Get Back Up.

You will have days when no matter how you try and style it and pin it back, your hair gets caught in your lipgloss and makes you perform some weird facial acrobatics to get it out and embarrasses you in public in the process. You’ll recover, and in a few weeks you’ll let the woman with the fantastic nail art at the Sephora counter talk you into to a lipstain that lasts all day, and when its constant color really does stay on, you’ll pass this knowledge on to your girlfriends like it’s no big thing, making you the wisest of all at the next Girls’ Night.

You will have days when you don’t want to answer your phone, even if it’s a text or a call from someone you love or an adorable Snapchat of a puppy, just because technology has made you think of instant connection as too impersonal, or you’re too caught up in your own head to answer or respond. It’ll pass, and you’ll respond to each hello and request with the gusto of the 7th grade girl with a pink Motorola Razr cell phone that you used to be, and with your faith in communication restored.

You will have days that are measured in cups of coffee and productivity pep talks, and no matter how much you focus and slam down both, you won’t get anything done. You won’t organize your room, you won’t answer those job emails, you won’t get that rattle in your car fixed, and you won’t even make a dent on your to-do list. You’ll be distracted by nostalgia, by negativity, or by simply beating yourself up over lack of progress. You will fight through these time-stealers and get back to accomplishing things like you were before.

You will have days where you say sorry to everything. Days where you apologize to your dog for not taking him on a walk because it’s raining, apologize to the person behind you in line at the cash register because it took you more than 5 seconds to find that quarter you needed in your purse, or send a Facebook message to an estranged friend from elementary school to apologize for that one thing you said to them on the playground in ’94 that you haven’t been able to shake for years. You will take a deep breath, reevaluate, and realize that although it is good to be forgiving, you are not responsible for every circumstance in life.

You will have days where you need to eat everything in sight. You will shove your shame aside in drivethrus, asking for 2 drinks even though you’re eating alone so that the person working the window thinks the amount of food is for more than 1 person. You will challenge yourself to your own taco-eating contest with the intention of beating your previous college-hangover record. You will get every mix-in possible at the ice cream parlor and you will tackle a whole pizza in one sitting. Whether you’re eating for feelings or for fun, you’ll slow down and look at what you’re consuming again. You’ll remember that balance is key, and even though cheese-on-everything is a personal manta of yours, throwing in something leafy and green is important, too.

You will have days when you can’t sleep because you’re:

  • worried that he hasn’t texted you yet
  • worried about when you’ll start getting wrinkles
  • worried that space and the universe is huge and we haven’t even scratched the surface of what is out there
  • nervous that you heard something go bump in the night
  • embarrassed that you’re still afraid of monsters in your twenties
  • still singing that annoying Luke Bryan or One Direction song you swore you’d never like but now that it’s stuck in your head, you are warming up to it
  • freaking out over what tomorrow’s schedule holds and if you can back out of all your commitments at the last second
  • caffeine-fueled for no good reason
  • scrolling through your phone endlessly and cursing everyone’s instagrams that look like they’re leading a fun-filled life, while you’re already in bed with your zit cream on and retainer in
  • too busy daydreaming about your fake pinterest house while stuck laying in a cheap goodwill or ikea bedframe
  • suddenly hungry but stuck with an empty fridge
  • unsure about your own talents
  • already fearing the alarm clock in the morning

You will find rest. It might take a few days, months, naps, or medication to get you back to sleeping right, but sleeping is so important, and if you’ll put some effort behind it, you’ll be a functional, healthy human again.

You will have days where it is hard to know where to start in expressing your feelings, hard to share the hurt that’s been done to you, and hard to feel like there is a new direction for you to travel. But, even if if is not today or not in this exact place, you will recover. You will be you again, and you will not let anyone else write the next chapter to your story but your own self.

It is not the days that defeat you, but what you do to defeat them and get back up.

Winter Date Ideas

Winter Date Ideas!

