Reflections

I still think about this particular couple I encountered in my reproductive endocrinologist's waiting room over two years ago. We didn't officially meet, of course. I don't even know their names. A doctor's waiting room before seven a.m. on a Friday morning is not the ideal setting to make small talk. 

I don't even remember what number IUI attempt we were there for. Third? Fourth? While I can't place the exact date, I do remember that I'd lost some hope, but not all. I had a tenuous grip hoping "minor medical intervention" to conceive would actually work for us. 

Looking at her across the room curled low in her chair, clutching blue rosary beads in her hands I thought, please let them get pregnant. Please let this procedure work for them. I was committed to this stranger's success – absorbed in a future she so clearly deserved. 

She whispered soft prayers in a language that I couldn't decipher due to her hushed tones. Her partner looked tired. That special kind of exhaustion that comes when you've resigned yourself to the idea that no matter how hard you try in life, shit typically doesn't work in your favor. He wasn't praying. But he cocked his head slightly to the left and leaned into her. 

I remember thinking, I hope their child gets her hair. Bursting brown curls framed her face and made her appear younger than the lines of worry on her face portrayed. She wasn't totally present. Her eyes were open, but they didn't take in the dull waiting room furniture in muted tones of beige, brown, and cream. Instead, she was fixated on a vision in another dimension. A future she yearned for with abandon. I couldn't take my eyes off her. 

In a waiting room with people desperately trying to conceive, likely with a few failures in the rearview mirror, it's a faux pas to simply make eye contact. Ironic really, because we're finally surrounded by like-minded people who truly get it. This awkward and fleeting time spent in cramped, ugly rooms should actually be sweet relief from the trite pretension of daily life where we constantly promise others and ourselves that everything will be okay. 

We fear that if we look too closely, we may just shatter into a million tiny irreparable pieces. We're barely keeping it together as is. Confused by an odd mixture of a heavy heart, tired body, and a hopeful mind we're constantly attempting to balance and reconcile every minute of every day. 

If we look too closely, we'll find our own vulnerabilities made plain on a stranger's face. We'll see our own pain and suffering too starkly and we simply won't be able to continue the charade of hope and optimism. Before getting shuttled into the small exam room crammed with well-meaning medical professionals to put our feet in stirrups and watch millions of microscopic white sperm get released into a hormone pumped uterus; we look up, we look down, we look all around, but we certainly don't look at each other. 

But not me. Not that day. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. When the nurse quietly called them back, I held my breath as they disappeared behind the door. Was the searing pain in my gut and heart for those two strangers? Or was it for Scott and I? And who's to say that pain isn't the same?

An unexplained journey

In my early twenties, I would boast that I didn't want children. I suppose I thought it made me edgy, different. It was a minor act of rebellion, something I did so little of. Totally opposite of what I thought others expected from me. Besides, at the tender age of 13 I watched my older sister go through a horrendously painful labor experience, and I thought "absolutely not for me". It was an excellent form of birth control.

Before Scott and I married, I made it clear to him that I didn't want kids. I didn't see it in my future, and he needed to know what he was getting into. He always said that I'd change my mind, and I'd usually retort that he "clearly didn't know me".

He knew me better than I knew myself. At 26 I started getting this nagging feeling that maybe I did want kids after all. I'd look at babies and wonder what mine and Scott's infant might look like. I started to envision a life with a little one running around. I'd broach the subject with Scott tentatively at first, bringing up the idea of a family carefully. With trepidation, I'd ask, "what do you think about kids? Should we have them? I think I may want to ... one day."

Scott and I were epic at kicking the can down the road. Yes, he wanted kids. One day. Not today. He was in grad school and we were broke. Not a good time to start a family. And then we moved back to San Diego, Scott got a real job, and we were less broke. But we were thoroughly enjoying our time in San Diego. We wanted to relish in the SoCal lifestyle. Just the two of us.

We made the mutual decision to go off birth control in August 2014. Not necessarily to starting trying for a baby, but to give me a break from the hormones. A baby step toward building a family, although we deluded ourselves into saying we still weren't entirely ready for children. But if we did get pregnant, that would be okay. We didn't use any protection. Relied on the pull and pray method for a few months. And then eventually stopped any minimal form of prevention.

A year passed. No pregnancy. Oddly not a single scare. I was also suffering from debilitating menstrual cramps and horrible periods. I shared my concerns with my primary doctor, and he referred us to a reproductive endocrinologist.

I'll save you the mind numbing details. But after months of various types of tests, we were diagnosed with unexplained infertility. I'll never forget the appointment when the doctor told us we would need medical intervention to get pregnant. My secretly held hope and romanticized view of "accidentally" getting pregnant gone.

So, now, the girl who originally never even wanted kids was going to need medical assistance to get pregnant. It took us six months to digest this latest reality. I tortured myself with thoughts that I was being punished for vehemently pronouncing that I didn't want children. That the universe was somehow seeking revenge on me. Wracked with guilt, regret and frustration, it took me months to deal with my anger. To be honest, I may still be dealing with it.

Our first round of treatment was filled with hope and excitement. I felt like a deer in headlights, overwhelmed and vulnerable at each appointment. I dissected every symptom and obsessively googled what other women in my situation experienced. While I knew it could fail, I didn't really think that it would. We were finally getting the appropriate medical treatment!

Scott is a champ in the doctor's office. He asks all the right questions. Questions I wouldn't even think of to ask. He's at every appointment. Even the ones he doesn't need to attend. He's done additional research, talked about odds with the doctors, and tightly held my hand through it all.

Due to an over-response to the medication, we had to cancel the first round of treatment. We've since undergone four additional rounds. I'm smack in the middle of the fifth round. Somewhere in the whirlwind, I developed this terrible habit of referring to myself as broken. It started as a joke. A way to make light of another failed round of treatment. But I internalized the message in a way that's difficult to describe. My body can't do what it's biologically made to do. My body is incapable of producing a child.

