"in the end, it's not the years in your life that count. it's the life in your years."

Today is my brother's 21st birthday.

Happy birthday, Timmy!!!

And also thank you for reaching a personal milestone that makes me feel older than dirt.

Today I'm remembering when we used to fight and rip out each other's throats at the drop of a hat. I'm remembering the game we were playing in the basement before Mom and Dad had it finished - the one that resulted in me accidentally dislocating your shoulder. (I know my adamance of the accident actually being accidental has become a bit of a family joke, but I swear it was.) But mostly I'm remembering sitting next to you in the car, stroking your arm, and the deafening, stratospheric octave your voice reached when you screamed all the way to the ER at Saint Margaret's.

That wasn't the first (or last) time you'd give Mom gray hairs with injuries and hospital visits. You were barely a year old, and I remember visiting you in the hospital. Mom sat by your crib and cried because back then, they had tall bars and a "ceiling," like a cage or jail cell, and she couldn't hold you and make it all better. I sat on Dad's lap and we read books to you. As a family, we watched Saturday morning cartoons during your stay, and Dad used to sing us the theme song from Chilly Willy and you'd giggle. I remember the sound of steady the beep of the machines you were hooked up to.

I remember driving us to school one morning in my little red Grand Am and the way the impact felt when the car hit us as we were turning left onto 231. The early-summer sun felt good as we stood outside and assessed the damages, you patting my back as I cried and tirelessly attempting to convince me that Dad wouldn't kill me for this. The first hint of a future filled with mutual respect and admiration became clear to me that evening when I frantically bawled to Dad, "He had his right turn signal on! That's the only reason I turned left onto the road!" and you agreed with me, telling Dad that you saw the signal, too. I have no idea if you actually saw it, but the fact that you stood tall by my side (at a time when you were still shorter than me!) warmed my heart and changed the way I felt about you.

That winter when I was driving us to school south on a snowy 41 and I hit a patch of ice, I remember thinking the entire time the car was spinning 360 degrees, please don't let my brother get hurt. And I also remember that when we stopped spinning and landed unhurt in the ditch in front of Cassie Spiechert's house, the first words out of your mouth after what felt like an eternity of panicked silence were "Are you okay, Beck?" Earlier that year, when Dad and I came home from putting Snowball to sleep, you came into my room when you knew I'd be crying all alone, and you sat next to me on my bed. You didn't say anything, and we just sat there, side by side, your shoulder supporting mine, and we looked at his red collar sitting across from us on my dresser.

You were only in eighth grade then, and still your selfless, emotional nature prevailed when it mattered. That's what I remember most about growing up with you, Tim. We fought a lot... maybe a lot more than other brothers and sisters... but when we both started growing up a bit, you very quickly became someone I knew I'd always look up to and admire, despite our five-year age difference. We've evolved into something I'm very proud to be a part of, something that means more to me than I'll probably ever be able to tell you. And you're becoming a better man - a more honest, compassionate, and caring man - than I ever dared to hope you'd be.

For most people, reaching age 21 is the peak. You'll probably hear tons of people tell you "everything's downhill after 21" - in fact, Mom has probably already told you that twelve times, each time seamlessly seguing (in the way that only she can do) into the "don't do 21 shots on your birthday or else you'll DIE" lecture that I know you're so fond of hearing. And she's right. A lot of people do think that everything's downhill after 21, and you shouldn't do 21 shots on your birthday. But I think that for you, your peak will be a ways further down the road. You have too much going for you - too much character, intelligence, and spirit - to let the age of 21 be your high point. But 21 shots still probably is not the best idea (even though we do come from a long line of partiers who could probably handle that feat in their sleep - piece of cake).

The one thing I wish for you on your 21st birthday is the ability to give yourself credit for the things you've done in your young life. You've overcome a lot of setbacks, from your health at an early age, and from people you've encountered as you've gotten older. You've achieved more than I have at 25 and more than Mom and Dad had at your age. You're a brilliant man, a caring soul, and the funniest person I'll ever meet in my entire life. And you were able to do this ages before your 21st birthday:
Love,
Your big sister

left to wonder about the meaning of safe and sound

I discovered this saved as a draft from February 26. I don't know why I didn't publish it... but I like it, so I'm going to now.
---

For the first time in the three years I've been on my own, last night I secured the chain on my front door before I even took my coat off.

I haven't really been sleeping well since the tragedy at NIU earlier this month. Most of the rest of the country is in the same boat, I'm sure. Other school shootings haven't affected me this way, so I was surprised to find myself with heartburn and an upset stomach (my common side affects to nerves) every night since February 15. For a while, I thought it was because NIU is a lot closer to me than any of the other shootings. I've been to DeKalb many times; I've driven through campus; I've known people whose lives have been changed from the education they received there. I reasoned that I should probably expect a different personal reaction since I had personalized NIU at one time or another.

I followed the interviews on the news; I signed the condolences guest book; I watched the memorial services; I cried with the families, friends, and employees. It wasn't until the week following the shootings that I discovered what was really going on: I was afraid. I went to one of our lecture halls to take some pictures for an article I was working on, and when I got to the bottom of the steps - center stage - I realized that there's really only one way in, one way out. Three doors, situated at the very back of the room, would be my only hope if someone came in at that very moment with a gun. I had spent four years sitting in that hall, bored to tears on some days, lifted to intellectual heights unforseen on others, and now I was suddenly finding myself panicked and afraid. I ran back up those steps faster than I've ever run before in my life. I'm not comfortable being defensive... especially here, where well-being and preservation come so easily, naturally.

