I’ve had kind of rough week.
Today, my bathroom scaled summed it up by spitting out a number that is four pounds above my normal weight. Which means that in a matter of four days, I’ve gained four pounds. Now, that would mean eating 14,000 calories above my normal intake and while I did inhale a bag of bakery-sized M&Ms on Monday night out of sheer pathetic-ness, even I know that I couldn’t have possibly gained that much pure fat. And while I know everyone likes a skinny girl bitching about her weight, I’m not so much mortified about the gain of 4 pounds (a small chicken at the grocery store) as I am about the meaning behind the 4 pounds.
Because my normal routine of taking care of myself has turned to shit in the past two weeks.
Before I even started the whole process below, I actually had to leave my first job in Los Angeles. Since it was an assigned rotation, it wasn’t like I had a Bon Voyage party in the break room. There were final presentations, final reviews, final lunches with people who probably were wondering why the pale girl in the corner looked like she was tweaking out. Nope, not on drugs. Just the overload of stress has made my eye start to twitch. Yup, I now have a twitching eye. Awesome.
But anyways, that was just the beginning. After I left LAX?
First, I moved. My parentals have always moved me so I’ve never really felt the stress. But basically, I took a red eye flight, slept for 6 hours (after being awake for 22 hours), and then in a panic due to the early arrival of movers, drove 2 hours south to Fort Wayne. I actually missed my entrance to the highway because I was freaking out. Thank god for Bonnie, the incredible GPS.
Then, I had to move. Physically getting myself from point A to point B was physically exhausting, but nothing compared to actually unloading boxes and putting stuff away and writing checks and figuring out how allllllll of my stuff is going to fit into one itty bitty closet. Yes, my closet is like a muffin top (you know, big girl stuffed into little jeans) right now: everything’s just pouring out. At one point, my mother had to feed me McDonalds (and you know I don’t do McDonald’s–I’m simply am a Subway girl) at 5 pm because I was turning white with an overload of stress, jet lag, and exhaustion. That doesn’t even include coordinating utilities, cable appointments, and deliveries. When my boyfriend drove down and asked me to go see a movie at 10 pm, I didn’t even read what the movie was about. I just thought: quiet. Nothing to do. Just sit. Of course, then he took me to The Gray with Liam Neeson. Spoiler Alert: Everyone dies. Really uplifting. Don’t see it. You’re welcome for spoiling it for you. Seriously, you’ll thank me later.
After I moved and then moved, I went back to Michigan for the weekend. I thought spending the weekend alone in Fort Wayne would be depressing (Little did I know that every day in Fort Wayne is depressing–don’t think the weekends get extra special depression treatment!) It was only six days ago, but I have no idea what I did last weekend. I know I bought a dresser. And that my dad told me I was allowed to be lazy. And I baked cookies. But really, I was in a fog.
Because then I drove back to Fort Wayne and got the overwhelming stress of starting a new job. And this isn’t a lush job. This job is HARD. This job makes me realize why men are the prominent gender in factories and why I also have way bigger balls than anyone gave me credit for. I might be pale, thin, and cutesy with my headbands and pink tshirts, but I am also way tougher than you think. Well, probably. I would have cried after my first day, but I was too tired. My hours are insane, I leave before the sun comes up and come home after it goes down. If I want to fit in a workout before work, I have to run in the freezing cold dark. I attempted to use the Apartment Complex’s workout room after work one day, but halfway through my usual run, I quit. My legs hurt, my head hurt, I’d worked a 10.5 hour day, and you know what? I was tired.
I guess the entire point of this post is three things:
1. I’m stressed out and exhausted to the maximum. I’m breaking out. My hair is falling out. Of course, I have a shitload of hair so that could just be normal shedding, but for the case of dramatics, let’s go with it. Not only am I coping with starting a new hard job, my apartment is a mess, my routine is in dire need of a clean up, and sometimes, all I want to do is just sit on my couch and not move or talk or text or email or blog. I want to be quiet. If I have ever come close to understanding why alcoholics do what they do, this would be it. Taking the edge off sounds pretty damn good.
2. I’m giving myself a Get Out of Jail Free Card. I’m going to be nice to myself about the last two weeks. Normal me would beat myself up about not working out enough, binge eating goldfish, and sleeping in until 6:30 instead of pounding on the pavement for a four mile loop at 5:30 am. But I’m not. It’s been a hard week and if the only way I can feel even just a little better is to eat carbs and chocolate and ice cream, then dammit, I’ve earned it. This Pity Party is full on and the only invited guests are me and a tub of Skinny Cow ice cream.
