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.