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  • FaceTime from rooms away even if you are in the same place, because getting out of the cover cocoon you just made would not be a very good idea
  • Invest in one pair of mittens and hold hands INSIDE the mittens for maximum cuteness but also sweet, suffocating warmth
  • Breathe against a window and write sweet messages in the fogged up glass to each other, like, “bring me another blanket”
  • Embrace a little friendly competition! Go for the gold in fun challenges like, “Who can wear the most layers of clothing?” or “Who can whisper the most sweet nothings before their teeth start chattering?” or “Who can stay inside away from the winter weather the longest without going crazy?”
  • Fellas, let your lady dress you! She can pick out the styles she’s always wanted you to rock, and you won’t have to worry if you don’t like it, because let’s face it, you’re not going to take off your coat anyway!
  • Pack a cute picnic to eat outside bundled up, but bail on that idea when you realize that the food is going to get cold. Take shots of hot chocolate from the thermos in your car instead.
  • Have a romantic ‘weekend in’! (See how long you can go indoors without running out of edible food combinations, guesstimate how high your heating bill is going to be simply trying to keep your toes from chilling, and find out how many days you can go without wanting to suffocate each other from having no changes of scenery, because, no one wants to venture into the freezing outside temperatures!)
  • Make plans with other couples and then flake on them because no, you do not actually own snowshoes
  • Ladies, tell your man to grow out his beard to keep his chin warm, and then make a game of hiding little trinkets in it when he’s not looking!
  • Go ice skating!
  • Just kidding about the ice skating, that’s too expensive and freezing. Maybe just find the closest coffee shop near the ice skating rink and drink the biggest hottest drink they have
  • For each degree that the temperature drops, compliment your significant other with a quality you like about them. (Ex. You are great at scraping the ice off my car windows, You let me borrow your coat and that means a lot, You took the dog out that time in the blizzard and I found it very attractive, etc)
  • Make a playlist of songs that mention summertime or sunshine or the beach and listen to it together with fingers crossed
  • Accept the fact that you’re never going to be a cold weather person, but when you can look next to you and the person who has shared 14 hours of an indoor Netflix marathon and grilled cheeses with you still thinks you’re attractive even after you haven’t shaved your legs in 2 weeks because there’s no way you’re getting close to shorts in this snowstorm, well then, it’s probably love.

I Will Leave Bobby Pins On Everything You Love

Some people are interested in what walls would say if they could talk, but I think it would be much more revealing to interview my bobby pins.

I think Matt O’Brien may have captured my terrible habit best here, in “What it’s Like Living With A Girl”:

I would love to give a more moving account of my life and travels, but bobby pins are probably the only consistent artifact I’ve ever left in every state I’ve lived, and mine are scattered across Texas, Arizona, Tennessee and everywhere in between. Besides styling my lion’s mane in all sorts of styles from calm to crazy, I’m sure some are still littered in airports, sunk to the bottom of lakes and rivers and rusting on the side of old dirt roads.

Oh, the stories that these tiny brown hair sidekicks could tell.

There’s always going some at the bottom of every purse and suitcase I’ve ever carried that I’m sure could tell you tales about the varied and sometimes embarrassing cargo they’ve been stuffed alongside.

A portion are mixed onto other girls’ bathroom counters, from times where my hair accessories crossed theirs in a free-for-all at a sleepover makeover session. Several hundred were lost in the shuffle after being bought to get ready in a crammed bridal suite filled with girls in breezy pink dresses and one in white, coating them in hairspray and accidentally dropping one in a champagne glass right before we were to walk down an aisle. Some are under dirt by now in the Texas woods because I truly didn’t and still don’t understand how “camping” is supposed to be “low maintenance”. Too many ended up shoved to the side after a hairstyle that promised to be ‘easy’ on the internet did not fare so easy in my hands and on my head. A few may have ended up in cheap hotels, boat cupholders, guitar cases, and escaped being packed up again for my return trip from the homes of people I’ve loved in New York and Seattle and California, to Houston and beyond.

There’s still some probably along the baseboard in old musty apartments that I miss living in. A few are still lingering between couch cushions in residences that I haven’t been back to for good reason, or still clinging to carpet under the seats in the cars of ex-boyfriends, no matter how close the vacuum attachment at the carwash tries to get. There’s some bent ones in dressing rooms attached to productions and performances of my youth that I swore would eventually put my name in lights. One or two may have slipped out of the most-polished-hairstyle I could manage at a fancy office building while at a job interview that eventually disappointed me when they hired someone else. I irresponsibly left some especially terrible ones in my clothes pockets and tore up clothing during a high-energy spin cycle in many a washing machine.