3. But next week, it’s time to make a routine. Not just so I don’t continue my trend of gaining a pound a day (or that muffin top of a closet will be a muffin top of a Maggie since I’m way too cheap to purchase new clothes) but because I need to have some structure in my life that is so out of whack right now, I’m too exhausted to cry over it. More water, less diet coke. Enough with the carbs and candy, hit out the healthy foods that are more filling and probably better for my brain chemistry, which is dealing with a lot right now. And even though 5:30 am runs suck, I need to do them for the endorphins and so that when I come home from work at 7 or 8, I don’t have to try and stack exercise on top of my already giant to do list. If it’s too cold to run outside, then I need to just suck it up and spend the cash to join a gym. It’s not like I’m spending money on having fun right now anyways. There’s the silver lining!
So, help me out. Have you ever been so stressed and overwhelmed and exhausted that the idea of getting up to empty the dishwasher seems as difficult as running a marathon? How’d you handle it? Am I lost cause? Am I doomed to gain a pound every day for the rest of my life?
xoxo
Posted by M on Feb 5, 2012 in
Deep Thoughts,
My Current Life EI’m going through a phase. And I really, really hate it. You know when you’re stuck in a rut and you know you’re stuck in a rut and it’s frustrating, but the only thing more frustrating than being stuck in that rut is figuring out how to get out of that rut? If you followed that logic, give yourself a high five.
When I moved to LA six months ago, I was NOT ready for all the alone time I would be getting. I cried, cried, cried like a little baby. Ask my poor boyfriend, who at one point was probably pretty scared to call me because every time he had to hang up, I’d be all weepy. I didn’t have much of a social life in LA because 1. I didn’t know anyone and no one wants to be friends with a temporary resident and 2. I’m a pretty good Christian girl who doesn’t really drink much and while people say “you don’t have to drink to have fun!” they’re not exactly beating on your door to go to sober happy hour.
So, for six months, I did a lot of stuff alone. I ran in the mornings alone (a habit I picked up in college because I need some alone time from roommates–ironic, right?), had breakfast alone, had dinner alone, watched The Bachelor (anyone else infatuated with Bachelor Ben like I am?) alone, and spent weekends exploring, hiking, shopping, or hitting the beach alone. Don’t feel too sorry for me, I definitely had a few friends. But I spent a lot of time being by myself. And it was okay because I knew it was temporary.
Alone again, alone again
Of course, now the issue is, I’m back in Indiana/Michigan–my midwest people–and I’m struggling a little. It’s like I’m re-entering society and it’s awkward. I feel like a kid going into middle school. And I feel selfish. And like there’s something wrong with me. Which there totally is because I got used to being alone…I even started to like it (I know, I know, it’s a social mistake to admit that you actually enjoy selfishly spending your time doing whatever you want) and now I need to readjust to being with people again. It took me a few weeks to figure out how to be alone, so I figure I deserve a few weeks to figure out how to be with other people.
So that’s where I’m at today. Happy Sunday!
Tomorrow’s my second first day of work at The Company. Sympathy texts welcome.
Posted by M on Aug 14, 2011 in
My Current Life,
Savvy Travels As I’ve mentioned before, I recently put on my big girl pants and got a J-O-B. For those of us who are still in school, that means I stopped sucking on the tit of Cliff and Ann. Just kidding. I’m still riding their coat tails in many, many ways, just now I have to pay my own rent.
Unlike Michigan, there’s actually things to do in California on the weekends. And it’s not even like, a four hour drive up north away. This past weekend, my little work friends and I drove up to Santa Monica:
I took this picture and then filitered it on Instagr.am If you like pictures and you don't do this, you're totally missing out.
Santa Monica is busier than the busiest town in Michigan, but it probably has a whackjob to normal people ratio of 2:1. There are a lot of crazy people here. I would recommend putting your child on a leash if you decide to venture out this way, just so none of the boardwalk performers/crazy christians try and sweep them up or conver them or something.
That said, it’s really beautiful:
See? Totally cool, right? If you spent the weekend in DeWitt, you must be completely jealous right now, which is mostly the point of this entry. To make sure you’re jealous and will come visit me immediately.
We drove to Santa Monica a little after 11 am, getting a late start because two of us went to the post office to mail home some snacks to our friends and family. Which is where we learned the hard way that we will no longer be mailing home snacks. Do you know how expensive that is? The postal system needs to start offering a welfare program. Or at least let me trade like, part of my soul for a reduced rate.
Once in Santa Monica, we strolled up and down the pier, mostly so we could get to the end where there was a public restroom and I really had to pee. I had to avoid temptation of buying you guys some really cool presents though. For example, for five bucks, I could take a picture with a cardboard cutout of my favorite celebrity. Pretty smart business plan by that entrepeanuer, considering every mall in America has a cardboard cutout of Justin Bieber or Miley Cyrus. There was also roller coasters, carnival food, a guy holding a snake, and a man dressed up in a gorilla suit dancing to his ipod. In Michigan, the bums just kind of look at you. At least in California they attempt to entertain.
