This title is a misnomer, because it kind of implies that the scramble has not already begun. I promise you, it has. And if it hasn't, well...welcome to the first day.
Prom. Is. Coming.
That's right, the social event of the year is upon us; brace yourself for weeks upon weeks of such classic lines as "damn it, I need a date," and, "crap, still no date," and my personal favorite, "WHY WON'T ANYBODY DATE ME...*sob*". I feel justified in using these phrasings in a slightly condescending way due to the fact that I will be one of the people you all hate, complaining the entire time while utterly refusing to actually (GASP) ask someone.
Prom is the kind of thing that pushes you to do stupid things out of desperation. For instance, when the guy asks the girl, it must be doing something interesting. This can range anywhere from jumping onto a table and asking her in front of the entire school to somehow managing to write her name up into the stars (any guy who pulls that one off, keeper). It does not seem to matter that the guy has been humiliated (don't get me started one why, stupid societal pressures) due to the fact that he got the girl. Well, congrats dude. You just outdid all of the other guys who couldn't manage to organize the stars just write.
That's kind of a lie, too. My own personal shyness shall not be the reason why I am unhappy this prom season (well, kind of, but not really). I'm not afraid to ask anyone. It's more of a...well...do I really have to?
I get the whole "memories of your life" thing, the "look-back-on-your-pitiful-existence-and-smile" extravaganza that I need to be able to be a part of when I'm seventy, but in all honesty, the prom crowd might not be the best fit for me. The whole thing doesn't really seem like my style. If I went with a big group of friends, I could--
But do you see what I just did there? I made myself an excuse to not ask anyone to prom, sparing myself any possible embarrassment at my own hands. Through circular logic, I just made it so that my actions don't matter, and I can morally drag my friends down with me into the dateless hole of datelessness. It's a perfect plan. But can I really have fun without a date--
Gah! See? There's no escape! I'm just going to cycle through this indecision until my brain rots and/or the dance actually gets here. And then I'll have no date and I'm going to die alone (the conclusion was supported in my mind, of course).
Therefore, prom is a spiraling vortex of horrifying doom from which there is no escape. (Except, well, when prom is over.)
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
First Doubts of Convictions
I yam what I yam, that's all I yam. Right? We're supposed to have our beliefs, think them, and be them. Can believing in something be a bad thing? I'm not talking about religion here (well, I am, but...well, I'm talking about everyone that believes in anything, even if that belief doesn't have to do with religion at all). How much conviction is too much?
I was in this staged reading of the play Doubt a few months back, which presents our convictions in a pretty harsh light. Depending on how you interpret it, being confident is either a godsend or a sin. The play presents a pretty sharp dichotomy between beliefs, but never tells you which one to believe. That's part of why it was so successful. You were forced to figure it out for yourself.
These days, it doesn't seem like we want to do that very much.
A few days ago (some of the people reading this were probably there), there was a bit of an explosion in my government class. Some people got yelled at, there was name calling, and at one point I thought there might be some eye-gouging coming on (or at least some quality disembowelment) but thankfully we stopped short of that. And all of this happened because someone (sorry, student teacher, I'm sure it was a pre-assigned lesson) decided to say that one simple little word that causes hordes of men to cry bloody tears of agony and feminist women to rise from their seats and begin burning the items that "reek of the patriarchy":
ABORTION.
Ok, I swear, this is a non-political post. Honestly, I'm not really sure what my view is on the issue, so I'm not even going to get into it. But my point is, people lost their minds over it. The anger built until it just exploded, and little flecks of personal morality were scattered all over the room.
I guess that's part of my point. Morality is a very personal thing. We take it from religion, from our family background, from our own rational thoughts, but it always comes down to what we decide (shut up, atheists, they have not been brainwashed). What we believe is right tends to be...well, what we believe. Almost never will you find someone who has exactly the same beliefs as you. And if you do, it is in your best interest to kill them, before your belief-clone becomes jealous of you and it attempts to take over your life.