Sometimes I have a hard time dealing with fear - sadness, compassion, and empathy are the emotions I'm most comfortable with. When something like NIU happens, I convert every emotion to sadness. Sadness I can deal with. Compassion for the victims? Piece of cake. Empathy for those left to pick up the pieces? No problemo. But fear... fear is a little trickier. I don't know where to put it, so I often cover it up, hide it with feelings I can handle, drown it in chocolate cake or something. But now, after I've dealt with my sadness, worked through my compassion, and imagined every empathetic scenario possible, fear is the only thing that's left.

I've been debating whether or not I should blog about this. Several nights ago, a violent incident occured on the campus of the school I work at. I was working from home and received a panicked call from a colleague. All I heard was the word "guns" and my palms instantly became so sweaty that I almost dropped the phone. My stomach quickly contorted itself into one huge knot, my esophagus began burning, and my heart nearly pounded itself out of my chest. As media relations personnel, I was kept abreast of the situation, and it turned out not to be as serious as initially thought. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, then sucked it right back in. Why was I relieved? Just because it wasn't serious this time? Because it wasn't anyone I knew? Because I wasn't directly affected? Because it wasn't anything like what happened at NIU, Virginia Tech, Louisiana Tech, countless others?

I think what's really bothering me is that I've never been afraid to just be before. I've never been relaxing on the couch and suddenly gone rigid with the fear of what if someone started shooting through my windows right now? I've never gone to sleep at night with thoughts of what if someone breaks in and kills me tonight? floating through my head. I've never finished a shower in the morning and been afraid to pull the curtain back because what if someone is standing there with a gun just waiting for me to step out? Movies about haunted houses, ghosts, Ouija Boards, and exorcisms have always scared me far more than those about serial killers, murderers, rapists, and stalkers. I'm finding myself in the opposite now - tangible versus intangible - and I'm flailing. No longer can I find sanctuary in the small, safe town I live in; now instead of feeling safe and secure behind my closed-but-not-locked front door, I'm finding myself pricing deadbolts and buying baseball bats. Because what if?

Call it an existential crisis, call it growing up - call it whatever you want. I'm not okay with being scared to just live my life, mediocre as it may be. For the first time ever, I'm finding myself wishing for fears of monsters under the bed, ghosts in the corner, and skeletons in the closet.

in which i am put in my place

For the last several months, I was the acting Faculty Advisor for my college's newspaper. The professor normally in charge was on sabbatical last semester and asked me to take over while he was away. No big deal - I had basically run the paper when I was a student, so I was expecting it to be cake.

The whole semester went off without a hitch - except for one major one right at the end - but that's another post in itself... definitely not something I want to recall today, my most favorite holiday. Anyway, one of my favorite moments from my time working with the newspaper students this year was during an unofficial meeting with a couple of the editors. We were up in the office geeking out - and by that, I mean having a heated discussion about the rules of grammar. Infinitives, possessive clauses, subjunctives - the works. Basically porn for an English geek like me.

Anyway, after arguing the merits of the serial comma, one of the editors said, "Becky, why aren't there more people like you." I smiled - and I think I even gave him a hug, so happy was I to find a kindred grammar spirit - and the other editor present said, "Yeah - all of C's [the regular Advisor] comments on our pages are bogus. He has no idea what he's talking about when it comes to proofreading - it's nice to be working with someone who does."

And that comment just about validated my entire existence. Sad, I know - but true. Very, very true.

Whatever - I like grammar. And by "like," I pretty much mean "live for." I want to be a writer... and that scares me. But I think I find comfort in the fact that I'm not just proverbially flailing my arms all willy-nilly - I like knowing that if I get lost, there are certain rules I can turn to, things that are constant (except when i before e comes after c), things that will help me in some small way to fine tune my craft. And I'm not even embarrassed to admit it. I used to diagram sentences during the commericial breaks of whatever bad TV we watched in college - BECAUSE I LIKE DOING IT. I don't see anything wrong with being proud of the fact that I was one of the few students my old Grammar & Expression professor dubbed a Grammarian.

But I suppose there comes a time when the proud are bound to fall from the pedestal on which they teeter.

Minding my own business this afternoon, I got a call from one of my old English professors - the same one that the newspaper editors accused of knowing beans about grammar. After some brief niceties, he hastily pointed out an error in a news article I'd recently written and posted to our Web site. I found the error in the story, laughed with him about it, and corrected it. When I thanked him for pointing it out, he said:

"Well, I've always said that if there's one thing I'm good at, it's proofreading and grammar."

As we hung up, I couldn't help but worry... is that how I'll be when I grow up? When C was in his early twenties, was he just a proud, borderline-conceited Grammarian who - somewhere along the line - morphed into a grammar hack cliche? Will I lose all my sweet skillz and be livin' in 82 for the rest of my life? Moreover, will I start saying things like "If there's one thing I'm good at..." and then proceed to list two things?

there really is always room for jello.

Remember that cute scene towards the end of Jurassic Park I where Tim and Lex Murphy are taken back to the main building and they start digging into the buffet feast? And then a velociraptor sneaks up behind them in silhouette? And Lex has a big, fat spoonful of green Jello, and she starts shaking because she's scared?

When my brother and I were kids, we used to always act out that scene every time our mom made something for dinner that required the use of a spoon for eating. We used to hungrily shovel spoonful after spoonful into our mouths, periodically smiling broadly at each other between mouthfuls. Then, without warning, one of us would pause right before the spoon entered our mouths, and the smile would slowly fade off our faces. Our hands would start shaking wildly, always ending in whatever we were eating falling off our spoon and splattering back onto the plate. We would cackle in laughter - our parents so stunned to see us getting along and laughing at a mutually innocent antic that they just ignored the mess. And then we'd do it again, each time the smiling and shaking getting more and more dramatic until our food was flung off our spoons before it got anywhere near our mouths.