We hit the beach afterwards, which was gorgeous (except not as gorgeous as Lake Louise, of course). I forced my roommate to take a bazillion pictures in the ocean because IT WAS THE OCEAN and when you’re from the midwest, these are rare opportunities. Salt water, you guys!
Instagr.am is amazing.
With such pretty pictures and witty words, have I convinced you to come visit me yet? Please?
I would like to call CPS and report that my parents flew me to California and abandoned me, however, after some investigation into child abuse laws, it turns out that deserting your child in a fully furnished apartment, complete with food and new clothes, in Southern California when she’s 22 years old, isn’t technically abandonment. Needless to say, a social worker has not be assigned to my case and my parents are not yet in jail. Not that they should sleep soundly, either. I won’t stop until they come let me revert into my childhood.
As you may have discovered, I’ve recently left the world of lollipops and rainbows and been shipped off into the Real World. And unlike MTV’s version, this doesn’t include binge drinking in a mansion all day. Nope, I work. 8 to 5. Every day. For the rest of my life. Holy depressing. Does anyone else find it a little upsetting that you go to school for 18 years only to be cut off by your parents at the end of it? Like, making me work hard labor every day isn’t bad enough…now you’re going to make me sink or swim alone? Thanks guys. It’s like I just got cut from Team Flood.
I’ve always made fun of my daddy for being tightwad, but it turns out, I am too. I got his overbite, his dyslexia, and apparently, his stingeness. Now that I’m 100% responsible for my own bank account, I watch that thing like it’s my premature infant in the NICU. I budget every. single. penny. If my lunch cost $5.36, you bet your ass that I’ve marked that amount in at least two spreadsheets. And then I instantly start calculating ways to have a cheaper lunch. Of course, I live in So-Cal, so the odds of me getting a cheaper lunch that’s just as healthy is pretty small, but I guess in a former life I lived through the depression because I’m totally going to try.
I also have a new distaste for any student on facebook or twitter that complains about classes. Is it hard for your little ass to sit in a lecture hall on the internet, not paying attention? No. It’s not. So stop complaining. Talk to me when you have to get up at 5:30 am to run before work because then you work all day and after work, you’re so exhausted from sitting in one position all day that you literally cannot move. Yeah, let’s chat then, you little demons.
Obviously, I’m ready to retire. I’ve been working for 3 days now, so my 401k is probably almost ready to be cashed in, right?
Posted by M on May 6, 2011 in
My Current Life A Tale of Two Maggies:
What Happens when 18 year old U-M Student Maggie meets 22 year old MSU Grad Maggie
The Characters:
Meet akwardly skinny, young Maggie. She’s 18 1/2. She’s not happy to be at the University of Michigan. She has a plan for the next five years. It’s pretty ambitious. It does not include fun Fun? She’ll have fun when she’s dead.
Meet 22 year old Maggie. She is not excited to be graduating. She’s not thinking about the next five years because in five years, she’ll be 27, and that’s OLD. She’d rather be dead than old.
The setting: Frazzled looking 18 year old Maggie is walking across campus when she runs into 22 year old Maggie in her green graduation gown. AND SCENE:
(18 year old Maggie is walking with her head down, face stuffed into her notes for her Introduction to Comparative Poetry class. It’s slightly windy out, so she may blow away due to her awkwardly skinny frame if she’s not careful. She then bumps stumbles over a loose brick in the sidewalk (typical Flood), and bumps completely into 22 year old Maggie):
18 Years Maggie(18M): Whoa! Whoa! Sorry! Shit! My notes are everywhere!
22 Years Maggie (22M): Eh, they’re poetry notes. Not like anyone really gives a crap about poetry. Oh hey! You’re 18 year old Maggie right? Nice to meet you (sticks out pale hand). I’m 22 year old Maggie. How’s it going?
18M: (clutches equally pale hand (somethings never change) for a firm handshake). I’m good. It’s finals week freshman year, so I’m pretty swamped and stuff. Uhh, you’re 22, right? Why are you wearing a green gown? According to our five year plan, you should be finishing up your first year of Law School. I’m not sitting through bullshit poetry classes so you can parade your ass around in a green graduation gown just for kicks. Jesus, get a hobby. Or go to the library and study. You should be studying.
22M: (backs away, worried about 18M’s reaction) Uh, yeah, Maggie. About that. We didn’t really (puts hands into quotation marks) “follow the plan.” The plan was, well, boring.
18M: (visually annoyed. Points to a bench and the two sit down) Um, okay. Well, this is a shock. So, explain the green gown. You should be graduating from Michigan, at least, even if we veered off track.
22M: uhhh…about that. Yeah, we didn’t go that route either. Go State?
18M: Seriously…a state girl? Pathetic, Maggie. David’s on Wallstreet selling stocks and you’re what, pre-law at State? This might ruin our law school plans.
22M:Uhh, yeah. We aren’t going to law school. Sorry, kid. And David’s in med school.