At this point they very well may have poked someone’s foot, contributed to a moving-out cleaning fee I had to pay, held the hair back of both a close girlfriend or a stranger or even snapped in half, and I suppose we’ll never know.

But with a lot of hair comes a lot of responsibilities- and a lot of flyaways. So, consider this my formal apology for my carbon footprint of bobby pins, and my promise that if you ever invite me over, you might end up with a straggler.

But hey, if you can handle little brown hair pins, you’re going to be just fine with all the glitter I continue to spread everywhere I go.

To That Girl In The Coffee Shop On Her Computer, Writing

We begin our tale a while back as you teach yourself that the best big secret for the most effective creative process is this: write.

Write. Write furiously as if you’ve discovered it for the first time, because, in a way you have. Write without worrying about deadlines or opinions. Write some really dumb things- I mean, borderline terrible, but finish writing them anyway. Write with reckless abandon. Write like the words are your therapy- they’re not yet, but you’ll get there.

Write something that you can tell is just different. It sticks out from everything you’ve been writing. Maybe it’s shorter or funnier or has that one reference you’re really proud of making at the right time. Maybe the words rhyme. Maybe it’s just more “you” or maybe it’s way outside what your usual writing style was.

Share what you’ve written. Receive feedback. Let your chest and your ego swell at the thought that your words are the words of a “somebody” now. You’ve created a paragraph or two that sticks with someone else. Your story is gum on the bottom of their shoes, but they’re not even mad. In fact, they enjoy it and cherish it, and want to know where they can get more gum and how they can get tangled up in it all over again.

Call yourself a writer. You figure that you’re serious now, since you publish things every now and then. You let a few people read it and they might have shared it once or twice. So, you’re a writer. Buy that sweater that makes you look like you might do a book signing later- you know the one.

Write about comfortable subjects, receive praise. Write about tough subjects, get consolation. Write something funny, watch your comments soar.

Begin to realize your best ideas come when you’re inspired. Try to pinpoint how you’re inspired and when, as if it’s a math equation or a certain day of the week in a certain room with a certain record playing. Maybe you shouldn’t even write unless all the pieces are connected and correct.

Begin to write less. Tell yourself this is because you have a reputation to uphold and that’s why. After all, if you’re not funny all the time, you’ll never get that comedy writing job that you dream of. If you’re too sappy, you’ll be reduced to an over-share Facebook status.

Panic. Read your own words to calm down. Write a little, but then delete it.

Panic again. Read some other short stories or essay lists and realize that these make you mad because they’re better. When did you get so mad? You used to love to read. You used to praise your favorite writers.

Call it writer’s block. Call it stubbornness. Glorify the fact that with a new job, you are ‘busy’ and have important things to do, leaving no time for your words.

Tell yourself you were too personal anyway. Tell yourself you already wrote most of your opinions and stories. Tell yourself that the “dissatisfied 23 year-old suburban white girl” schtick has already been covered and dealt with.

Wish that you were anything else. Sniffle. Eat a bowl of ice cream. Feel guilty about the ice cream immediately after. Remind yourself that every famous writer usually had social issues and vices and was usually an alcoholic. Decide the ice cream isn’t that bad, and that thinking of famous writers is both a calming and terrifying thought.

Let your life happen. Participate, yes, but don’t feel like you have to give a major commentary. Feel like you are running out of stories. Feel like all you can write about is pop culture or your darkest thoughts. Feel like it’s all been done, it’s all been said, it’s all been written millions of times before.

Go to church, go to work, go home. Go for a drive to clear your head, even if you’re not sure what your head is full of.

You’re not really a writer anymore. You’re just a girl who writes, and that’s okay. After all, it’s been what – 3 months? Oh. I guess that’s longer than you thought.

