There is a Woman Here

I walked into a restaurant the other day with a question for the manager. The hostess picked up the black phone with a cord behind the welcome podium and called her boss. "There's a woman here with a question for you," she said.

I almost asked her, "Who is this woman?"

And then I realized she was referring to me.

Life happens fast sometimes. One minute, you are barely making it through finals as an undergraduate. The next, you are barely making it across the graduation stage without stumbling in those impractical heels you needed to wear for pictures (and so you would be tall enough in the crowd for your family to find you). Two seconds later, you are on a plane to a place you have never been to cross bridges you didn't know existed. Twenty-four hours after that you are wandering through a country that doesn't speak your language, but the people teach you more than college ever did.

And one millisecond after that you are doing the nine-to-five drill in clothes that need to be tailored and it's weird when people refer to you as a woman.

That, my friends, is a brief summary of what 2014 was for me. One year ago, I was on winter break as a college student. Seven months ago, I wore the gown of graduation and carried the curse of post-graduation. Six months ago, I was blessed enough to explore Eastern Europe and find pain in cities that bled history in cobblestones. Five months ago, I started blogging for the CatholicMatch Institute. Less than one month ago I had my first day in my first full-time position.

2014, you have been nothing but a whirlwind. But not one that causes nausea. One that pumps adrenaline into veins and breath into lungs. Sometimes I couldn't breath. But my heart was always beating.

If someone had said to me in January of 2014 that this year would bring me from San Francisco to Poland, and that in the end I would be at home in Worcester and no where else, I would have said never. I would have said no, that's not the plan.

Too bad I actually have zero control over the plan. I also have zero control over the fact that people now refer to me as a woman. But I think that was one of the biggest gifts of 2014-there is a woman here.

Dear God, Thank You for My Kitchen

I baked a cake today and almost gave my father a heart attack. He walked into the kitchen as I stood surrounded in a cloud of confectioner's sugar, chocolate dripping from the side of the oven, flour on the floor, and spatulas haphazardly balanced on dishes. "Oh my God," he said. "What happened in here?"

I looked around me at the mess and felt so, so calm. My cake was in the oven and my frosting was settling in a bowl on the counter. The room was warm and sunlight was coming from the window above the sink, bouncing off my mother's green plants and melting the chocolate already messy on the stove top.

 I love to bake. I love to marry dull ingredients and watch them have a relationship so sweet and tender that people sigh when they taste it. I only recently realized why I enjoy baking this much; my friends will know me as a klutz in the kitchen and a disaster at following any sort of written instruction. But when I bake, following a recipe is following a simple map to a place where happiness is uncomplicated.

And man, happiness can be so complicated these days. We feel like we need tablets and laptops and an iPhone 6 and a new dress for the New Year when really, happiness lives most often in the place that gets the most dirty: the kitchen.

A kitchen is the greatest blessing I have received this year, although there have been many that swooped unexpected into my life. I eat in a kitchen, a privilege that thousands do not enjoy. Some of these thousands don't have a house to put the kitchen in. Or they have a kitchen but they don't have electricity. Almost exactly one year ago, I traveled to Ecuador and saw women sweep brooms over dirt floors that flooded sometimes. I came home and cried in the shower because my heart was breaking that I had a kitchen and they did not. Today, when I baked a cake in the sun in my own home, I was reminded that I shouldn't be grateful for the new Galaxy tablet I am getting under the tree. Or for the Blu Ray player in the living room. Or even for a car. 

I should be grateful that I have a kitchen and that I have the luxury of hot water, and that my greatest concern at the moment is that the heat has broken in my car. Grateful that my kitchen is filled with cookies and sandwich meat and white bread that we bought at the grocery store with a credit card we can pay for. But mostly, grateful that my kitchen is also filled with family. 

That is Christmas. That is holiday. Waking up and praying not for something, but because of something. Praying in thanks and not in greed. I am not praying this season for a new year filled with blessings. Lord, I have them here already. Pray, instead, for the strength to recognize them when they walk into the kitchen and say Oh my God, what happened here.