I used to love green Jello, and I ate it rather frequently. (That's what you're left with when you have a family who loves to serve holiday cakes and pies for dessert, but you're not really a big sweets fan.) Every time I ate it, I thought of my brother and I acting like idiots at the dinner table and cracking up about it. I haven't eaten green Jello in years, but when I saw that AMC was playing Jurassic Park I tonight, I knew I had to watch just long enough to get to the legendary food scene. I tuned in pretty close to the beginning, but I decided to watch the whole thing because it really is a great movie - let's be honest. For over an hour, I sat on my couch with a huge smile on my face, just anticipating the hilarity to come. It felt like those days leading up to Christmas when the end of school was in plain sight, you knew your parents had already started shopping and those gifts were hidden somewhere in the house, and you could almost taste that turkey and those mashed potatoes.

And finally the scene came. And then it was over. And I seemed to remember it being a lot longer and more important - a lot more dramatic. But I guess it's just one of those things that you glorify as a child... something you build up to such unattainable standards that even the real deal can't hold a candle to your imagination.

But that's okay. Because it's only about forty days until Easter, and I'm going to ask my mom to make me some green Jello for dessert. And I'm going to resurrect that old gem for my brother, and we're going to cackle and repeat it over and over again until it's larger than it ever was before. And then it'll be ours again.

june cleaver in training

When it really comes down to it, I'm a pretty old fashioned girl. At the risk of being burned at the stake, here are some things I believe to be truths:

• A woman should do the majority of the cooking and cleaning.
• A man should always ask a woman out and never vice versa.
• A man should always make the first move, and never vice versa.
• A woman should take care of a man domestically, and a man should be the breadwinner.

I don't know what it is about me that makes people think I'm a feminist. Is it because I enjoy working? I just try to make the best of an enevitable task. Is it because I wear pants rather than skirts? I hate my calves. Is it because I swear like a sailor? I just like to, that's all. Everyone always seems so surprised - and ultimately disappointed, but we'll get to that later - when I betray myself and let on that I'm much more old fashioned than anyone, apparently, has ever thought.

Just a few weeks ago, I was chatting with some women at work, and one of them mentioned how sick her husband was and that he was at home moaning on the couch at that very moment. She looked right at me and said, "But I don't feel bad for him - I shouldn't have to take care of him when he's sick. Don't you agree with me?" I backed out of the question politely... I have a knack for emergency subject changes... but later in the day, the topic came up again. "Becky thinks I should be home waiting on my husband hand and foot, don't you, Becky?" she provoked the group at large. "Becky's one of 'those' type of women, aren't you, Becky?" I smiled and went about my day, slightly embarrassed by her lack of tact, but not ashamed of my personal choice of values.

In college, I wrote a poem called Rosie's Advice for an English class. It was about how I constantly felt like I should be more of a feminist - how I felt like something was wrong with me for wanting to cook and clean and let a man do all the heavy lifting. I was a freshman at the time and didn't realize that the professor was a diehard feminist. The day that he returned our graded poems to us, he made an example of mine. I had to read it to the class and talk about the feelings that went into the writing of it, and he - along with the others in the room - critiqued it aloud. (Sidenote: feminist though he was, I still got an A on the poem because I have big boobs. Apparently he wasn't that much of a feminist... or he just recognized a good rack when he saw one.) A fledgling friendship with a woman who would later turn out to be my role model began in that class with the notion on her part that I shared her views on feminism. She was surprised to find that I didn't.

Most recently, I was going out to dinner with my mom and dad, and whoever was on the radio at the time made a joke about Hillary Clinton's candidacy. My dad and I laughed and shared a glance via the rearview mirror, while my mom playfully yelled at me from the front seat. "Don't laugh at that! You don't have to laugh at it just because he [indicting my dad] thinks a woman shouldn't be president." My dad just rolled his eyes, but I spoke up. I told my mom that I didn't think a woman should be president, either.

If she was driving, we would have ended up in a ditch, so severe was her reaction. She asked me - several times - in disbelief - if I was serious. Being a woman myself, how could I honestly say that a woman shouldn't be president? I ran through a couple of points, she rebuttaled each one, and then dropped the ultimate bomb on me:

"I'm so disappointed in you, Beck."

In 25 years of life, neither one of my parents has ever said that to me. I felt like all the wind had been knocked out of me, and it took me a moment to catch my breath. She apologized a second later, said she didn't mean she was disappointed in me, perse, but more in my belief. She said she thought she raised me better than that - I said there's nothing wrong with the way she raised me, that I'm proud of and grateful for the fact that she (and my dad, too) raised me to make up my own mind, form my own opinions. "I just didn't think that would be one of those opinions," she said.

In the end, we agreed to disagree, and I - of course - wasn't angry at her reaction. I think it's a common feeling amongst women today. When most women encounter someone who could single-handedly render the Women's Movement useless, I think the natural instinct is to rebel, to fight for what they value.

I'm very grateful for the women (and men) who long ago fought so hard to give me the right to work, vote, and earn a comparable wage. I'm grateful for the respect they earned for us, and I love that they've given me a plethora of choices. But I think the Movement was all about choices, and if I don't have the right to make up my own mind about gender roles, then I think the Movement itself is, in turn, made obsolete.

I love strong women - women who can hold their own and aren't afraid to leave the safety of The Way Things Have Always Been. And I have the utmost respect for them. But sometimes I have to wonder... what makes their choice better than mine? Just because it's more progressive?