Walk into a coffee shop a month later. Or is it two? It’s getting hard to keep track. Besides, you’ve had disappointment and personal failure and broken trust and relationships pushed to the brink and tragedy happen to you, so that adds something. We can’t all be on all the time. It’s harder to write when it doesn’t come easy, but you’re here, and this coffee shop has terrible wi-fi anyway, so you’re either going to write or sit, and we both know you’re a Type-A fidgeter.

Order a tea because you’ve had 5 cups of coffee today already. Immediately regret this decision, as the tea is not going to make your blood surge like you trained it to do before any major writing breakthrough.

Drink your tea anyway. Lie in the bed you’ve made. Coffee calls to you and you tell it that once you’ve written, you’ll reward yourself with a piping hot cup, one cream and a kiss of sugar. You’re okay with being both Pavlov and the dog in this experiment.

Listen to the people around you in the coffee shop and tell yourself that you could have written a better conversation than the one they’re having.

Sit down in the coffee shop with your computer and actually turn the wifi off so that you’re forced to do nothing but type. Type. Type. Type. It seems to go slower, like it’s a muscle you haven’t stretched in a while. Didn’t you used to be faster at this?

OH GEEZ everyone is staring at you in this coffee shop. I bet they’re all judging you. I’m sure they all think you’re self-absorbed. They all think you’re a hopeless writer, but maybe that isn’t the worst thought. Okay, let them think that. Let them read over your shoulder – you don’t care.

Typing is starting to feel laborious and you don’t like anything you’ve written. It’s all half-ideas and weirdly futuristic.

Good thing you brought your notebook. While reaching for it and your pen in your bag, realize there’s a joke happening right now with your notebook and pen versus your computer that you aren’t going to take the time to write down. Acknowledge this and move forward.

Write. Old-school, pen to paper, as your hand starts to cramp.

Wow, this is exhausting. You really have to pee but you don’t know anyone here at this coffee shop and you would feel uncomfortable making them watch your stuff.

Continue to write on paper. Remember how good it feels to see the pen form the letters and the imperfection of half-cursive half-print thoughts. Remember when it was a big deal that you had to learn cursive in 2nd grade and your teachers told you that you’d need it in the adult world? You wish you could laugh at this thought but it feels almost sad in a sense. Regardless, you’re still not pleased with your cursive on the letter r. It seems like you’ll always be cursed with that.

Write a few scraps and then one you like.

Photo Jan 15, 4 30 02 PM

Think it might be too emotional to share on the internet, but then think, what isn’t? Frequently photos of baby animals on the internet make you cry, so maybe there’s something to emotions. Maybe they’re inescapable. Maybe they’re infectious.

It’s late now, but you’ve still got an hour of editing and critiquing and cringing over what you just wrote. You’ve still got to post it and then delete it immediately and then work up the courage to share again.

 

But hey, would you look at that? Looks like despite all that talk and self-doubt, you wrote something after all.

See you again, same time next week.

You’re Gonna Hear Me Roar (Eventually)

We’re gonna get real.

We’re gonna talk about Katy Perry, being sicker than you’ve ever been, long-distance relationships, hospitals, loneliness, and pumpkin s’more donut muffins.

And if that sounds difficult to follow, you may need to get off the ride now.

But if you’re up for it, before you read below, please press “play”-

I knew I was going to love the Katy Perry song, “Roar” before I even heard it. The title was too telling of the content- which I knew would involve some sort of lion or big-cat imagery, which clearly, having donned myself “The Lion-Haired Girl”, I was going to adore- and I wasn’t wrong. From the first notes, I knew I was going to get wrapped up in the overly-produced pop sound and the sweetness and simplicity of the lyrics. I was even more onboard when I realized that she had taken the word “roar” and turned it into “ro-o-o-o-OH-OH-OH-O-ar” during the chorus, which I could easily sing along to at any and all times.

The song came out August 10th, which shouldn’t be overly special to note, but it was.

5 days later, August 15th, my longtime boyfriend moved allllll the way across the United States, (literally, hi Seattle) to live his dream. To “roar” in another state, if you will. (And yes, he will hate this analogy so much because it’s Katy Perry instead of The National, but still). He rode away into the sunset and I remained just about as calm toward the situtation as any early-twenties-millenial-with-too-many-feelings can, which is to say that I ate a lot of deep fried things covered in cheese, made 18 playlists of coping music, texted him nonstop for hours about pointless things, and made impulse purchases of studded leather vests and combat boots because I assumed they would heal my heart (which, let’s be real, they definitely helped).