What happens in kitchens is love. Whether it is a dirt floor in Ecuador or a food pantry or a Fridigaire-filled room, baking is a family thing. A hell of a lot of little pieces need to come together to be something that melts hearts. Eggs and vegetable and oil and vanilla extract don't taste like celebration on their own. You need to mix them together and watch them argue until they blend into something that makes sense when you taste it. 

Guys, Christmas is about cookies. But it's about eating them with someone else and remembering that sugar cookies, too, are little sweet blessings. And kitchens are worth thanking God for. 

What They Don't Tell You About Post-Grad

I was having a conversation with a good friend the other day, a friend who is another recent graduate, and we were catching each other up on our lives.

"I feel like I have so little that is definite in life and so little stability," he said. "I spend a disturbing amount of time each day pondering existential questions."

I agreed with him that the latter was disturbing, and followed with, "Trust me, I understand. I feel very disjointed. And simultaneously constantly anxious."

"Yeah. Sounds about right," my friend returned.

This conversation ran circles in my mind for days. So little stability. Disjointed. Constantly anxious.

Is this what it means to be a college graduate in 2014? Do we feel this way because we are job hunting? Is it normal to worry so much about our futures when our present days have barely dawned? Or is this simply what it means to be an adult?

On some level, I think to be disjointed is synonyms with "college graduate." Think about it. We go to college for four years or more and exist in a world that includes highlighters and Ramen noodles and snow days. Once we are handed a degree, so many of us have not actually made a decision about what kind of career we want. And then we are either shuffled back home, relocated to a completely new place for a year of service or a new job, or plunged back into the world of academia. Either way, a degree equals another step. It is like standing before a staircase that leads to one thousand different doors, and all of them are dark. Which step do you take? Is moving home a step backwards? Or is it actually a step in the right direction?

Of course, the answers to these questions are impossibilities. And that is why we feel disjointed. That is why earning a degree is a huge accomplishment that proceeds to crush you every day because you have it and you must do something with it. But...what?

That is why we are constantly anxious, Class of 2014. Because we have received something that 50 percent of us don't know what to do with, while the other 50 percent do know what we want but we are facing an entire Internet of opportunities. Which opportunity leads to the light?

Here are the things I have learned since May 17, the day I officially got my English degree:

1. Don't expect anything to be the way you expected. It won't be. It's going to be better than your plans, but it certainly isn't going to happen overnight.
2. Don't give up. It is alarmingly easy to slip into a coma of I will never or I don't even know what I want. You do know what you want. Just quiet your mind down for a minute, stop Tweeting, and feel what your gut says. It has a pretty loud voice when you turn off the right noise.
3. Do maintain a sense of humor. You are going to spend so much time disappointed, confused, and stressed as you try to figure out what the heck you are actually going to do with your twenties. Learn to laugh about it. Talk to your friends. Like I said, the whole reason this blog post happened is because I realized another recent grad was living my life, too.
4. NEVER compare yourself to another person. If we were all accomplishing the same things in the same way, the world would be full of boring people.
5. Keep in mind that, despite the endless rejection letters from various places or ceaseless questions from people who are wondering, "What are you doing with your life?", your degree does mean something. It does. Anything you put effort towards matters because you cared enough to give yourself to it. Give yourself to your twenties, too. We may be confused and we may be one disjointed group of people, but we all cared enough about something to study it for x amount of years. Don't forget that.

Give yourself to the next phase, even if you aren't sure what it is yet. Remember, our present days have barely dawned.

I Believe in Pie and Butterballs

If you follow me on any of my social media, you will know that I recently ran the Rock 'n' Roll Las Vegas Half Marathon. I have been an avid runner since high school, running for track and cross country teams and devoting a lot of my free time in college to working out. Running is part of my identity, a part that very few people would guess without knowing me relatively well. In fact, I often get looks of surprise when people find out I am a long distance runner. Why?

Because most people imagine all runners to look like Olympians. Tall, lean, all leg, and no chest. In all my 5'3 glory, I am none of those things. I am a stocky, curvy woman who has a stomach that I like to fill with bread and cheese. My thighs and calves, thanks to miles and hills and treadmills, no longer fit into any skinny jean. And I wouldn't change that for anything.