The things that once were so big suddenly seem so small

I went to see Phantom of the Opera in Chicago a few nights ago, and I had a bunch of time to kill between dinner and curtain. My ankle, although much less swollen and not nearly as black-and-blue, is still pretty tender and painful, so I had to stay pretty much within the vicinity of the theatre. I decided to take a walk over to Marshall Fields (now Macy's) and enjoy the windows. The city is wonderful - it was cold, and I was walking slowly, so people were throwing nasty looks at me, but it was still great. Just walking the two blocks, lost in crowds of busy people trying to get home after a long day of work, did so much to cheer my spirits.

When I was a kid, we used to go see the windows around Thanksgiving time for my birthday and then again at Christmastime, and I remember having to push my way to the front through big groups of people. The last time I was there was my senior year of high school - some friends and I took the train up to see the windows, all decorated with a Harry Potter theme. Even then, at 18 years old, I remember it being a special time. It's like something hangs in the air of the city at Christmastime - as soon as those first lights are strung, the city is filled with magic.

Needless to say, I was getting pumped up on the walk over there - remembering that warm feeling of excitement that came with the first glance of the first windows was intoxicating. When I got there, though, I was surprised not to see crowds of people surrounding the store, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the holiday displays. Even though it's early in the season, there should have been a good amount of people stopping to look for at least a minute or two. Undisturbed, I strolled around the parameter, smiling at the old signs that still read "Marshall Fields," and examined the displays. They were nothing like what I remember - I actually thought they were kinda cheesy. Nothing remained of the former elegance I used to enjoy - crave - and I began to realize why I was the only one stopped in front of the building.

Not yet ready to give up, though, I went inside to visit the new FAO Schwarz, "store within a store." FAO was one of my favorite places as a kid, obviously. That place was like Mecca. Between the giant keyboard and the store-wide Mouse-Trap-ball-roller-coaster thing, a kid could get lost in there for days and not have to come up for air. When they filed bankruptcy a few years ago, I was crushed. Even as a teenager and college student, I used to love to walk around and look at all the awesome toys - and I was never ashamed to be the oldest person not accompanied by a child to play with said awesome toys.

I knew the Macy's location wouldn't be as cool, but I wasn't expecting it to suck, either. I was wrong. It was awful. It's located on a very small portion of the 5th floor, surrounded by children's and women's clothes. The only thing worth looking at was the life-size Lego Batman, but even the novelty of that wears off after a few minutes, as its $27,000 price tag makes anyone afraid to touch it, let alone get close enough to inspect the blocks. I guess they were trying to carry on the popular tradition of the giant keyboard when they displayed a dwarfed version of it - probaby 1/6 the original size and completely lame. There was one girl trying to play with it, and her tiny foot would barely fit on one key, it was so small.

There were hardly any kids there, no shouts of joy of exclamations of excitement. That's what I missed the most, I think - the looks of wonder and amazement on the kids' faces... and the expressions of nostalgia on the parents' faces. I rode the escalator back down feeling depressed, like the air was let out of my sails. I know that the things you loved as a kid are bound to change... but I wasn't expecting how old witnessing the change would make me feel.

I knew that Macy's bought Marshall's and FAO Schwarz closed its doors, and that both of them are nothing more than retail stores. But they meant something to me, and I suspect they meant something to a lot of people. It's strange and sad that those things were taken from us and nothing worthwhile was given back.

I'm On My Way

When everything is said and done, I honestly believe that I am a genuinely good person.

I am responsible, and I always try to do the right thing – even if I realize “the right thing” doesn’t always seem right at the time I decide to do it – I try hard to make sure that it will be the “the right thing” sometime down the line, when it really matters.

I’m a hard worker, volunteering to work evenings and weekends if need be, even sacrificing or canceling personal commitments in order to make sure that my work is my best.

I’m kind towards others, and I often reach out and help people who are in need of assistance sometimes even before their need for assistance is made clear. I volunteer, and I contribute to service organizations.

I think the most important thing about me, though, is that I care. I care very deeply about those around me and many times put them and their happiness before myself and my own. On my judgment day, for all the wrongs and sins I’ve committed in my life, no one will ever be able to honestly convict me of not caring enough about the people, events, and issues that surround me.

All of these attributes make me very proud of myself. Even though there are several things I don’t like about myself – just like anyone else – I try to focus on these four aspects to remind myself that, when it comes down to it, I’m a good and decent person.

But every so often I’m hit with people who won’t accept me for what I am and misread my attempts. They think I’m irresponsible, lazy, mean, and uncaring. To these people, I constantly want to justify myself and my actions, but I’m constantly silent. I was raised to believe that if you have to broadcast it, then it defeats the purpose – the meek shall inherit the earth. So that’s what I’m doing today – trying desperately to remind myself that these people just don’t know me, and their judgment of me and my actions won’t matter in the end, so they shouldn’t matter now. But it’s just not working out for me as well as it usually does.

I’m beginning to think that there are people out there who exist solely to break one’s spirit, who have no other purpose than to bring someone down. For all my efforts, today I can’t convince myself of otherwise. Right now, I’m questioning every choice I’ve made and every action I’ve committed since choosing to start my career in this small town. I can’t help but play other scenarios in my head, over and over again, trying to see where else I could have ended up – if the grass would be greener on that side of the fence. It doesn’t bother me at all to think that I might have been wrong in believing that this was the place I was meant to be. What bothers me the most – the hump that I can’t quite get myself over at this point – is that my morals and core beliefs about myself are being questioned and, ultimately, doubted.

And I’m left to wonder if there’s ever a point where it’s acceptable for a person to stop caring, to give up on everything she’s attempted to build over the years. Or should she compromise herself to become more like what those around her are suddenly begging for? Does it lie in continuing to try to convince herself that this too shall pass?

Maybe it’s just time to leave.

Twenty-four

Twenty-four hours to save the United States of America.