And that's the problem with being a moral person--you're never going to be moral to anybody else. "Do the right thing" has no inherent meaning, because there is no real right thing. It's all subjective. You have to add something to it, like "by your parents" or "and don't murder that homeless man", although if your parents abused you or that homeless man stole your cookies, actions that are contrary to those statements could still be moral.
The point of the exercise was to highlight the difficulty of running for public office; there was no answer that would satisfy both sides of the political spectrum, and really there were thousands that would alienate both. But what happened was that the political minefield exploded in our classroom, and many were forced to cower in fear as conflicting beliefs were spread around the room like the feces of a monkey. (I exaggerate. Monkeys don't throw their feces that much. Or do they?)
Even if the room wasn't as bad as I'm making it out to be (cough, cough, it wasn't), we still found ourselves hating each other--even if it was temporarily--because we have had different experiences, lived different lives, learned different things, grown different beliefs. Instead of letting each other draw our own conclusions (or at least attempting to lead the person to that conclusion rationally), we jump at each other, lashing at actions or semantics of phrasing rather than thinking for ourselves. Well, that's dumb.
Can't we all just get along? Fighting is a sin, you know. (...I think).
I was in this staged reading of the play Doubt a few months back, which presents our convictions in a pretty harsh light. Depending on how you interpret it, being confident is either a godsend or a sin. The play presents a pretty sharp dichotomy between beliefs, but never tells you which one to believe. That's part of why it was so successful. You were forced to figure it out for yourself.
These days, it doesn't seem like we want to do that very much.
A few days ago (some of the people reading this were probably there), there was a bit of an explosion in my government class. Some people got yelled at, there was name calling, and at one point I thought there might be some eye-gouging coming on (or at least some quality disembowelment) but thankfully we stopped short of that. And all of this happened because someone (sorry, student teacher, I'm sure it was a pre-assigned lesson) decided to say that one simple little word that causes hordes of men to cry bloody tears of agony and feminist women to rise from their seats and begin burning the items that "reek of the patriarchy":
ABORTION.
Ok, I swear, this is a non-political post. Honestly, I'm not really sure what my view is on the issue, so I'm not even going to get into it. But my point is, people lost their minds over it. The anger built until it just exploded, and little flecks of personal morality were scattered all over the room.
I guess that's part of my point. Morality is a very personal thing. We take it from religion, from our family background, from our own rational thoughts, but it always comes down to what we decide (shut up, atheists, they have not been brainwashed). What we believe is right tends to be...well, what we believe. Almost never will you find someone who has exactly the same beliefs as you. And if you do, it is in your best interest to kill them, before your belief-clone becomes jealous of you and it attempts to take over your life.
And that's the problem with being a moral person--you're never going to be moral to anybody else. "Do the right thing" has no inherent meaning, because there is no real right thing. It's all subjective. You have to add something to it, like "by your parents" or "and don't murder that homeless man", although if your parents abused you or that homeless man stole your cookies, actions that are contrary to those statements could still be moral.
The point of the exercise was to highlight the difficulty of running for public office; there was no answer that would satisfy both sides of the political spectrum, and really there were thousands that would alienate both. But what happened was that the political minefield exploded in our classroom, and many were forced to cower in fear as conflicting beliefs were spread around the room like the feces of a monkey. (I exaggerate. Monkeys don't throw their feces that much. Or do they?)
Even if the room wasn't as bad as I'm making it out to be (cough, cough, it wasn't), we still found ourselves hating each other--even if it was temporarily--because we have had different experiences, lived different lives, learned different things, grown different beliefs. Instead of letting each other draw our own conclusions (or at least attempting to lead the person to that conclusion rationally), we jump at each other, lashing at actions or semantics of phrasing rather than thinking for ourselves. Well, that's dumb.
Can't we all just get along? Fighting is a sin, you know. (...I think).
Friday, March 25, 2011
First Day of Parenthood
(No, I'm not pregnant. Thank you for asking.)
The line goes like this:
"'You won't have to get to know me,' he said, 'because one day you're going to grow up and then you're going to be me.'"