What I would change is the way people react to my body. I can see it in their faces (and have had it said to my face): If you're a runner, why aren't you skinny? or I mean, I want to work out, but I don't want my thighs to get bigger...

So what does any of this have to do with pie and Butterball turkeys?

One thing I have noticed about the holiday season is that people bake a whole lot of guilt into those pumpkin pies and candied yams. How many of us sit around the table on Thanksgiving and stuff ourselves to the point of discomfort while simultaneously making comments about how fat we are? 

So many carbs!

I should really go to the gym.

Why did we buy such a big turkey?

One more piece of pie...oh, I really shouldn't...

Honey, you don't need another dinner roll.

The holidays usher in joy, delicious food, and also a lot of judgement surrounding what we eat. So much of the focus is on food--shopping for it, preparing it, eating it, putting it in Tupperware...and also regretting it.

Well, I can tell you that I have never regretted pie on Thanksgiving. I can also tell you that as a runner, I don't sit around the table at the holidays (or ever) and think, "I need to go running. I need to work this off."

I don't run to melt away carbs. I run because I am an athlete, a little bit insane, and obsessed with a sport that gives me life. And I will always be a stocky 5'3 because that is how my body was built, and I make no effort to change my diet to lose weight. Maybe someday that will change, but for now, I don't believe what I eat should make me unhappy and feel like I need to hit the treadmill. I may not be 130 pounds and I definitely don't fit into pants that aren't at least a size 8, but that doesn't matter.

It also isn't a bad thing if you never work out and you are 120 pounds and fit into a size 4 pant. Eat what makes you feel good. Make your mental health a priority and eventually, judging yourself will become a real waste of time. For me, happiness doesn't involve making excuses for a body that doesn't look like a runner's. 

I believe in pie with whipped cream.

I believe in Butterball turkeys with stuffing.

I believe in baked potatoes with sour cream.

I believe that celebrating with family shouldn't come with a side of guilt and a self-promise to eat salad for the entire following week. We work so hard to make delicious food to enjoy together...can't we just sit down and eat it?

I think everyone should eat until they are stuffed on Thanksgiving. And no one should feel the need to justify the feast.

It's a holiday. Don't judge anything. Just eat something.

I Don't Know Who We Are Anymore

I have known Danielle since we were in the 6th grade. We lived in a small town where everyone was a Girl Scout and afternoons were spent with American Girl dolls who had more outfits than we did.

I knew I wanted to be a writer with a rich husband who would someday buy me my own island. Danielle knew she wanted to have a steady job, a log cabin, and eight children. Over a decade later, I am still an irrational dreamer (although I now understand a private island is probably unnecessary) and Danielle is still a logical rock of a person.

We bonded over mutual social awkwardness and something else, something inside the souls of little girls who are searching for who they are. She gave me someone to tell my stories to and I gave her a friend honest enough to tell her not to wear boy's clothes. We did the birthday parties and the play dates and the romps in the woods until the day she left for Pennsylvania and a little bit of innocence was robbed of both of us.

We began to write to each other, testing out this new thing called email that tied us with an electronic heart string. We tackled middle school in tandem, and later the nightmares of high school. When I experienced loss for the first time, Danielle was there. When I had my heart shattered and then stepped on, Danielle was there. When I graduated high school and struggled to choose a college, Danielle was there.

She is the person who knows what I sound like when I am crying too hard to make a noise. I am the person who knows why she cries.

This is something that has always made "us" an "us." We know the pulses and beats and pains of each other, a relationship built over years of sobbing/laughing into telephones and asking each other the questions we were too afraid to ask anyone else.

And now, in the rush of 2014, we are still tied together by the knowledge that we know each other. We have always known who we are when we are together. As a strong-willed and mildly dramatic female team, we have always managed to figure out our current phase of life.

Until now. At a chaotic twenty-two, we are both in very different places and yet we are standing in a fog on the same dimly lit street corner. The other day, we were having a conversation and Danielle said, "I don't know who we are anymore, but I think I like us."

It's true. Two people who have always been able to look each other in the eye and say, "This is who you are. Don't worry," are now looking each other in the eye and thinking, "My God, who is this girl?"