So, flashforward with me. I’m almost to the end of August and I still can’t get this song out of my head. I’m attempting not to dwell on every question of, “How are you going to make long distance work?” and I’m really doing a good job at taking care of myself. At some point in every day, I still find myself singing or humming the melody and succumbing to the pop masterpiece of “Roar”. I’m wishing I had boxing gloves like Katy had during her VMA performance and by now I’ve learned all the words and harmonies and have even started checking eBay for a knockoff of KP’s tiger satin jacket.

Image

(try not to be impressed by my photoshop skills)

If I was more of a believer in Long Island Medium or the ‘great timing of the universe’, I’d say listening to “Roar” on repeat was supposed to prepare me for September, but it didn’t. In between counting down the days til Katy’s album release in October and working a job with ridiculous hours of 4AM to noon (I know it sounds like I’m complaining, but, stay with me) I got mono.

Yep, that’s right – I get “the kissing disease” after my longtime boyfriend moves away. The jokes just write themselves!

But I don’t just get regular mono. I get mono coupled with a nasty Upper Respiratory Infection and complete with a super fun trip to the ER, which as it turns out, was the first time I had ever been in a hospital for myself and not just to bring flowers to a family member, and as it turns out, filled me with more anxiety than most anything I have encountered on the earth thus far.

(i added some doodles to make this photo of my hospital bracelet less depressing. hooray!)

(i added some doodles to make this photo of my hospital bracelet less depressing. hooray!)

The ER results in everything being okay, just a little scary (thanks a lot, liver levels!). So I take off work for a few days. My sweet roommate and friends rally around me and even my rockstar Mama flies in from Texas to make me soup and take care of me. I go back to work with the instruction that there is no “cure” for mono- I am just supposed to rest and drink fluids for about month and eventually it will go away…and then the defeat sets in. With my job hours already, I go to sleep at 7:30 PM most nights, and so add on being exhausted all the time from mono and I shrink into a cocoon. Not wanting to get anyone contagious, much less have to explain, “Hey, ask me about my mono!” to people, (which, by the way, no one will not freak out after hearing) I don’t see pretty much anyone during the entire month of September, and I certainly don’t listen to “Roar”. I hardly even talk to my roommates. Any calls I make to Seattle to be a supportive girlfriend just end in me whining. Mostly I just fall half asleep and lay in bed and feel sorry for myself. I pout and complain and everything I do becomes an event of “yay me!” or “I’m the worst”. Basically, I’m unbearable.

Now, I don’t say all of this to try and generate a feeling of sorry. People get sick all the time, but September unpolitely reminded me I just clearly am not as strong or independent as I thought I was. I try to talk this big game of being a girl who moved away from all she knew to chase her dreams in Nashville, even if they broke her heart, but all it takes is alone time to feel like I have no clue what I’m doing and to see just how needy I am. The social butterfly inside of me crumbled hard and I began to question what I was even doing anymore.

“But I listen to ‘Roar’ all the time, and every day I wear a lot cat-eye winged eyeliner because I am confident, and I make loud jokes and smile at strangers,” I kept thinking. ” I should be able to handle this! I’m an extrovert and I can tackle anything!” was an attitude I’d adopted forever, but now I was just looking forward to crawling in bed, doctor’s orders or not.

I gave up, in a way. I just kinda was a miserable person to be around and threw one hell of a pity party.

But eventually, about the second week in October, I started to feel better and began to feel like I could stay awake without it feeling like a challenge. I could be around people again and began to actually try and participate in activities that weren’t solely watching bad reality tv and moping. I could spend time with healthy human beings without bringing up how sad I had been and I could make some killer pumpkin s’more doughnut muffins with friends.

However, surprisingly, I didn’t have the immediate “lesson-learned’ feeling afterwards.