I just finished off Ethan Canin's "The Year of Getting to Know Us," about a man who is watching his father die. The line about is from one of the man's memories, near the end of the tale, where the father tells his son that they don't actually need to spend time with each other because, eventually, they will be the same person. It's an obvious cop-out on the father's part; he feels awkward around his son, and his parenting skills are suspect in the entire story. But, in a way, he's right. The man becomes, as he ages, just as emotionally closed off as his father was up until the day he died. And it begs the question:
Does it happen to all of us?
To what degree will we all become our parents? I have to say, I'm a little afraid of the answer. That's not to say that my parents are awful; they weren't, by any definition or anagram of the word 'awful '(I feel safe saying that, because 'awful' doesn't anagram well). But the thing is, the story shows the man picking up the worst traits that his father had to offer. Will that happen to everyone? If I become the worst of my parents, I don't even know that I'll be able to function.
And, in a way, that's not even the point. The point is, are we inevitably going to become something we cannot control? Or do we have some sort of say in the matter?
A friend of mine was recently complaining about her future (yes, you know who you are). Apparently, on the surface, she is her mother. She is probably going to attend the same college that her mother attended long, long ago. They will have the same major and focus. Her path through life seems to be laying itself over her mother's. She's even been complaining about having some of the same qualities, according to her, as they both contain a nearly unrivaled competitive spirit. My friend is horrified. She and her mother don't have the most cooperative relationship.
But, and here's the kicker, my friend's actions are not changing. She is still going down her path, despite her distaste for where it might lead her. Does this mean she will forever be forced to walk in her mother's shoes? Not so much.
If we become our parents, it must be because we choose to become our parents. I, myself, choose a different route (IwillnotbeadoctorIwillnotbeadoctorIwillnotbeadoctorIwillnotbeadoctor...). But I have taken some things from my father, even if we don't always get along: I am calm, resigned, and a moderately good public speaker. I like all of those things about myself.
I think this kind of thing happens because we are around them, not because "the-road-already-traveled" is an inevitable one. Whether in the 18 years we've spent with them we pick up their traits or not, we are going to pick what we do for ourselves. They may influence us, prod us, maybe even shove us down their optimal choice for our future, but in the end, the child is the one that gets to decide to be a poor writer living in a box in an alleyway instead of a successful, rich pediatrician. My friend may seem like she is moving down the same path as her mother, but they can't live the exact same life; there has to be a break somewhere, whether it is now or farther down the line.
The story has a key point that separates the father and the son; the son acknowledges the flaws in his marriage, and he knows they are not happy. His parents, however, stayed blissfully ignorant until the day the father ran away.
Every person's story has a breaking point, and I don't think we need to search for it. There's just a moment, and it'll happen to each child, where he or she can say: I'm going to wear my own damn shoes.
The line goes like this:
"'You won't have to get to know me,' he said, 'because one day you're going to grow up and then you're going to be me.'"
I just finished off Ethan Canin's "The Year of Getting to Know Us," about a man who is watching his father die. The line about is from one of the man's memories, near the end of the tale, where the father tells his son that they don't actually need to spend time with each other because, eventually, they will be the same person. It's an obvious cop-out on the father's part; he feels awkward around his son, and his parenting skills are suspect in the entire story. But, in a way, he's right. The man becomes, as he ages, just as emotionally closed off as his father was up until the day he died. And it begs the question:
Does it happen to all of us?
To what degree will we all become our parents? I have to say, I'm a little afraid of the answer. That's not to say that my parents are awful; they weren't, by any definition or anagram of the word 'awful '(I feel safe saying that, because 'awful' doesn't anagram well). But the thing is, the story shows the man picking up the worst traits that his father had to offer. Will that happen to everyone? If I become the worst of my parents, I don't even know that I'll be able to function.
And, in a way, that's not even the point. The point is, are we inevitably going to become something we cannot control? Or do we have some sort of say in the matter?
A friend of mine was recently complaining about her future (yes, you know who you are). Apparently, on the surface, she is her mother. She is probably going to attend the same college that her mother attended long, long ago. They will have the same major and focus. Her path through life seems to be laying itself over her mother's. She's even been complaining about having some of the same qualities, according to her, as they both contain a nearly unrivaled competitive spirit. My friend is horrified. She and her mother don't have the most cooperative relationship.