So many times in the past months Danielle has said to me, "Stop it. You are an adult." She's right. I am an adult. But twenty-two is still a question mark. We are in a phase where we are old enough to date men who act like men, but are unsure of whether we should refer to them as boys. We pay bills on time, but my bank account is still technically "student." Our parents can't get to our medical records without permission, but I am still under my father's insurance until the age of twenty-six.

Twenty-two is to be in limbo. It is swimming in the ocean alone except you're tied to land with a mile-long rope. I feel like an adult when I am working and when I fill the car with gas. But I still feel like a kid when I find myself playing Taylor Swift on repeat and when I walk into my room that hasn't changed since I was twelve.

It's a weird age, and I don't think the confusion of twenty-two has much do to with whether or not you are in school. Danielle is a questioning student while I maneuver in the world of freelance writing and job hunting. During the day, I am a professional and a woman. When I put on my cashier's uniform and ring up groceries, I am sixteen and people ask me, "What college do you want to go to?"

I tell them I have a degree, and get that look that doesn't need a sentence: Why are you at Shaw's? 

I'm at Shaw's Supermarkets because I'm twenty-two. Yes, I have a degree. Yes, I work in my field. Yes, I still have a mind-numbing part-time job for which I wear a button that says, "Ask me about Cuisinart."

I am many things. But for some reason, I am now someone my best friend does not recognize. And I don't recognize her.

We are twenty-two, and we are who we are.

The good news is we think we like us.

Matching Socks Are Scary

One of my most vivid Halloween memories is of a little red wagon. My father used to drag all three of us around our hilly neighborhood each and every October 31, until we were too big and too restless to be chauffered to our candy. My sister once went as a “kid wearing matching socks,” a costume that only my family understood. We all witnessed the ridiculous and colorful combination of knee-highs that she sported daily, and to see my little sister wearing clothes that matched was actually a pretty scary thing. She was not herself in matching socks.

Over a decade later, I realize my sister was much wiser than her years. First of all, her costume was very cost-efficient. Secondly, she chose to embrace an identity for one night that most of us choose to embrace every day.

An identity of matching. A guise of fitting in.

For a young and insecure me, to wear mismatching socks would have been difficult. In fact, I struggled with most of my Halloween costumes. My mother never let us buy them--we always had to figure it out ourselves. Growing up, I hated this, because I never looked like my friends. I never had the easy iParty ensemble for $29.99. I always felt awkward and unsettled and like my costume wasn’t good enough. For some reason, on the night meant for stepping out of the box, I never had the courage to step beyond the witch or princess or scarecrow. Even in high school I embraced the norm--to my horror, I was a cat more than once. A cat.

I hate cats, and also, why did I decide to join the female teenage army that inevitably forms every Halloween? Whiskered and meowing and cat-ear-headband-wearing, I used a day for being different to become more like everybody else. I lied to myself by saying my clever addition of black leggings made the costume less sexy, therefore I was not conforming.

Alex, since when is the sporting of black leggings not conforming?

It makes me sad to think of the hundreds of little Elsas and Annas that will be swarming the streets tonight. Granted, I do think Elsa’s dress is fabulous, and I am passionate about Disney. But what I am more passionate about is creativity. At a nostalgic 22, I regret that as a child, I was ashamed of my creative side. I felt weird and embarrassed when people called me “Book Girl” or asked, “Do you ever stop reading?”

I hid my imagination in public because to love stories and fantasy as much as I did was “nerdy.” I shrank like a mouse when people made fun of me for being shy and quiet; my choice was always to run away. Straight to places where everyone understood me. Like Narnia and the house where the Borrowers lived and the attic of The Little Princess.

I flourished in the magical pages of C.S. Lewis and Philip Pullman, was best friends with clumsy Anne who lived at Green Gables and rambunctious Miranda from Miranda and the Movies. (For the record, my first real character crush was on the witty Bobby.) I chased impossible fairy tales on the back of a polar bear in East of the Sun, West of the Moon.

Despite all of these amazing characters to inspire me, I always looked at who I was on Halloween and chose to crawl further back into my shell, to melt into bashfulness behind a cliche witch hat. My sister looked at who she was on Halloween and decided to become the opposite. In short, I did nothing but hide who I was--and not in a fun costume way. In a way that actually highlighted my insecurities and not my imagination.