Recently turned twenty-four years of age in the United States of America.

On your birthday, people always seem to ask "So, do you feel any older?" It's a stupid question, really, because of course no one "feels" older on that specific day - it's not like a switch is flipped at midnight, automatically giving you some sort of insight or wisdom or wrinkles intended to make you "feel" older. I usually just smile politely, shake my head, and say no. This year, however... if someone had asked me last week if I felt any older on my birthday, I would have said yes. This is the first time in my life that I actually do feel older.

A number of events and happenings have combined to make this year very hard for me. Some things I've blogged about... others I've not even mentioned to my best friends. I try to steer clear of blogging unless I have something happy or funny to relate... no one wants to read all about some random girl's heartache and sorrow. So I fake it. I fake it with my friends, my coworkers, my family. If my life was a Seinfeld episode, I'd have to give everyone another chance to proove themselves once they found out I'd been faking it this whole time. (I'm hoping at the very least Phil will remember that episode.)

And I know I'm too young to feel this way. I've not lived long enough to justify depression; I've not had enough epic misfortunes befall me to allow me to despair. I think that's part of the reason I spend most of my day ignoring things and pretending to be someone I'm not: I don't feel like I've earned the right to feel this way. As if depression were a prize and everyone's racing to the finish line to be the first to grasp it.

I've been lucky enough to have suffered through only a very minute number of deaths of those close to me... for the most part, my family members are all in decent health... I'm physically able to earn my keep in a worthwhile trade... I guess those are the categories that come to mind when I think of life events that might spawn depression. I guess I feel that if I put myself on the same level as people who have experienced "real" and "justified" depression, that I'm making their suffering seem less, somehow. Like how a few weeks ago I mentioned that my back was sore, and my pregnant coworker shot me a death look.

Nonetheless, I continue to feel worse every day. It's a culmination of many things: a palpable air of lonliness has hung over the year 2006. And it seems to have made itself comfortable here... I don't think it will be leaving any time soon.

And I can't seem to shake off the knowledge that hardly anyone even remembered my birthday. Not that I have an outstanding number of friends anymore... but I was still a little surprised by how few people remembered. I don't even know why it bothers me so much. Why does it sting when someone forgets something like a birthday? I guess part of me just wanted to know that someone took a moment out of their day to acknowledge my existence or smile at the thought of me. Why do I feel like I deserve some sort of get-out-of-jail-free card just because it's my birthday? Maybe because at this point in my life, it's so easy to feel alone and abandoned instead of special and celebrated. And it's even easier to focus on those times of imposed solitude and allow the good times to slip away.

I know it's just a birthday, and as we get older, we want to acknowledge them less and less. But I guess when every day you feel like you're grasping at straws and coming up empty every single time, something as simple as a birthday wish can be monumental.

Involved For Life... even back then.

This morning at work I had to go through some old SJC yearbooks to find a picture for a story I'm working on. I love when I have the opportunity to peruse our "back room" - it's filled with all kinds of neat memoribillia. It's so easy to imagine what Saint Joe was like during its infant years when you're standing amongst a wall full of yearbooks, student senate documents, framed photos of old presidents, and an ancient typewriter covered in yellowing plastic.

The books from 1960-1975 are my favorites. Influences of Woodstock, Vietnam, peace rallies, and JFK resonate throughout their pages in the students' attire, hairstyles, actions, club involvement, passion, and chosen quotations. Especially chosen quotations.

I came across one that made tears well up in my eyes (big surprise, huh?). It made all my work-related stress seem obsolete and gave me a chance to remember what Saint Joe was to me before it simply was my place of employment.

The majority of my vast audience (read: three people) are SJC alumni or have close enough ties to the College to be considered alumni on some level, so I thought I'd copy the quote on here for everyone to enjoy.

"Wonder if we'll be back in ten years. Maybe Saint Joe will remain untouched, only repainted with new blues and greens. Maybe we'll come back, a few of us, on different days, making each one special, even though we may be alone out in a field near Schwietermann. We know we don't have to be invited and maybe each one of us will try to find a little time, a little more time to come back... if only to revisit what we once knew to be ours."

The best defense against the atom bomb is not to be there when it goes off.

One of my favorite Friends episodes is the one in Season 5 when Monica and Chandler are trying to hide their relationship from everyone, and only Joey knows the truth about it. Monica and Chandler keep almost getting caught: Pheobe finds his underwear between the cushions on Monica's couch, Rachel walks in to find a steamy love nest complete with candles and a video camera in Chandler's apartment, and everyone finds a naked picture of Monica in his kitchen. They blame everything on Joey. It's Joey's underwear; Joey's trying to seduce a girl with candles and a video camera, Joey's caught leering at the naked picture of Monica. Finally, it comes out that Joey's a sex addict, and that explains it. His defense is "I'm Joey. I'm disgusting." And that's that. Everyone drops the subject because everyone knows he's right. He's Joey; that's how he's expected to behave. And pointing out the obvious ("I'm Joey") effectively takes the place of him actually explaining his actions ("I put the underwear there because...").

I do love that episode, but I promise there's a point for me summarizing it. Today at work, I got to thinking about stereotypes that we give ourselves, and that episode came to mind. Joey justifies his disgusting actions by implying that that's just what he does because he's Joey.

I've been having some problems with someone at work, and in discussing the situation today with a coworker, I found myself using the same argument. "Yes," I said, "I know I should stick up for myself. But I won't. Because I'm Becky, and that's how I work." My friend just raised her eyebrows at me, suggesting what I already knew: what a terrible way to back up your actions.