18M: Jesus. I laid out a very specific plan for you for the next five years. You can’t even follow simple directions? God. I’m not surprised you go to State. You obviously can’t even READ well enough to follow a very complex, extremely ambitious, dry, and extremely non-fun plan for success.
22M: You know, you’re kind of a bitch sometimes. You should really lighten up.
18M: (exhales very long, deep breath). Okay. So career-wise, a little off track. Let’s talk personal goals. You always wanted to get married the summer after Under-grad. How’s that looking?
22M: (stifles a nervous giggle) That’s just not even in the new five year plan you’re going to go home and make tonight. But, I ran a half marathon. You always wanted to do that, right?
18M: Oh, that’s real great. I guess 1 of 450 goals isn’t too shitty. How’s high school boyfriend?
22M: God, I am like your dream crusher huh? That didn’t work out. Sorry. But, don’t give me that face. It’s not like you’re an old maid. And besides, you still have some of the same high school friends. And you made a lot of new friends. You’re fun, I promise. You turned out okay. I’m okay.
18M: You’re killing me. Really. At least we turned out kind of pretty. I’m glad to see you finally started crawling out of the awkward phase. 5-18 was a rough patch (the two high five) Did we do anything productive AT ALL in the past three years?
22M: Hmm, things you’d be surprised about? I went to Italy. And took a lot of Math classes. I got an A in calc! I want to be a yoga teacher someday. I like to run. I eat frozen yogurt with my boyfriend when I don’t want to study. I’m involved in Greek Life. I did okay, really. You gotta relax, kid. And have you eaten this month? You look really skinny. Your ass is actually flatter than your chest.
18M: I DON’T HAVE TIME TO EAT! I THOUGHT I WAS GETTING US INTO LAW SCHOOL.
22M: Eh, relax. We turn out okay. You’re moving to California. I can’t really speak for the Maggie’s older than us, but the next few years go really well for you. This is the bad part of your college experience. It only gets better. I mean, not that it could really get worse. I think your face may be stuck in a constant state of worry.
18M: Ohhh, good to see we don’t lose that nice wit. Well, whatever. Have you seen 30 year old Maggie? I have a few questions for her.
22M: Yeah, me too. She hasn’t shown up yet. I hope we age well.
18M: I mean, we don’t tan. At least we won’t get wrinkles. I think I’m going to go get some Shrimp and steak for dinner and then head to the library. Wanna come?
22M: Uh, sorry girl. You’re allergic to shrimp. Surprise! And you don’t eat meat anymore. Rough break. And you feel like the library stifles creativity. So you study in your bed, which is convenient for when you want to take a nap.
18M: You know what? I’m going to head out, but you stay here. You seem happy. I’m going to go suffer in the library. Congratulations on graduating. There’s a sight I thought we’d never see.
22M: Take care of yourself, Mags. The next three years go quick. And seriously, brush your hair. Curly hair does not have to mean frizzy hair .
(fades to black)
Posted by M on Jun 22, 2010 in
My Current Life
While I could write several blogposts on how I’m homesick and in dire need of attention, hugs, chocolate chip cookies, and chex mix, I’m also extremely, extremely homesick for….my treadmill.
My treadmill and I have a very dramatic relationship. Technically speaking, I hate it. It stands for early morning workouts before class, working out on an empty stomach (I challenge you to find a worse feeling than working out when your blood sugar levels are at alarmingly low levels), running after work or exams, when all I want to do is curl up and watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey, and having to skip this or that event becauseI need to work out (second to running on an empty stomach, it’s a gym goer’s secret to never skip a workout–it might feel good to not run today, but it’ll hurt twice as much tomorrow. I can say this as someone who used to often skip workouts).
At school, I have “My Treadmill.” I belong to a 24/7 fitness center, which is an investment an old boyfriend told me was worthwile because I tend to run when I’m stressed, angry, frustrated, happy, sad, or ambivalent. As those are about the entire range of human emotions, you can probably figure out that I get a lot of use out of my membership. I actually strongly dislike my gym–it’s full of guys that spend too much time pumping iron, personal trainers attempting to sell their services (um, no. I actually have NO interestin 4:30 am bootcamps to work on my biceps, thanks), and it’s fairly expensive for the area, so a lot of soristitutes with their cell phones tend to overtake the ellipitcals (which is fine, because as all runners/joggers know, the elliptical is for pansies–unless you’re on the elliptical because you’re a hardcore injured runner–in that case, I revoke your pansie title). I would probably give up my membership if it wasn’t for My Treadmill.
My Treadmill sits in the second row of treadmills, facing the plastic plasma television screens. There is a fan to the right of her, which is an extra little perk. She sits between two television. This is key because on Thursday nights, The Office and Grey’s Anatomy are on the same time. Usually I’d have to skip one, but because of My Treadmill’s perfectly designed location (and the fact that it’s Thirsty Thursday, so the gym is empty), I can usually put on both. The ultimate Team Pam and Meredith’s dream. Somedays, My Treadmill kicks my ass. And somedays, I kick My Treadmill’s ass.