Witches are cool. Princesses are even cooler. But I wish I had the courage my sister had (and still has, by the way) to be something unique. I wish I had spent my childhood dressing up as something more like who I am and not like what the rest of my generation thought was the “it” costume. To pay homage to my friends and mentors who lived in the stories that made me feel alive.

I wish I had been Lyra from His Dark Materials. She and Pantalaimon comforted me many, many times when I felt alone after dance class or school. That was back in the days when the only way I knew how to make friends was to ask, "Do you like to read?"

Even better, I should have been Lucy from The Chronicles of Narnia. I certainly spent enough of my life with Aslan and Prince Caspian.

I could have been an awesome Scarlett O’Hara.

And when my friends showed up and looked at me like I was crazy for embodying a character that they knew nothing about, I should have said, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

How College Taught Me to Chase a Mouse

For 12 years of my life, who I was had a very solid definition that lived in the letters of one everyday word--student.

On college graduation day, that definition ceased to exist as I knew it. I was thrown (gently, as I still live with my parents and pay minimal amounts of bills) into the unpredictable space that exists post-graduation.

So much of me revolved around school. Until I was forced to live a daily life that lacked class, professors, expensive textbooks (that's one perk), and a dorm room with my best friends, I didn't realize that "student" may as well have been my middle name. What is it that I am really good at? What are the things I know how to do better than almost anything else?

I can write a five-page essay analyzing British literature in two hours.
I can proofread and study in bed surviving off of green tea and Celeste $1 pizzas.
I can wear yoga pants and the same college hoodie four days in a row and not blink.
I can wake up at 9:21 am and make it to a 9:30 class.

Now, five months later, I realize that Celeste pizzas are not, in fact, a suitable staple in one's diet, and no one is hiring for professional British lit analyzers.

Are the skills I learned in college useful?

This is a question I have lately discussed with numerous friends, and although opinions differ, I have decided that yes, the skills I learned in college are useful.

Aside from the academic value of higher education (I did get something out of gen eds, loathe as I am to admit it), all of those late nights spent editing and all of those early mornings spent rushing taught me a lot about how to handle the real world.

The other day I was sitting on the couch, peacefully doing some freelance work while having my tea and enjoying the silence of an empty house. So different from a college environment.

Suddenly a small shape darted across the dining room. The cutest little mouse had come up from the basement and was scurrying, terrified, to safety under potted plants my mother insists on keeping everywhere. He was adorable and scared and I had to save him. But first, I had to check on the beasts. Luckily, both dogs were sleeping (and snoring).

It looked like the coast was clear. I grabbed a broom and some shredded cheese and started coaxing the mouse to the door. All was going well and I was feeling really proud of myself when 135 pounds of dog barreled past me and cornered my new friend.

Della.

Within seconds I had one arm around her giant dog waist, simultaneously balancing a broom and cheese in the other hand, desperately trying to keep her from killing a mouse. She escaped, of course, and now I was chasing them both. My workday had been officially interrupted.

Della didn't kill the mouse, but I didn't save him either. To this day he is still at large.

And all I could think was, "This reminds me of college."

In college, ridiculous things like this happened all the time. There were plenty of moments where I was doing something similar to running around the house with a broom and cheese. I remember laughing so much at school. I also remember crying a lot and worrying a lot and panicking a lot.

Newsflash, Alex.

Tears and stress and panic don't disappear with a degree. Once you've earned it, you have to do something with it. College does not equal a job. But college does equal a lot of life lessons and practice for handling real life situations that are much more serious than chasing a mouse.

So in my opinion, college did teach me a lot of useful skills. I know how to edit and I (sort of) understand philosophy and I am now a well-rounded individual. But I also know how to chase and lose a mouse without having a panic attack. And I am able to get back to work after losing said rodent.

I'm going to lose a lot of mice during the rest of my life. But now I know how to just get over it.

Thanks, college. I now understand chaos.

