove themselves to be true in our everyday lives, I really don't. I was just driving home from St. Patrick's Day festivities, and just thought of one person. And again, I attempt to dispense here with the cliches and disclaimers- last one- this was much more of a "why didn't we do things this way" type of thought than a "oh, how hard relationships are" kind of thing.

Why didn't I just sit down and say- let's cut the bullshit- regardless of what you feel and think- I need to say this- you get me. You get my stupid, sarcastic, sometimes offensive sense of humor. You get my love of Queen, and pub quiz obsessions, and my introspection, and my introvertedness, and my need to verbally process. You and I have both had a hard, shitty transition out of college, but here we are, and we're the better for it.

And maybe I'm just 22, and mildly retarded, because I just haven't met that many people that I feel like fit the bill. But why didn't I initiate that conversation? Why did I choose to deal with the "What Ifs" rather than deal with the possible rejection. I don't know. I know I'm being maudlin and self-serving right now, but... I don't know, I guess I'm allowed.

I'm tired- not emotionally, or existentially, or in a Ben Folds way, "tired of life..."- I'm just tired. And I need to go to bed. I'll leave the soul-searching to another day.

Bump.

Lately, I've felt like a creative bump on a log. A phrase I hate. So, let's go with the far less poetic and far more prosaic "lazyass."

This week marks my 5 months in the corporate world. A small eternity (does that make any sense?). Working 40 hours a week, every week, every month, with no foreseeable change or break is an odd, and new concept to me. The last, well, 22 years of my life have been marked by a "what's next" mentality. High school precedes college- a time filled with constantly planning for the near future- internships, classes, summers abroad, etc. Though the specifics of these next steps are rarely nailed down far ahead of time, there is always a definite next step.

And after graduating from college, that was over. My forseeable "next step" is I guess turning 30. Or death. Or whatever.

All that to say- it's been a rocky transition at times. And I've become very jealous with my non 9-5 working hours. I've become extremely possessive of those hours, and introvert that I am, like to spend many of those hours recharging. But an unfortunate byproduct of that has become laziness. It's easy to justify doing nothing productive or creative in your off-hours, because so many things are required of you during work. It can seem like just one more thing on a list to force yourself to sit and write, or read, or blog, or whatever.

So, my non-work hours as of late have been filled with catching up on some fantastic TV shows (Freaks and Geeks as of late), or spending time with friends, which has been fantastic. But I'm left feeling less than fulfilled in other areas of my life, specifically creatively speaking.

It wasn't until yesterday that I realized the whole line of thought behind this. I feel dissatisfied when I watch TV, or surf the internet because these things require nothing of me. They are completely passive acts, allowing me to lazily consume information and be entertained as I see fit. I stare at a screen, click a mouse and the rest is done for me.

And I understand why I've avoided it. On some level I think I wanted to preserve my sanity, and I suppose the thought was that keeping myself from these things that required something of me would keep me sane, and help me to enjoy my off hours. But pouring so much time into passive acts that require nothing of the participants doesn't lead to any feeling of satisfaction. Maybe entertainment, or just escapism, but not the feeling that comes from giving something of yourself and being proud of the effort. I miss that.

I miss the time when I wrote alot- even just recounting a week's events for my own later consumption. It was the act of turning events into a story, and developing a voice and all that. I used to read more- I'd buy books for fun, and read, and form some opinion. I can feel these things starting to fade, and that scares me to death.

I've had this conversation with more than a few friends that I graduated with- more than anything our fear is that we'll wake up one day and be more than content to sit in a cubicle from 9-5, come home and sit in front of the TV until drifting off to sleep. We're afraid of losing our current idealism (at least we recognize that we're idealistic), and terrified of accepting mediocrity as the norm.

I firmly believe that people should hold on to their "idealistic" ideas as long as they possibly can. Go start a website, or a blog, or write a book, or an album, or start a business. We are inevitably confronted with the reality of any given situation too soon, so we might as well hold on to that drive and passion as long as possible.

I guess I say all this as a sort of pep talk for myself- to tell myself to keep writing- to keep reading- to keep pushing myself to be creative, and to keep producing- and to keep engaging in activities that require my time, and intellect. I think this is how people find out what they love to do, and if for no other reason, I should remain creative because of that.

Action, action, action.

Saturday night, a 60-ish year old man told me he recognized me from being a waitress at some restaurant in Naperville. I then told him politely I didn't know what the eff he was talking about (there was still an outside chance that he was going to buy us drinks).

He then asked me if I "got my good looks from my mom or my dad."

Glad I now know what kind of demographic I attract. Score!

My career aspirations, in the order that they occurred in my life and the length of time that they lasted

-Mail Meister (This is what I thought mail men were called. Seriously); 3-4 months
-Ducktor (Translation: doctor); also 3-4 months
-Teacher; 3rd-4th grade
-Really cool teacher; 10th grade
-Counselor; From the time I entered Psychology 101 till the time I dropped Psychology as a major
-Financial Advisor; 90 seconds, after meeting a well-dressed, good-looking Edward Jones representative
-Best selling writer; undetermined
-Ben & Jerry's ice cream taste tester; this dream is ongoing
-Poker Player; the 12 minutes after I watched Rounders
-Blogger; 7 minutes? Then an hour, then 7 more minutes
-Cubicle filler; (some dreams you just have to resign yourself to)

Staff Infection... and other office-related puns that don't quite work.

Today we had a staff meeting. It was 4 hours. I absolutely wouldn't say it was boring- even though the content of the meeting was just asinine. And the only thing I can best compare it to is a really dysfunctional family dinner where everyone sits around and says passive-aggressive things to each others, but takes a break every hour because they have to go out and smoke, but at the end of the day, they're family, so they're coming back for round 2 the next day. Of course the analogy quickly breaks down when the "family members" are paying me to be there.

Round 2 of the family dinner starts back up at 9 am tomorrow morning. Let the games begin.

Something something blog, something something

I officially need a place to write things. Somewhere more public than the Word documents and Gmail drafts where I occasionally write, and more private than, say, the front page of Google. So I figured that this was a good compromise. I have no intention of making this blog known to anyone, but just needed a place to put words. And that, as they say, is that.