The saddest days though, are the days that someone else is on My Treadmill. It’s not that I believe it’s really “mine,” per se. But, I mean, she kind of is. I feel a little betrayed that she works so miraciously for someone else, almost as if she’s cheating on our near perfect relationship. But, I can adjust, I can hop on her neighbor for the day and jog for a while. But, I have been known to beeline for her the minute the enemy finishes with her. She’s mine, okay? Get your own.
In my home-home in DeWitt, I have an indusrial type treadmill. She’s not quite as awesome as My Treadmill, but she’s adequte and seems to get the job done, so I can complain. She has some weird buttons you have to push though, and she’s really high up, almost as if she’s on a platform. I’m not a fan of heights in general, and platforms don’t really do it for me. If I wanted to feel like a stripper, I’d go to Striperoibcs, on M.A.C.
Here in Minneapolis, it is HOT out, baby. I try and try to set my alarm for 5:30 to go running before work, but so far, as they say in Peru: “no bueno.” That means no good. It’s just not working. I do get into work mighty early so I can duck out early, but have you gone running at 4 pm in the summer in Minnesota? I literally think I sweat half of my body weight off. It’s hard to breath, the air is so thick with humidity. Don’t even get me started on the fact that I have a farmer’s tan on my legs from my running shorts. And the formation of an armband tan line on my upper right arm, where I stick my keys and my iPhone. I dread the run all day long, it’s so hard and it’s so hot.
So why not run later at night? Well, little grasshopper with your cute little questions: it’s dangerous in Minneapolis at night. Ask my mom, she’s probably got a boatload of articles saved on her desktop she’s just dying to send me about joggers being stabbed and their cool iPhone armbands being stolen. Also, I suffer from work-related hunger. I’m starving when I get home, so I eat a huge dinner. I don’t think my body has the energy to digest a mini-thanksgiving dinner and go running afterwards. I’m a person, you know? Not a machine.
Furthermore, I miss working out in front of a TV. I like listening to my own thoughts and I can come up with some pretty entertaining daydreams to occupy me for a while, but I miss flipping on the boob tube and watching trashy tv, using the my necessesary exercise as an excuse. I’m tired of listening to Ira Glass ramble on about this American Life (yes we get it, life is hard. Next topic, debbie downer) and Pandora isn’t always right on about what I’m in the mood to listen to (In particular, I didn’t want to run to the Lion King’s Circle of Life” just because I didn’t give a thumbs down to Miley Cyrus. Have you tried running to
“The Circle of Life?” Not only is it depressing and opens a ton of psychological doors, it has no beat. It’s like running to Bach. I’ll save the classical music for when I’m trying to feel cultured, mmk?)
Today, I decided to be proactive and search for a place where maybe I could pay a few bucks and someone would let me borrow their treadmill for an hour or so. Just on days when it’s so hot, I have true concerns about thong sweat when I’m in my office seat (too much information?) I digress. To get a gym membership in Minneapolis for two months is outrageous. There’s start up costs, closing costs, membership fees, and more. I am far too thrifty (and loyal to My Treadmill) to pay to run, when there’s sidewalks and trails galore outside my doorstep. If times get desperate, I may have to ask the local Dick’s Sporting Goods if they mind me taking a run on their samples, but for now, I think I’ll have to suck it up, lather on sunscreen, hydrate, and hope that in an hour, all the pain I’ll put myself through will be a mere, sad memory.
In the meantime, if you’re driving down Grand River and happen to see an empty treadmill through the storefront window where I spend my free time, let me know. I wouldn’t be surprised if My Treadmill is out of order, because it probably misses me as much as I miss it. Don’t worry, Treadmill! I’ll be back in 55 days and we have an entire school year together. Until, of course, I graduate and my new puppy and my new treadmill move away. But that’s a concern for a different day.
Posted by M on Jun 14, 2010 in
My Current Life
When I was in sixth grade, I was asked if I was a senior in high school. When I was a senior in high school and told someone I was “graduating in May,” they asked me what University I’d soon be an alumni of. Now that I am legitamately a senior in college, I have a new, interesting problem: I keep getting mistaken for a high school student. This is an interesting twist of evnts, becauseI’ve never had an issue looking my age. Whether it be because I’ve moved to a location where people are analyzing my bone structure for the first time, or I’ve been traveling a lot, to places where cracked out 21 year olds typically look to be in their 40s, I’m having a huge increase in the amount of people failing to identify me as a 20-something.