On Pine Trees and a Monsoon

Yesterday I woke up and it was gray. A gray October morning, with some color on branches that were shaking their leaves off in the crying sky. I came downstairs, sleep still hovering in my body, and blindly made a cup of tea that I prayed would wake me up. But I knew waking up would come soon enough anyways, once I put my best friends on my feet and headed out the door.

Running is like that. Solid. Honest. I know that even on gray and rainy mornings, the roads don't melt. They will hold me even when I can't do it myself.

And so I run.

Yesterday I ran to find something. Peace, I think. I wanted to feel a quiet in my stomach, a settled calm that can be distressingly elusive. It doesn't always happen as soon as my soles hit the streets, but it did this time. I needed a release that only winding roads with yellow stripes and New England trees could give me.

As I ran, I argued with myself. Made mental lists and calendars, moved some things to the backburner and more to the pot of vegetables that needed to be cooked that day. Stewed within the next six hours. Cooking can be so overwhelming.

Two miles in, I had forgotten I was running and remembered every little thing I failed to do in the last month and every little thing I had yet to finish for the next week. My body just kept going, because that's what runners (and stubborn people--yes, I am both) do. A real test of my stubbornness was about to be be unleashed, as the light drizzle suddenly turned into a downpour so heavy it blinded me. I couldn't even keep my eyes open beneath the gallons of water rushing my head. Determined, I kept going, tackling small floods and rivers erupting under my feet and filling my sneakers.

After a few minutes of constantly wiping my eyes, I stopped and took refuge under a pine tree. There I was, 9 am and soaked to the skin, frustrated that I had to stop running because it meant it was going to take me an extra five minutes to get home and get to work. I was worried about five minutes.

I stayed by the pine tree for a while, curled under the branches and pathetic against the rough trunk. I peered up at the sky and saw nothing but dirty white clouds. This rainstorm wasn't letting up anytime soon. And so I started to laugh.

Okay, God, I hear you. You are rarely subtle with me.

I came out from under the pine tree, wiped my eyes, and kept running. Ten pounds heavier with water, half blind in sheets of rain, and there was nothing else to be done. No cell phone and no one else home, I was responsible for getting myself there.

As I ran up the biggest hill in the neighborhood, the floods were really coming down. Cars rolled by and I am sure the drivers were thinking, She is crazy.

They're right. I am crazy.

But not crazy enough to hide under a pine tree until the clouds let up. The thing is, they might never let up. Or they might clear within minutes. You don't know, and waiting around for someone else to stop the rain is kind of a waste of time.

Taking refuge under a pine tree is a good thing, but only when you need to clear your eyes.

I Choose Toothbrush

I was driving home from work this week, listening to the radio, when I heard the host of a show ask a disturbing question.

Would you rather share a toothbrush with a homeless man for a day or go to prison for a week?

Most people were opting for prison.

First of all, let's point out the fact that this is a sick and twisted "would you rather." I prefer the game when you are choosing between two good things, like "Would you rather go sky diving or scuba diving?" or "Would you rather go on a date with Adam Levine or Zac Efron?" (For the record, my answer is Adam.) 

But all kidding aside, this particular question made me want to turn the radio off and boycott the station (a particularly popular one for people my age, by the way). I sat fuming at a red light, listening to people laugh and say they would definitely, definitely choose prison. You never know what that homeless man has been up to. They were making a joke of a social problem that is growing and complex, one that is full of stereotypes now being encouraged with humor. Treating a homeless man as someone to be laughed at is one thing, but the very question propagated ignorance. 

The last time I checked, "homeless" is not defined as "dirty" or "lacking a toothbrush." Homeless is lacking a home. And there are plenty of people who lack homes who do not lack a desire for cleanliness, respect, and a toothbrush. Also, last time I checked, the situation of homelessness does not instantly turn a person into a diseased animal that does not brush their teeth. 

By suggesting that sharing a toothbrush with a homeless man is the equivalent of (or worse than) spending a week in prison, that radio show host made a vast generalization about how horrific homelessness is and the problems associated with it. Homelessness can indeed be an unclean, horrific situation--but there are plenty of people who are homeless who do brush their teeth. All you need is water, toothpaste, and a toothbrush. People who have been evicted from their apartments have those things. People who sleep in shelters have those things. People who have lost their homes and who sleep in shelters are people.