But, and here's the kicker, my friend's actions are not changing. She is still going down her path, despite her distaste for where it might lead her. Does this mean she will forever be forced to walk in her mother's shoes? Not so much.
If we become our parents, it must be because we choose to become our parents. I, myself, choose a different route (IwillnotbeadoctorIwillnotbeadoctorIwillnotbeadoctorIwillnotbeadoctor...). But I have taken some things from my father, even if we don't always get along: I am calm, resigned, and a moderately good public speaker. I like all of those things about myself.
I think this kind of thing happens because we are around them, not because "the-road-already-traveled" is an inevitable one. Whether in the 18 years we've spent with them we pick up their traits or not, we are going to pick what we do for ourselves. They may influence us, prod us, maybe even shove us down their optimal choice for our future, but in the end, the child is the one that gets to decide to be a poor writer living in a box in an alleyway instead of a successful, rich pediatrician. My friend may seem like she is moving down the same path as her mother, but they can't live the exact same life; there has to be a break somewhere, whether it is now or farther down the line.
The story has a key point that separates the father and the son; the son acknowledges the flaws in his marriage, and he knows they are not happy. His parents, however, stayed blissfully ignorant until the day the father ran away.
Every person's story has a breaking point, and I don't think we need to search for it. There's just a moment, and it'll happen to each child, where he or she can say: I'm going to wear my own damn shoes.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
First Day of False Happiness
It strikes me as weird how I have conveniently forgotten all of the negative facets of my childhood. I'm not really complaining--no, wait, never mind, I just complained. Silly me.
Normally this isn't the kind of thing that people are bothered by, and I get that, so let's just accept that I'm not your average everyday citizen and move on. I just find it odd that I've idealized what was by no means a happy time for me. I should have hated puberty, right? Why is it that all I can recall about my first crush was being completely and totally infatuated? There had to be some heartbreak with that; in fact, I know there was some heartbreak with that, I'm just having some difficulty remembering what it felt like.
This isn't completely random. I've found that unpacking boxes from moving to another house has a sort of "flashes-before-your-eyes" effect. I keep remembering things, like the last five seconds of my basketball team winning the city championship in third grade. I pulled the trophy out of the box and it was like I was there, with that snotty little kid pulling on my ankle as I tried desperately to keep them from getting the ball back to keep our three point lead...or something like that, I may have made up some of the juicier details (you'll never know what's true). And yet I remember that emotion, the excitement, the triumph. Where'd everything else go?
I have a feeling that my mind decided to cling onto some of the smaller details about my life to idealize it. When I moved, I kind of isolated myself in these overly simplistic views of the way things were. If you asked me to ignore my instincts, I was the most popular kid in school, I had tons of friends, and I was one of the best basketball players that there was.
I'm smarter than that, so I know I'm full of crap, but the memories are tainted somehow, like they got tampered with (first person who thinks of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince wins an unspecified prize). But I know what happened.
I sucked at swimming. I was never a leader in any way, shape or form. My friends were way smarter than me or way faster than me (take your pick).
My childhood could not have been very pleasant.
Why is it that we refuse to hang on to the pain we feel? A lot of the time, people say "you'll get over it" or "you'll move on". Well, why should we? We're supposed to learn from our mistakes, right? I know I made mistakes when I was younger, but for the life of me I cannot remember what the consequences were. I cannot remember being embarrassed or feeling left out or any of the juicy elementary school stuff.
Oh well. I guess I'm happy now, at least.
Normally this isn't the kind of thing that people are bothered by, and I get that, so let's just accept that I'm not your average everyday citizen and move on. I just find it odd that I've idealized what was by no means a happy time for me. I should have hated puberty, right? Why is it that all I can recall about my first crush was being completely and totally infatuated? There had to be some heartbreak with that; in fact, I know there was some heartbreak with that, I'm just having some difficulty remembering what it felt like.