This typically happens in three general situations:
1. Age Requirement: I was on an airplane coming home from Peru and thanks to my Mother’s obsessive seat-picking complex, was seated in a delightful Exit Aisle seat. My little brother, with his quarter inch beard, sat next to me. Little Brother. He’s younger, okay? I’m the older one. The flight attendant spots us and quietly walks over and taps me on the shoulder. “Um, honey? I don’t mean to offend you, but there’s an age requirement to sit in these seats. Are you over 15?” I must have looked shocked because she quickly recovered with a, “I’m just checking because you look so young. It’s a good thing, really!” I nodded, and politely mumured that I was 21. She didn’t even talk a glance at Jacob, who was quietly holding back his little giggle. I don’t mind looking younger (I guess I can wait on buying that wrinkle recovery formula Cosmo says to start using when you hit 20 to be proactive), but 15? I don’t even look like I can buy lotto tickets or porn yet?
2. New Introductions: My most recent example of this was at a yummy breakfast place in Chicago. My super awesome and happy boyfriend, his family, and I went to brunch to satisfy my intense obession with pancakes–my mom likes to track airplane tickets, I like pancakes. Weirdness is genetic. Also genetic is our extremely small bladder size, so after a 1/8 cup of coffee, I found myself in line for the bathroom. A gentleman was in front of me and as our wait was a little long, he struck up a conversation:
“So, what brings you to Chicago?” I don’t usually enjoy talking to strangers in line, especially with a bathroom so close and if I’m in line for a bathroom, usually making sure I don’t pee my pants takes high priority over being chatted up by random men, but I was in an especially good mood since I knew I’d be snagging some of Boyfriend’s Bluebery pancakes any second. So, I decided to do this man a great favor and participate in his small talk. “Just visiting.”
“Oh, really?” he replied. “Where are you from orginally?”
“Minnesota by way of Michigan,” I answered gracefully. “I live in Minneapolis now.”
“Oh that’s great. So, are you doing an college visits while you’re here?” I stalled at this, and mulled it over in my brain. College visits? I think I wrapped up that rodeo in 2007, big guy.
“Um, er, uh, no. I’m actually a senior–in College.”
“REALLY?” he was quite enthusiastic about this discovery. “You’re a senior? Wow. I thought you were in high school. You look so young! I mean, that’s a good thing. You’ll look young your whole life. Think of the money you’ll save on make up.”
Yes, random bathroom age guesser. I get through the day by considering my massive savings on Revlon Eye Liner because of how youthful I look. How did you know?
3. The bouncer at the Bar: I guess, in the issue of full disclosure with my faithful readership, I should admitt that I look extremely young in my ID picture. In fact, my best friend/sister/possible distant cousin from the Cherokee Indian tribe, informed me once that I look older in my 16 year old driver’s license picture than my 21. I’m sporting a headband and a cardigan and my hair is pretty long, so I can see how she came to that conclusion.
So, I show up the bar with just my ID. I rarely take my credit card with me because I don’t want to spend money on alcohol at a bar when for the price of one shot, I could buy a pint of Burnette’s at the grocery store and call it a weekend. So, I’m a little bit blurry eyed already and as I hand my ID to the big, burly man who is the bar’s version of Peter at the Pearly Gates, he looks at it critically. The more legitimate the bar, the longer his stare. In East Lansing, it’s often been handed to the second bouncer, the back up ID checker, who usually verifies it, stamps my hand, and in I go.
Unless, of course, the bouncer just isn’t sure. Then the questions start. What’s your full name? What’s your address? What’s your astrological sign? And then, Do you have a credit card or another form of ID so we can verify this?
Insert long sigh. I hand over my student ID since I’m sans credit card (thanks Cliff, for making me a thrifty missy) and finally, I’m let in. It’s quite the process. I usually have to buy the cheapest shot on the menu juts to recover from such an ordeal.
After this recent weekend in Chicago with Bathroom Age Guesser, I started wondering if maybe I did have a bit of a baby face. I’ve never actually put much thought into it, which is an anomoly in itself because I’m a complete over-analyzer of everything and anything. So, what vibe am I giving off that makes me seem like a minor?
I have a feeling it’s a combo. The first is that it’s hard in general to guess a girl’s age. A 12 year old can look 25 and a 25 year old, if she’s short and thin, can look 15. I have long, long hair that hangs halfway down my back, a standard look for the pre-teen crowd. I don’t wear a lot (if any, usually) make up because I like the way I look without it (unless I’m at work, then I paint that stuff on. Nobody looks good under florescent lighting). I’m a skinny thing, thanks to my super metabolism (Grandma Flood/England, I thank you so much for that). And also genetically speaking, my mother doesn’t look anywhere her age, so perhaps this fate was destined. Neither does my father. I’ve had friends ask if my Dad was my brother and I even had a guy once say that I was perfect wife material because I’d probably always look young, “just like your mom.”