I would much rather share a toothbrush with a stranger for one day than spend a week in a prison. Why? Because a homeless person does not have to be a dirty person who lacks hygienic values and access to water and soap. Some of them are, yes. But there public bathrooms and shelters and soup kitchens. And some homeless people are moms and kids and dads who used to have the two-garage house and the grill in the backyard. I'm willing to bet those parents know the importance of Crest Cavity Protection.

I would rather not share a toothbrush with any stranger, but I don't think it matters whether he is homeless or not. There are plenty of people with the master bedroom and the half bath who aren't very clean. 

Don't say there aren't nights when you are too lazy to brush your teeth. 

In the Grand Scheme of Things

Exactly one week after I graduated with my Bachelor of Arts in English, I found myself seated in my mother’s favorite leather chair, wearing pajamas and an Assumption College t-shirt, perusing the world of Facebook. It was a Saturday night, I had been out of college for exactly seven days, and already I found myself...wandering.

Wandering straight to photos a friend of my mother had posted to her page. Photos of chipmunks. One of them was really, really cute and it was next to a flower. Excited, I called my mother over to the screen.

“Mom! Look at this! Look how cute!"

My mother crossed the living room and looked at the picture, her reaction to the chipmunk disappointingly underwhelming. She then turned her gaze on me and said, “Alexandra, in the grand scheme of things, what the #$%@ are you doing with your life?”

At the time, I was insulted. “Mom! I can’t believe you just said that to me! I’ve been out of school for a week. Give me a break.” 

She didn’t say anything in return, but the expression on her face didn’t require words to make a point. She was watching me sit (in her chair, no less) in our living room on a weekend, 22 years old with a degree that cost thousands, and all I could seem to do was look at pictures of rodents on Facebook. Not even interesting rodents, like foreign ones you might find in Africa or China or something. A rodent that lives in scores in our backyard.

As my mother stared at me, I could see panic behind her eyes. My God, she was thinking. What has happened to my daughter, who at one point was a productive and active college student? Will she live here and inhabit my chair forever? Will she ever find a job? She did get a degree in English…oh Lord, we are never getting rid of her.

In hindsight, she was perhaps overreacting. I had only been out of school for one week, and don’t worry--at this point, I do not spend much time checking out the chipmunks on Facebook. But her so eloquently phrased question echoed in my mind for the entire summer, and continues to be something I reference when applying for jobs or thinking about the future.

What the @#$% are you doing with your life?

Well Mom, the answer is still the same as it was four months ago. I don’t know. Oddly, I am incredibly calm about this. Throughout school and, well, throughout my entire life, I have been a “big picture” person. Next year was always more important than right now. I am a planner and a color coder and an extreme (insane?) organizer. But post graduation, I have become less obsessed with tomorrow. In the grand scheme of things, I am now focused on the smaller scheme of things. 

The last four months have surprised and enchanted me more than I expected, from spontaneously flying to my best friend to traveling through Eastern Europe to remembering what it is like to read a book that is not assigned. And guys--I like not being in college. I like not having a clue what the next six months will bring. I like working and I like writing and I like living at home where everything is familiar in a phase of life that, for once, came with no orientation or guidebook. 

In the grand scheme of things, I have realized that I do know what I want--I’m just lacking the map of how to get there. But maps are made of up thousands of lines and dots and many colors (and a lot of potholes). I don’t have my map yet, but God has given me clues as to how to follow my inner compass. These clues are in the things that bring me peace and make me remember who I am. And right now, these are the only things I know:

I want to live in a city with a pulse that wakes me up.
I want to see the United States--all of it.
I want to have dogs. Big sloppy ones. 
I need to have a road to run on.
I want to go in a shark cage and face a Great White.  
I need to be writing (maybe the shark will inspire me). 

And that’s all I’ve got. These are the things that I am one hundred percent sure of right now. So Mom, in the grand scheme of things, I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life. But don’t panic--someday, your leather chair will be yours again. It’s just that right now, I’m following a map that is really, really confusing. I keep taking side roads and back roads and roads that scratch the car (sorry, Dad).

Wandering is not such a bad thing.