Someone needs to say something about the situation, and it has to be me because I'm directly involved. However, I can count the number of times on one hand that I've actually confronted someone about something that's been bothering me. It's two. In my whole life. I just can't do it. And I've always been defensive about it, and my ingenius way of dealing with it has been self-deprecation. I poke fun at myself, saying things similar to "I'm Becky; I'm disgusting" so that I don't have to actually change something about myself. I'm terrified of trying something new, even if I'm positive that that new element will fix my crappy situation.

It seems that the Friends defense won't work this time, though. I'm going to have to do something about it much sooner than later. I just have no idea where to begin. My natural coping mechanism is to cry until it feels better... but something in the back of my head tells me that crying during a heavy confrontation probably won't get me the results I'm looking for.

For years, I've wondered when would come the time that I'd stop being a wuss and put my foot down... when I'd decide I'd finally had my fill of being a doormat and that my convictions matter just as much as the next person's... when I'd stop putting other people's emotions before the truth and the job that needs to be done.

My grace period is running out. I guess I'm gonna have to be a man about it. You know... per se.

"When I grow up, I want to be a principal or a caterpillar."

I wanted to be a lot of different things when I was a kid.

The first thing I remember wanting to do was draw. I've always been very good at art, so I decided I would be an artist. Then first grade happened. I remember this day distinctly. My teacher asked all the children to draw pictures of what we wanted to be when we grew up. As all the other kids asked the teacher how to draw spaceships, cowboys, and princesses, I set to work at drawing myself drawing. I worked on drawing myself first. When that was done, I thought I'd draw an easel next to me with some paintbrushes. But when I tried to put pencil to paper, but my hand paused in mid-air. I didn't know how to draw an easel. I didn't even know where to begin. So I thought about it a few minutes, and when I couldn't come to a conclusion, I regrouped and decided to draw three dogs instead. I put them on leashes in my hand and titled it "Becky Scherer: Dog Walker."

Needless to say... art wasn't a contender for much longer. I made my first rule: if future career involves drawing, prerequisite must be ability to draw one's own commonplace materials for said career.

Then there was the time I wanted to be a wildlife biologist. I had no idea what a wildlife biologist did, other than got to play with cool animals like killer whales. I had seen the term in one of my dad's National Geographics, magazines I read religiously as a kid. And I'm not even talking about just looking at the pictures... I actually read the thing, cover to cover. I have no idea how I understood any of it in my young age... but evidently I didn't, as I chose my future career based on a cool picture of a female scubadiver petting Shamu. And it wasn't just a childhood thing. That idea stuck with me until roughly my freshman year of high school, when I had to take my first Biology class and realized how hard it was. At the end of that grading period, I ended up getting a B+, but decided that while Biology made for a very interesting class... I didn't want to have to work that hard to earn a B+ at my job for the rest of my life.

Second rule: refrain from choosing future career based upon full-page, syndicated, color photos in hard-to-decipher publications, especially if said career contains form of suffix "-ology."

Later that year, ignoring the second half of rule two, I took my first Psychology class and found another job aspiration. I would be a psychologist. Not a psychiatrist, though, because I already knew I would never make it through medical school. I absorbed every psychology-related thing I could find: I had a subscription to Psychology Today; I researched and reported on a different psychological disorder for every term paper for the next three years; I rented movies like Pi and Sybil every weekend. My junior year of high school, I did a semester-long job-shadowing gig at a counseling center in Merrillville and learned all about the luxury of a Psy.D., making my medical school woes obsolete. I enrolled in college as a Psychology major.

Then varied events commenced that I don't really wish to talk about, and my dreams of counseling people through their sorrows and helping them find happiness were sadly lamented.

Third rule: when attempting to discover your passion in life, allow no one to defer you from your course, no matter how silly or outdated they believe your latest attempt to be.

I had to pick a new major, so I settled on the subject of the last compliment someone gave to me: English/Creative Writing. My favorite professor had spent the last week stroking my ego about a story I wrote for class, and so at my low point, I decided I might be good at writing. The next year, an internship in the Office of Publications and Media Relations fell into my lap when the real intern quit and I was promoted from the lowly student worker to the esteemed intern. Ever since then, I've "known" I was supposed to be a writer.

But, really, what do any of us know? How do I "know" I'm destined to write? Because I was an impressionable freshman and an adult complimented my work? Because a campus job was handed down to the next student in line? Because I wrote one great story four years ago and suddenly gained a reputation for writing?

I'm working on putting together some pieces for possible publication (that's for another post), and I was having a particularly hard time with revisions a few days ago... so I took an online job aptitude test as a means of procrastination.

I learned that I'm most suited to be in the food service industry, where I spent my entire high school career and summers/breaks from college before I got my first "real" job. I also discovered that apparently I'd rather "test canoes in rough water" than "teach deaf children to lip read."

In high school, I took a similar test with my guidance counselor. The two careers I tested highest for were manager of a fish hatchery and a rabbi. According to that test, I have to either let go of my aversion to slimy fish eggs or convert and get a sex change to achieve my life's calling.

Teaching deaf children to lip read... helping fish eggs hatch... spreading the word of the Torah... maybe I was just taking the easy way out when I decided to write. Maybe there's more for me out there than press releases, event photography, and publication proofs. Maybe there's more for all of us than the careers we settle into and the names we forge for ourselves. Maybe I should have just tried a little harder to draw that easel.

Somewhere Between Unsure and a Hundred

I got a Myspace message a few days ago from a girl in my high school graduating class. They're in the middle of planning a reunion and need my current address.

A reunion?!

No way. Not yet. Convinced she was mistaken, I counted back the years since I walked across the stage in the gymnasium of Hanover Central High School. Yep - five.