This isn't completely random. I've found that unpacking boxes from moving to another house has a sort of "flashes-before-your-eyes" effect. I keep remembering things, like the last five seconds of my basketball team winning the city championship in third grade. I pulled the trophy out of the box and it was like I was there, with that snotty little kid pulling on my ankle as I tried desperately to keep them from getting the ball back to keep our three point lead...or something like that, I may have made up some of the juicier details (you'll never know what's true). And yet I remember that emotion, the excitement, the triumph. Where'd everything else go?
I have a feeling that my mind decided to cling onto some of the smaller details about my life to idealize it. When I moved, I kind of isolated myself in these overly simplistic views of the way things were. If you asked me to ignore my instincts, I was the most popular kid in school, I had tons of friends, and I was one of the best basketball players that there was.
I'm smarter than that, so I know I'm full of crap, but the memories are tainted somehow, like they got tampered with (first person who thinks of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince wins an unspecified prize). But I know what happened.
I sucked at swimming. I was never a leader in any way, shape or form. My friends were way smarter than me or way faster than me (take your pick).
My childhood could not have been very pleasant.
Why is it that we refuse to hang on to the pain we feel? A lot of the time, people say "you'll get over it" or "you'll move on". Well, why should we? We're supposed to learn from our mistakes, right? I know I made mistakes when I was younger, but for the life of me I cannot remember what the consequences were. I cannot remember being embarrassed or feeling left out or any of the juicy elementary school stuff.
Oh well. I guess I'm happy now, at least.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
First Day of Awkward
My dog has no self control, and I have to say that I'm a little bit jealous. It's kind of unfair, right? He just lies on the ground and licks himself, whenever he wants to. But then I try and lick myself in public, and parents try to shield their child's eyes as they walk hurriedly in the other direction and swiftly dial 911 with their free hand.
Although, to be completely honest, I don't think I have much to complain about. I respond fairly quickly to my impulses (I know you people, get your minds out of the gutters). I have marker fights in the middle of downtown, lie down in the center of the road in the dangerously dark night, and spontaneously burst out into poetry battles with my friends while I walk in between rooms. I'm moderately good with some one-liners (in my opinion, at least), and in general I think my reaction time is getting fairly good.
But then again, there are still limits. Licking myself seems to be firmly planted in the "off-the-table" category of human action. And yet, there's my dog, at the foot of my bed, just going at it. I call a foul on society.
Who decides what is and isn't okay?
The dog doesn't worry about what some passing stranger may find awkward. If he smells something, even if it is another dog's ass, he's going to sniff it. If that fire hydrant over there seems like it should be his property, god forbid he should try to stop himself from marking it with his own special scent. But me shoving my nose into someone's pants does not seem to be a rational thing to do (I promise, I know that).
Still, it strikes me that there was a time when I didn't know that.
Without going into the sordid details of my embarrassingly strange childhood, I can tell you that there was a time when I had no awareness of the societal implications of running onstage dressed as a giant bird (of questionable species) and singing along to "Rockin' Robin". In fact, there was a time when I used to sing at the top of my lungs--terribly. I remember thinking that I was spectacular; a few people told me different at some points, but I didn't listen, or I didn't care. I was having fun. Real, pure fun.
I think we miss out on that sometimes these days, because we get bound by some primitive (and by primitive, I mean so 1999) definition of what people should or should not be. This isn't a carpe diem speech, but...well, yeah, it kind of is. Sorry about that.
Really, I think I'm just afraid of growing up, and I miss that kid who wasn't afraid of wearing coconuts and a grass skirt to sing "Pearly Shells" at the talent show. I think that, the older I get, the more I'm losing touch with that ability to seize onto things. The rational part of my mind is starting to use...ugh...logic. I'm afraid of losing my imagination, my sense of humor, and wrapped up in all of that I'm afraid of losing my way and becoming something I never have been, like a businessman or a republican (just kidding, conservative buddies).
But in all seriousness, I have a new resolution: I'm going to be more like my dog. Not in a "lick-myself-in-public" sort of way, but in a "make-people-feel-uncomfortable". People--myself included--shouldn't be afraid of what happens when someone thinks we're weird. Push the envelope! Creep out strangers! Laugh rudely when people walk into poles! Who cares if it's childish? Children have more fun.