Still, at 21 and a mere 8 classes short of graduation, I’d really like to start looking like I can watch an R-rated movie without parental supervision. Which means I’ll probably have to cut my hair at some point (maybe short enough that I don’t look like the Duggar’s forgotten child) and maybe I’ll start wearing an MSU alumni shirt around so people get the message. And I’ll put wrinkle protector in my bathroom. Just so you know, it looks like I need it.
Whenever Christmas time rolls around, I tend to take about fifteen minutes (this would be the amount of time it takes me to drive from East Lansing home to DeWitt, and today was Country Classics on the radio, so I had no music and therefore, thinking had no option but to commence) and think about the past year. This is not because it’s the end of a calendar year or the end of a semester, but mostly because Christmas means my birthday, which means one year older, which means when they someday write my autobiography, they’ll have a chapter on, “when Maggie was 20…” and I’d like to consider the highlights of that invigorating and must-read chapter.
The past year has been an adventure of ups and downs and bilateral movements. Of course, that goes for every year, but this past year has been especially different. I think that’s because sometime around January last year, I just stopped trying to make everyone else happy. Don’t get me wrong; I still can’t say no and I tend to spend an exorbitant amount of time cementing the happiness of others, but when it comes to my life decisions and what I want to do, I actually stopped caring how I would be judged. If you haven’t done this yet (and let’s be honest, I can’t let go completely and most of us can’t), I highly recommend you jump on this. I, the girl who still insists we have lifejackets on board just in case took a couple of risks.
What risks you say? Well, I learned how to cook. That’s a work in progress, but it’s a risk every night and so far, I think we can label it a success (the smoke detector has been going off less and less). I complimented the girl sitting next to me in class on her tote bag (a risk because I’m shy around people I don’t know)–and now she’s one of my best friends. I went on to MSU’s study abroad website and booked a trip to Italy, without a second thought as to what six weeks away meant or the little factoid being that I don’t speak Italian (and after a six week course, the only phrase I truly remember in Italian is a combination of swear words that are not appropriate for a blog my grandparents read–especially with Birthday Shopping upon us). I left my comfort zone. I made new friends. I left old friends. I combined groups. I did things that are immoral and sinful that we won’t go into and I did some exciting and incredible things that would make my parents proud of me (That Longchamp bag I e-mailed my mother about would be a good way to show this appreciation). Or at least had my dad stopped referring to me as his “alleged daughter” and pointing towards the mailman as my potential birth father.
In two weeks, I have, and of course this is not dramatic at all: the last good birthday of my life. After 21, there’s really nothing exciting except for botox appointments and parties with the theme “over the hill.” I’m kidding, of course, but there is this weird stigma about age in society. As a people, we set our goals in terms of our ages, right? As in, “I want to be married by 25.” “I want to be a CEO by the time I’m 30.” “I want to retire by 57.” These goals are set at milestones that we strive for, but as we get a year closer, it’s hard to be okay with the fact that time is actually passing. But, 20 was a super happy year. It was the best year. It only got better as every month went by. Sure, I’m having a minor case of selective memory, but overall, it was a success. It was better than 19. And 19 was better than 18. And 18, well it kicked 17’s ass. And thank God every year got better than Middle school because those awkward years were not friendly to my awkward self. But my point is, I’m finally catching onto this linear trend that as you get older, it gets better. So, 21, with it’s legal drinking age and even more intense responsibilities can come because hey, if 21 can beat 20, then I’ve got it really, really good. Someday I’ll have a husband (or a nice lap dog) and a bunch of kids and a house and a career that requires a cute pencil skirt everyday and all of these other big girl responsibilities–and those birthdays will have even more blessings than this one.
This entry’s been just all over the board, so I hope you managed to at least kind of get what I’m saying: I’m okay with growing up. It comes with a lot of heartbreaks and tears (just ask my mother, who gets to hear me crying about my B on an exam I studied for–while trying to hold back a smile that I’m so upset about an 85%) and really no certainties at all. But it’s exciting and I hope that when I’m cruising home from East Lansing next Christmas break (although Dear God, let it not be when it’s Country Classics day on the radio), I hope I’m lucky enough to have blessings to count, people to love, and of course, that Longchamp bag next to me.
Posted by M on Sep 4, 2009 in
My Current Life No, unfortionately, this will not be the long-awaited list of my hobbies. I mean, I’m sure I’ll blog that eventually. Afterall, if I don’t, how will you rush out and make my hobbies your hobbies so we can be best friends forever?
I apologize for my lengthy hiatus from the blogasphere. After my sad departure from ROMA, I moved from my apartment to a glorious and quite spacious and well-decorated (we even made pillow covers) house out at Michigan State. The move was most difficult, mostly because I was going from a furnished apartment to a much larger non-furnished house. That meant tracking down a bed, a kitchen table, and the necessary knick-knacks to feminize an otherwise typical collegiate house. While the kitchen table was purchased off Craigslist for 50 bucks and another five dollars for some strong glue (thanks Dad!), the bed was quite a debacle. We tried Craigslist, but when we arrived at the first house to a mattress with some type of blood stein on the back (just use your imagination on what that could have possibly been), we went ahead and just bought one at the mattress store. There’s nothing that makes a kid feel more loved than hearing their mother walk into store and hear, “What’s the cheapest bed you’ve got? We’ll take it!