Holy shit. It's time for my high school reunion. But I haven't even done anything with myself yet! I have no stories to share, no life experiences to brag about, no successes with which to make my old bullies jealous. The popular girls who shunned me then will have no reason not to continue shunning me now.

I always imagined myself returning to my old high school as a fabulous success - someone who's traveled the world and come home with a story and a love interest from every country. I would be stunning, and I'd dazzle my hillbilly classmates with my exotic stories and sense of humor. At least I'd be published in a handful of notable journals, my first collection of poetry to be released in the following months. At the very least I'd have a man's arm to cling to, someone to ask my old friends with baited interest what I was like when I was younger, someone to introduce everyone to as having taken some sort of pride in being with me, someone to talk and laugh with on the drive home about who's a loser and who got bitchy.

As it stands, I will be attending the reunion alone, sans fabulous man enraptured with my presence and dying to unearth the small piece of my personal history that was high school. I have never been published, barely traveled outside of Indiana, and haven't quite yet developed those great stories or sense of humor.

I guess I just thought I had more time.

It's a dangerous time for a heart on a wire.

Dear Friend,

We need to have a serious talk. You cannot keep coming to me every time you need to be fixed. You need to understand that seeing you breaks my heart, and helping you justify your every action and emotion is exhausting.

You also need to remember that you're not the only one who needs mending from time to time. I've tried to come to you in the past when I've felt broken, but you have an easy way of shelving my pain and moving back to your own wounds.

I love you and would do anything for you, and that's why I've played this game for as long as I have. But something's got to change before one of us endures damage that cannot be repaired by the other.

Becky


Do not assume that she who seeks to comfort you now lives untroubled among the simple and quiet words that sometimes do you good. Her life may also have much sadness and difficulty that remain far beyond yours. Were it otherwise, she would never have been able to find these words.

"One of these days, you're going to have to call one of these motherfuckers up and let them have it,"

said a friend of mine today in response to a little problem I was having.

Before I responded to the person giving me said problem, I relayed the story to a few friends to gauge their reactions. After hearing everyone's various advice, I decided to handle the situation in my own way.... a very un-Becky method of problem solving.

After hitting "send" on the e-mail I wrote explaining my actions in an uncharacteristic, non-pushover way, I was swept with a sense of accomplishment. A year ago - even several months ago - a confrontation like the one I had today (albeit via e-mail) would have left me in tears and upset for several days. But today, evidently a different woman than yesterday or last week, I concentrated and solved the problem myself. It was a good feeling - a grown-up feeling.

May 2, 2006 -- Proved that you can handle an awkward situation without allowing your emotions to come into play.

Growing Up, Looking for a Place to Live

I spent last Saturday with my mom, dad, and brother. I cannot put into words how much I miss all four of us being together. I'm at an age where I completely appreciate the value of family and the importance of togetherness... and it's really inspiring to see the same sentiment growing in my brother.

It's just so easy, all of us together - I can't remember the last time I had so much fun. There are no undertones when you're with family... no worry that you're being judged, misinterpreted, or taken advantage of. There's no room for guilt or blame... it's never a chore to be with family.

I got to thinking about the other relationships in my life, and I realized that I really can't say that for any of them. Friends, co-workers, might-be-significant-others... no matter who I'm with, it's never easy. And that's when it came to me.

I'm no good at relationships.

It's no longer enough to have the cool toys, the new clothes, or the nice car. Even though I never really had any of these things when I was growing up, I find myself wishing that such tangible accessories were still the requirements for building relationships. I have a nice car now, and I can get the cool toys and new clothes... but so far in my life, I haven't been able to acquire the trust, ease, and mutual respect that are essential to lasting relationships.

I guess once you grow older, the tangibles grow fewer. Just one of those days that makes you wish you were Peter Pan.

Some things that still make me feel like a kid:

1) I have an immense love for everything Harry Potter (although HP is arguably intended for children).
2) I laugh at poop jokes.
3) I love to play (most) board games.
4) The word "wiener" makes me giggle.
5) I am afraid of the dark.
6) I can watch nothing but cartoons all day and night.
7) I get sad if I can't talk to my parents every day.
8) I am the most ticklish person you will ever meet.
9) I love children's books and juvenile literature.
10) My favorite activity is "crunching"... obnoxiously marching through crunchy leaves.

Home Alone

This is exactly what I felt like last night.

It's been so easy to busy myself in the task of moving... but at the close of the long weekend, after everything had been moved in, there was nothing else to do but sit on my brand-new, wine-colored, absolutely gorgeous couch and let it all sink in.

My very own apartment... with my very own rent, utilities, and cable bills. My favorite part of it all, you ask? The garbage disposal. Definitely. I've always thought it would be cool to have one of those. My least favorite part? Well, there are a few of those... no central air conditioning, small bathroom with no light in the shower area, no counter space, and a staircase that constantly smells like stale food. None of the negatives outweigh the positives, though... and I already love my little space.

Another plus that doesn't really have anything to do with my new home? I just figured out how to post pictures! I know, I know... I'm behind on the times... I'm just glad that I hadn't yet learned how to do it way back in May when I had the horrible Mullet haircut.

I have a lot of work to catch up on since I was "out of the office" on Thursday and Friday (I'm not even going to get into the use of the quotation marks... that's another story), but I wanted to drop a note about the new place (mostly to appease Frema, who stopped by my office for a visit this afternoon, only to find that I had forgotten about our meeting and decided to take a late lunch, instead... sorry again, Frema!).

Smell ya later!

"Back to being who I was before"

Well... in exactly four months from today, I will be a college graduate. I desperately wanted to avoid the typical stereotypes... thinking in the mindset of "lasts," rushing to do everything at once, worrying that there's not enough time for it all... but now that I'm back at school, everything I've successfully avoided over Christmas break has come back to haunt me. As soon as I unlocked my bedroom door in the apartment, resume horrors, career worries, and friendships that soon will have to end attacked me.