As a writer, I want to glamorize things. I want to tell sweeping stories of how life has changed me. I want to hear about your experiences and put them into words that jump off the page or screen and capture the heart.

But I haven’t had that moment. I know September was a lame month, but I didn’t get a big story resolution out of it. It taught me just how weak and spoiled I am, and not having anyone to talk to makes me cranky, but it didn’t give me this deep knowledge about solitude that I felt I could share, so I avoided writing it down. I avoided telling people or I just joked about it (“Remember when I had mono?”) but I still couldn’t shake it, so here I am.

I want you to know, whoever you are reading this, that I’m listening to “Roar” a lot again. I’m probably missing out on “better” and more scholarly music, but I can’t get rid of it, because in some small way, it helps.

Why do we put so much faith in the little things? Because it’s easy, I think. I rely on medicine I purchased at the store with a coupon to heal me, so why can’t a 99-cent single on iTunes do the same?

I’m not 100%. I don’t think I’ll ever be 100% satisfied with everything, but I know that I can listen to “Roar” now and not feel like I’m the worst. I can hear it as a fun pop song and get a little bit of empowerment about it, even if I feel like it’s not the dramatic show-stopping song that usually accompanies a huge moment in my life. I can promise myself that just because my life isn’t a movie and that I don’t get to have a “getting better montage,” I am still getting better. I can still bounce back. I can still, well, roar.

So I dedicate “Roar” to mono. I dedicate it to bad days. I dedicate it to thinking you’re depressed when really you’re just young and stupid and have cold feet. I dedicate it to timezones that keep me away from the person who has challenged me for the better and loved me stupidly well the past year. I dedicate it to insecurity. I dedicate it to not learning the lesson immediately, because sometimes it’s okay to say that you’re only 23 and you don’t have it figured out yet and that just because you have a blog does not mean you have to act like you have all the answers.

Regardless of confidence levels, you’re gonna hear me roar. In sickness and in health, you’re gonna hear me roar. Even if it means I have to accept some things as not finished yet, you’re gonna hear me roar. From Seattle to Nashville to New York, you’re gonna hear me ro-o-o-o-OH-OH-OH-ar.

And frankly, if you’re not okay with me roaring, I kinda hope that you get mono.

It’s Uncool To Be Happy

I’ve tried to think of something light and fun to write, but I can’t do it. I’m upset for a lot of reasons, but today, over my soup, I realized that we’ve given positivity a terrible reputation.

To see the good in situations, to greet each day expecting the best is for suckers. It’s weakness, it’s sentimentality, it’s dumb. It’s uncool to be happy or joyful or excited or hopeful.

But, no one ever tells you how hard you have to fight to be positive.

It’s so easy to be negative. It’s terribly simple to walk into a room and instantly see the bad. Criticism is our universal second language. In school we can’t just read books or look at art or watch films or listen to music and let it all breathe. As soon as we’re done with it, or even when we’re still in the middle, we’re supposed to tear it apart. Find the meaning, find the flaws, discover what’s wrong with it or solve the puzzle…even if there is no solution to be found. Yes, there is marvel and wonder and knowledge in dissecting something beautiful, but there is also a harsh glare on the microscope that we place on things.

And, as if it’s not enough, we put our everyday lives under that same microscope that makes it so easy to be negative.

It’s so easy to put things down, including our choices and circumstances.

I’ve seen the quote, or some version like it, a million times-

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. "

Typically we put 18 Instagram filters on this quote, attribute it to Plato and Buddha and Big Bird, and apply it to people who are stoic and reserved and obviously “going through a rough time”. But what about people who are smiling? We never give them the same treatment- simply believing that if you’re happy, your life must be easy.

If you’re truly happy and seeking joy, you must not have any problems.

Oh how wrong and hurtful that mindset is.

I’m not asking anyone to take pity on me and I don’t want to do gruesome details, but I feel like I’m in such an easy place to schedule a breakdown in my life right now. On paper, it would be so easy for me to “justify” being bitter and mad at my circumstances. I could “get away with” being upset and mean to people, and just blame it on my health.  Or my work schedule and ridiculous hours. Or my homesickness for a place that doesn’t exist anymore. Or that today, of all days, is somber and hard to get through. Or the fact that a long distance relationship with different timezones wreaks havoc on the heart. I could parade these things around and throw myself a decent pity party. I mean seriously- I’ve got the supplies. I can wear a black sweatshirt and a scowl, sit in my room and listen to longingly sad playlists, make fun of everyone else’s success, and remove myself from any human interaction except to lash out occasionally at someone who did nothing to deserve it.