Moving aside, there was also the slight debacle of the break up with my sophomore prom date. Yeah, my prom date from my sophomore year of high school. For you non-math majors, that means we dated for about four and a half years. That just really took a lot of brain power too. I mean, emotional issues aside, I’ve spent the last week or so trying to figure out how to do stuff for myself. Like how to install a printer to my computer. Or how to hang a canvas that weighs more than me. I mean, I feel like I need to hire a butler just to have a guy around to carry my bookbag when it gets a little too heavy. I’m all about women’s rights, but I’m having a few issues figuring out who’s going to come unplug and reset the smoke detector when it undoubtedly goes off when I’m cooking.
Of course, then there was Welcome Week at Michigan State. Former Spartans, you know what that means. Non former Spartans and present parents, rest assured that…well, it’s over and in the past, so let’s just move on. I mean, no one died. Well, that I knew, anyways.
And that takes us up to the first week of classes, which I just completed. I won’t bore you with that.
I will, however, issue up some fabulous things YOU, my faithful and VERY patient reader, can look forward to. Coming topics I have every intention of covering:
1. sorority rush
2. how to deal with the question, “So, where’s your boyfriend?”
3. How to cook without turning on your oven or pressing a button on your microwave!
4. How to build the Beer Pong Table of your Family’s dreams!
And a variety of other topics that I’d tell you about, but I haven’t thought of them yet. This blog is more of a spontaneous occurrence, I don’t want to tarnish that.
Catch you soon! No seriously, soon. I have no boyfriend, and therefore my social life is seriously lacking, leaving me plenty of time to not be lacking here. Anyone have any cute sons?
Posted by M on Feb 10, 2009 in
My Current Life Last summer, stuck deciding between a Pre-law major or an HR major, I ended up with two internships: one with the HR division of an insurance company (thanks, mom!) and another with the House of Representatives, working as legislative intern.
The district we represented was one of the poorer areas of Michigan and the people that called in were pretty intense. Several called in on a daily basis, including a gentleman named G.
G was a guy who wanted the State to pay for his housing. But, he didn’t just want free housing. He wanted a free apartment in a northern area with its own kitchen, in-suite laundry, allowed pets, covered parking, at least two bedrooms (preferably three, even though there’s only one of him…), and at least two bathrooms. Ad would settle for nothing less. Eventually, I emailed him a list of half-acceptable places in the Upper Peninsula where he could move and then bother a different office.
Once, in the middle of the summer, a woman called to ask if her application for some funding program was being processed. I asked for her name and social security number, then spent two hours trying to track down the gentleman in charge of the program. He told me that they hadn’t yet received her application. I called the old broad back and asked if she’d applied. She replied that she just got the application the day before and would send it in the next day. She was upset that I could not figure out if it was being processed until she mailed it in. I eventually gave up explaining.
Another Friday, around 4:30 pm, a woman called and said her electricity was going to be turned off because she was 1,000 dollars behind in her payment. We asked her what was keeping her from paying it. Perhaps she had lost her job? Or maybe she had some health bills? Wellllll, not exactly she explained. She’d spent her last 5 grand bailing her baby’s daddy out of jail. Unfortunately, there isn’t a program to help people who post bail…
Of course, a lot of people had conspiracy theories/law ideas to share with us. My personal favorite was how all the police everywhere were corrupt. But, the police in this particular hometown were especially corrupt because every time this guy ran a stop sign, he got a ticket. The injustice!
I worked several days a week, and Mondays were always the worst. This was because people would call in and yell a lot about how they’d called us Saturday or Sunday and we hadn’t yet returned their calls. When we explained that our office hours were actually Monday through Friday, they wanted to know where their tax dollars were going, if not to have us available to work for them on the weekends! When one particular person was done being angry, he asked if we could send a coloring book to his fourth grade daughter on fire safety. Yes, buddy. That couldn’t wait.
Fridays were easy though. Sometimes, we’d go all afternoon without a call. Because I’d often have long Thursday nights (studying, obviously), I’d sometimes curl up underneath my desk and take a quick little nappy. Your tax dollars at work, kids.
My personal favorite were the callers who said they knew the representative very well so if he wasn’t in the office, would I please just give them his cell number? When I asked how the caller knew the representative, they typically met him in a parade several years ago. Their bond was close though. I can trust that. Right.
Eventually, my cushy state job ended when I got a job closer to school. I can’t take naps anymore, but I’m still contributing the economy, which is great because someone’s gotta pay those utility bills for the people that are too broke from bailing their baby Daddy’s from jail.