As I move into my aimlessness, I really really hope I can cling to that idea. If not, well...I guess I could always study hotel management.
Although, to be completely honest, I don't think I have much to complain about. I respond fairly quickly to my impulses (I know you people, get your minds out of the gutters). I have marker fights in the middle of downtown, lie down in the center of the road in the dangerously dark night, and spontaneously burst out into poetry battles with my friends while I walk in between rooms. I'm moderately good with some one-liners (in my opinion, at least), and in general I think my reaction time is getting fairly good.
But then again, there are still limits. Licking myself seems to be firmly planted in the "off-the-table" category of human action. And yet, there's my dog, at the foot of my bed, just going at it. I call a foul on society.
Who decides what is and isn't okay?
The dog doesn't worry about what some passing stranger may find awkward. If he smells something, even if it is another dog's ass, he's going to sniff it. If that fire hydrant over there seems like it should be his property, god forbid he should try to stop himself from marking it with his own special scent. But me shoving my nose into someone's pants does not seem to be a rational thing to do (I promise, I know that).
Still, it strikes me that there was a time when I didn't know that.
Without going into the sordid details of my embarrassingly strange childhood, I can tell you that there was a time when I had no awareness of the societal implications of running onstage dressed as a giant bird (of questionable species) and singing along to "Rockin' Robin". In fact, there was a time when I used to sing at the top of my lungs--terribly. I remember thinking that I was spectacular; a few people told me different at some points, but I didn't listen, or I didn't care. I was having fun. Real, pure fun.
I think we miss out on that sometimes these days, because we get bound by some primitive (and by primitive, I mean so 1999) definition of what people should or should not be. This isn't a carpe diem speech, but...well, yeah, it kind of is. Sorry about that.
Really, I think I'm just afraid of growing up, and I miss that kid who wasn't afraid of wearing coconuts and a grass skirt to sing "Pearly Shells" at the talent show. I think that, the older I get, the more I'm losing touch with that ability to seize onto things. The rational part of my mind is starting to use...ugh...logic. I'm afraid of losing my imagination, my sense of humor, and wrapped up in all of that I'm afraid of losing my way and becoming something I never have been, like a businessman or a republican (just kidding, conservative buddies).
But in all seriousness, I have a new resolution: I'm going to be more like my dog. Not in a "lick-myself-in-public" sort of way, but in a "make-people-feel-uncomfortable". People--myself included--shouldn't be afraid of what happens when someone thinks we're weird. Push the envelope! Creep out strangers! Laugh rudely when people walk into poles! Who cares if it's childish? Children have more fun.
As I move into my aimlessness, I really really hope I can cling to that idea. If not, well...I guess I could always study hotel management.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
First Day of...?
So here's the thing:
I don't know what I'm doing here.
I mean that literally and metaphorically, kind of, just hang with me and I'll get there.
First, the literal: I don't know what I'm doing sitting here, in my bed, munching on pop tarts and alternating between glaring intensely at the pile of boxes in my room and at my laptop screen. I should be up, maybe working on some homework, hanging out with some friends, filling some part of the role of "your-average-everyday-teenager". Well, I'm not doing that. I'm here in bed. Rambling.
But the metaphorical stuff is more interesting (when I say "stuff", what I really mean is convoluted philosophical nonsense, but I'll try to keep it simple for my own benefit as well as yours). I don't know what I'm supposed to do next, what's going to happen next, or...well, anything. I'm going to have to make choices about things soon and that freaks me the hell out.
I'm used to having things plotted out for me. For those out there who don't know me, quick lifetime recap, in "flashes-before-your-eyes" style:
Born Chicago, raised small town-style.
Swim lessons begin, age 3.
Competitive swimming begins, age 8.
Make friends outside of swimming (shocking!), age 10.
Move away from aforementioned friends, age 12.
Continue swimming, slightly friendless, age 12.5.
Become socially awkward and uncommonly mean to some people, age 13.
Go to high school, still socially awkward, still swimming, age 15.
Join debate team, make friends, lose social awkwardness, lose interest in swimming, age 16.