But…that’s too easy.

I can’t guarantee everything will be brightly colored ice cream cones. I can’t laugh at every situation just yet, but I can fight tooth and nail to be positive. Being happy isn’t easy for everyone, no matter how much it feels that way in the moment. Expecting the best is a choice, and it’s a decision to wake up every single day and speak gently, hope patiently, and love with reckless abandon. To treat everything with goodness is frankly, hard, when your emotions don’t match up with it, but oh how much good it does for the soul in return.

I long to be positive. I yearn to be positive. I use big sweeping words like these because I don’t know any other way to put it. Call me crazy or a dreamer, unrealistic, a hippie, naiive or restless, but I want to see the good, even if it takes more work.

I want to breathe in deep and exhale slowly and count my blessings.

I want to give a startlingly hopeful answer when someone asks how my day is going.

I want to hold on to my heart.

I want to change positivity’s reputation.

Saturday Mornings

I’ve never been a morning person, not once in my life. I was always sleeping in and groaning and asking for five more minutes. I hated the energy of the morning and I hated the whole process of getting up and ready and positivity. I wrote about the ridiculousness of waking up with fervor.

But, I’ve got a secret. Saturday mornings are now my new favorites, and the earlier the better.

saturday

My internal clock is all sort of messed up from my work schedule, and it’s not novelty, but it still hurts. There are people all over the world who operate on strange schedules and don’t complain, but I’ve been sensitive lately, and more than I want to admit to. I’m so grateful to have this new job, but no matter what the seasons bring, rolling out of bed at 3 AM always means it is dark outside, and my body just about gives up trying to stay up past 9 PM these days. So I’m adjusting slowly, but there’s something still so off about it, no matter how many alarms I set or articles I read on REM cycles and adjustment techniques, it just seems so strange.

But Saturday mornings are my own, and selfishly so. No matter how far the week seems to have stretched me or how many unanswered text messages and emails I have ignored or not seen, those hours are perfect. I can’t sleep in like I used to, but even 8 AM feels like heaven. The sun spills in and it feels like a little bit of normalcy. I don’t have to be anywhere or anyone’s but my own and I can drown in leisurely reading or coffee sipped slowly instead of chugging it down in my car at a stoplight. I can be slow and old lady-ish and take my time. My anxiety of needing to see people and be the center of attention vanishes in alone time that is truly earned and a morning that doesn’t need to move fast. I’m forever an extrovert, and I firmly believe that a loud fun night with people can heal the soul, but the slowness and stillness is becoming as addictive in its own way.

Saturday morning when the sun just starts to creep in my windows is like a magic hour, and even though that sounds cheesy, I’ll take all the pixie dust I can find to believe in right now.

I can’t be your Friday night right now, but I can be your Saturday morning.  And in all the moments of doubt and nervousness that I still have about my life and where it will go, I can relax in those moments alone. All the feelings of missing best friends in other states who are just trying to figure this out too and a boy who moved across the country to chase a dream are soothed with some quiet time.

Yes, there is something to be said for fast-paced and keeping up with the hustle, but I urge you that sometimes there is something almost romantic about taking your time. It’s like taking yourself on a date and forgetting curfew while it’s still light outside.

I’m not trying to start a revolution (not yet, at least) but if I could offer one piece of advice to you, internet: if you can, wake up early on Saturdays, but wake up slow. Put on something comfy, sip on something delicious, talk to God or talk to your dog or talk to yourself, but just rest. Turn off your phone, close your computer and stop getting hung up on connecting. Be ridiculously good and gentle to yourself in those quiet hours, and I promise it’ll pay off.

And if all else fails, I made you a playlist to help.

Because if I can’t tell you to enjoy it, men and women with acoustic guitars and smooth voices should do the trick.