Tonight I am back to being who I was before. I have four more months to play the role of the daughter who calls her mother every Saturday afternoon, the friend who still can't muster up enough courage to introduce herself to the cute guy across the bar, and the sympathetic roommate lending an ear into all hours of the night... the roles I have played for the past three and a half years... the roles I'm not yet ready to give up.

Three years at this place... this tiny dot on the road map of central Indiana, this miniscule point in the linear scale of our lives... three years at this place surely has given me a lot to miss. It's also given me a lot to be thankful for, and a lot to look back at.

Go hang your glory on the wall
There comes a time when castles fall
And all that's left is shifting in the sand

"It's okay to do what you want to do, until it's time to do what you were meant to do."

Today, for the first time, I felt like a senior.

It finally sank in. I am living my senior year of college. The idea has been tugging at me for a few weeks now... nagging in a whisper behind a folded piece of paper during lecture, lurking in the corner of the bar on Pub Night, slipping between the sheets of my twin-sized dorm room bed... but I've ignored it, pushed it aside, screamed at it to leave me alone.

Tonight, in the company of unlikely friends in a place to which I've never gone simply for the fun of it, I could no longer ignore, push, or scream the idea away. It didn't have a forceful victory, though. I didn't fight it. It was more like I accepted the idea as it washed over me and instead of focusing on the negative things being a senior entails, I saw all the positive attributes that come along with it.

I had forgotten how much fun it is to become reacquainted with an old friend... to reminisce with someone instead of by myself... to make new friends and be the center of attention... to be a part of a planning committee with qualified and enthusiastic people... to simply sit down on the living room couch and gossip with my roommates, the thought of homework and tests nowhere to be found.

I thought last year would be "my year." I felt like a senior... I was treated like a senior... people assumed I was a senior. I thought my psuedo-senior year might as well have been my real senior year, as everything I wanted to remember about college ended with the exit of the class of 2004. As is a horrible habit of mine, I was too quick to judge.

This is going to be a great year... nevermind the things and faces I'm missing... this is going to be a great year.

Today was a great day. Thanks to all who helped make it that way.

"By the time I recognize this moment, this moment will be gone."

Why can't professors just recognize and accept that sometimes there are things more important than paying attention in class? Today in Shakespeare, I was hit with the sudden urge to write something. Anyone who knows me knows that I haven't been very happy with my writing lately and am desperately working myself through a 3-month long spell of writer's block. So, naturally, when the familiar itch crept into my hand, I allowed my eyes to glaze over and I indulged it. Dr. Garrity, however, must not have understood how monumental this moment was for me, and called on me to answer a question (which, of course, I had not heard... and not having finished reading the play or even spark-noting the last few scenes, I couldn't even BS my way to an acceptable answer). I admitted I had not been following and everyone laughed-- I thought I was done. But he continued to press me for nearly five minutes to uncover the depth of the subject in discussion-- and honestly, I was trying, at this point, but I really just had no clue what he was talking about. Finally, my face red and splotchy and my ears on fire, I asked him to move on to someone else because I had no idea.

Under normal circumstances ("normal" being the life I was accustomed to living for the past 21 years, up until about three months ago), this scenario would have resulted in me locking myself in my room and refusing to leave even for bathroom breaks, lest someone see the tell-tale signs of embarrassment permenantely etched in my face. But for some reason I've been more mature about things, lately. (The correlation between my onset of writer's block and my new outlook on life just occured to me when typing this.) Instead of burying my face in my book and willing myself not to cry, I kept my head held high for the rest of the Shakespeare discussion and made sure that I answered the next question correctly. Dr. Garrity and I joked about my lack of comprehension after class, and all ended well.

From there, I made my way to the cafeteria for a quick solitary lunch before my 2:00 class, which has become a habit of mine on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For my entire school career, I have never once eaten alone... not until August 23, 2004, that is. Something just clicked and let me know that it would be all right to eat alone... the world would not stop turning if I ate in silence instead of surrounded by friends. Reality TV would still suck, Harry Potter would still be my 15-year-old underdog hero, and Carrie would still love Mr. Big through seven seasons of Sex and the City. And you know what? I kick myself everyday for not having realized this sooner. Eating lunch at 1:00 is one of the best decisions I've made in a long time: there is less than a handful of people present at that time, so I'm free to hear the radio or read a book or study notes for class; the cafeteria workers (although getting a horribly bad rap in light of recent rules) really are nice people who each have thoughts, feelings, and beliefs of their own and apparently love to discuss them with students; if seated quietly in the correct location, one can overhear some rather controversial school topics and policies being discussed by the authorities who utilize the nearly-empty venue.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm finally starting to feel a little bit like an adult. I'm no longer embarrassed about messing up in class in front of my classmates (because, really, who are they anyway?)... I'm no longer embarrassed about eating a sandwich and some fruit in the middle of the cafeteria without a comfort cushion of friends to protect me... and I'm no longer embarrassed to leave the apartment without wearing any make up. This might seem trivial to some, but has become a defining factor to me lately. I used to put make up on to go get the mail (well, ok... not really... but still) and this past weekend I hung out with friends and went to lunch clean-faced and sans mascara. And I wasn't even thinking about it. I was thinking about having fun with the people about whom I care and feeling comfortable in a group of friends. And I have never felt better.

By the way... the thing I started writing in class didn't turn out so well. I lost the inspiration when I became unnerved by Garrity's question. But I did finish it. Although it's not my best... I'll still take it out and read it from time to time when I need to be humbled and remember the first piece I finished after going without for so long.