Stop swimming, age 17.
Final debate meet ends, yesterday.
Now, age 18.
So, here's what happened. After a horrifically long day (that was actually fairly fun), and after saying goodbye to debate friends that I will probably never see again and watching some people drive away who's friendships I had let dwindle in the face of climbing the Everest that is college applications, I arrived home. I got in bed, I fell asleep, felt nothing. And then I woke up.
Today has been one of the weirdest days I have had in a long time. Nothing important happened, I suppose, except for some quality thinking. I already knew that it would be uncommonly odd to be done with speech and debate. But with an elapsed time of about 3.4 seconds, it hit me that it was just the first of the things that are important to me that are inevitably going to end.
By this time next year, I may not be talking to many of my friends. I will no longer have my own room or free food. I will no longer be able to see all of the stars in the sky, and most of the people I would normally call on for support will be several hundred miles away.
So, apparently, this is the first day of something important. My life? Probably not, I was born quite a while ago. My future? Could be, but it's kind of hard for the future to start when I'm stuck in the present. So what?
I don't think this is the first day of anything. It is the first day of many days to come where things will no longer be the same, changed by some inevitability, personal oversight, or changed outlook. I think this is the first day of nothing; the first day where I have nothing in front of me but what I put there myself. It's an encouraging idea. I'm horrified.
Hope you'll stay tuned for all the days to come.
I don't know what I'm doing here.
I mean that literally and metaphorically, kind of, just hang with me and I'll get there.
First, the literal: I don't know what I'm doing sitting here, in my bed, munching on pop tarts and alternating between glaring intensely at the pile of boxes in my room and at my laptop screen. I should be up, maybe working on some homework, hanging out with some friends, filling some part of the role of "your-average-everyday-teenager". Well, I'm not doing that. I'm here in bed. Rambling.
But the metaphorical stuff is more interesting (when I say "stuff", what I really mean is convoluted philosophical nonsense, but I'll try to keep it simple for my own benefit as well as yours). I don't know what I'm supposed to do next, what's going to happen next, or...well, anything. I'm going to have to make choices about things soon and that freaks me the hell out.
I'm used to having things plotted out for me. For those out there who don't know me, quick lifetime recap, in "flashes-before-your-eyes" style:
Born Chicago, raised small town-style.
Swim lessons begin, age 3.
Competitive swimming begins, age 8.
Make friends outside of swimming (shocking!), age 10.
Move away from aforementioned friends, age 12.
Continue swimming, slightly friendless, age 12.5.
Become socially awkward and uncommonly mean to some people, age 13.
Go to high school, still socially awkward, still swimming, age 15.
Join debate team, make friends, lose social awkwardness, lose interest in swimming, age 16.
Stop swimming, age 17.
Final debate meet ends, yesterday.
Now, age 18.
So, here's what happened. After a horrifically long day (that was actually fairly fun), and after saying goodbye to debate friends that I will probably never see again and watching some people drive away who's friendships I had let dwindle in the face of climbing the Everest that is college applications, I arrived home. I got in bed, I fell asleep, felt nothing. And then I woke up.
Today has been one of the weirdest days I have had in a long time. Nothing important happened, I suppose, except for some quality thinking. I already knew that it would be uncommonly odd to be done with speech and debate. But with an elapsed time of about 3.4 seconds, it hit me that it was just the first of the things that are important to me that are inevitably going to end.
By this time next year, I may not be talking to many of my friends. I will no longer have my own room or free food. I will no longer be able to see all of the stars in the sky, and most of the people I would normally call on for support will be several hundred miles away.
So, apparently, this is the first day of something important. My life? Probably not, I was born quite a while ago. My future? Could be, but it's kind of hard for the future to start when I'm stuck in the present. So what?
I don't think this is the first day of anything. It is the first day of many days to come where things will no longer be the same, changed by some inevitability, personal oversight, or changed outlook. I think this is the first day of nothing; the first day where I have nothing in front of me but what I put there myself. It's an encouraging idea. I'm horrified.
Hope you'll stay tuned for all the days to come.
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