My counselor took a serious issue with my overused "I'm broken" line. She actually teared up when I told her about it. It took me by complete surprise. It was heartbreaking to her that I took one medical instance, of which I had no control, to describe myself. That I had reduced myself to a medical diagnosis. She challenged this concept, "Is someone with diabetes broken? Because their body can't process insulin properly? How about someone with cancer? How is that any different than what you're experiencing?" She helped me in ways that she probably doesn't even know. I honestly no longer consider myself broken.

We're less hopeful now. Still vulnerable with guarded optimism. Each failure is a donkey kick to the gut. The second failure was the hardest. I was coming down with a horrendous head cold and I started spotting three days before my period was due. I remember coming out of the shower completely nude and breaking down in the kitchen. In between congested sobs, Scott held me and promised that it would be okay. We'd try again.

And try again we did. They've all failed. The last negative didn't impact me at all. No tears. No frustration. I'd expected it. I didn't need to pee on that pregnancy test to know that it was negative. I intuited it.

This round I'm experiencing more negative side effects to the treatment. These last few weeks have been challenging. Headaches. Acephalgic migraines. Extreme bloating. Mood swings. Fatigue. It's the same treatment, so I have no idea why my body is choosing to react this way now. As I've been told countless times during this journey, biology is complicated.

And while I'm less hopeful and uncertain of what the future holds, Scott's right. It will be okay. No matter how it all turns out.

Now in my early thirties, I proudly share that I want to be a mother. I'm adamant about this visceral desire to raise a child with my life partner. And I have faith that it will all work out someday. The journey may not look like what I expect it to. And that's okay.

To Forgive

I’m a hypocrite.  As humans most of us are.  Honestly ask yourself – have you ever dished advice to others that you find almost impossible to follow yourself?  I know I have.  And more regularly then I care to admit.

But here I am, admitting.  My husband often tells me to cut myself some slack.  In at least one phone conversation per week, my mom tells me to be nicer to myself.  My typical responses range from “I’ll do my best” to “I’m truly working on it”.  The truth is I have no idea how to actually put said advice into action.

On paper it all sounds simple – don’t take things too seriously, forgive myself for my mistakes, and embrace my imperfections.  It’s not that I want to be perfect all the time, nor that I want to be mistake free.  I just don’t want to let myself down.  I have this inner voice, a moral compass if you like, that guides me when making most of my decisions.  This voice comes from a place of goodness and heartfelt sincerity and only rarely steers me in the wrong direction as long as I am tuned in to its frequency.

There are times, mostly hectic or stressful situations, when I’m not as connected to my instincts.  I make a rash, quick decision and later realize it wasn’t the right one to make.  Typically these decisions are small, they don’t bear any significant consequences; yet I berate myself later for the misstep.  It can be something as simple as forgetting to return a customer phone call before the end of the workday.  Sometimes it can wake me up in the middle of the night, my subconscious stumbling upon the mistake jerking me into an alert awareness that can keep me up for hours.

Truly it’s not that dramatic.  I can usually move past the mistake in 24 hours or so, but will feel the guilty remnants for days afterwards if I let my mind drift back.  It’s absurd really.  If someone else were to make such a small mistake, I would dismissively tell them not to worry about it and make a joke about how silly they were to overreact to something so meaningless.  And I mean it.  For them.  Not for me. 

It’s so much easier for me to forgive others, and to rationalize a mishap done by someone else.  They’re only human, of course.  But I’m human too, so why can’t I forgive me?  I am sure a psychologist or two could reference different experiences in my life that have led to this complex of mine, but a professional opinion is outside of my current budget.

I think I am similar to many other women today.  We hold ourselves to superhero standards, and when we don’t meet the impossible ideal we are disappointed and embarrassed.  For me, my pride definitely takes a hit and that’s one of the lowest blows. 

The fact of the matter is Wonder Woman isn’t real.  We would all love to be the perfect wife, friend, daughter, employee, student, yogi, runner, surfer, wine connoisseur, but where would we fit it all in?  And if we are striving for perfection in so many different aspects, when do we have time for ourselves?  Time to put into our inner core beings?  And maybe that’s the problem.  If you don’t take the time to nourish and cherish your inner self, you’re left vulnerable and insecure.  You’re susceptible to place unrealistic pressure on yourself in situations where mistakes are bound to happen.

Everyone says to learn from your mistakes, and I hold that mantra close to my heart.  I’ve learned hard lessons from many of my mistakes, but they have made me the woman I am today.  And although I am not always nice to the person in the mirror, most of the time I am proud of who she is.  As I continue to grow and change, while continuing to make plenty more mistakes both big and small, I plan to treat myself more gently.  Step back, take a deep breath, and be a little more empathetic to my inner self.  Because I realize as I finish this blog, I deserve it.    

The Inevitability of Change

It’s funny how life evolves.  One minute you are freezing your ass off in the middle of winter in Michigan quietly wondering if you will ever be warm again, and the next you are sweltering in your small apartment in San Diego cursing yourself for not specifying a place that offers central A/C. 

To me these events only feel days apart.  In reality, they are months.

We have been through quite a lot of change in the last 6 months.  We bid farewell to our life in Michigan – well most of our material possessions anyway – and started anew, or should I say again, in Southern California.  Michigan was a difficult chapter to close.  It was akin to a novel that although starts out very bumpy at first, turns into an incredibly heartfelt and rewarding story.  It’s like rooting for the underdog you never thought you would give a second glance.

Michigan is where Scott and I started our marriage, bought our first home, adopted our first dog.  And where I started my first big girl job, learned how to drive in snow, and discovered the importance of a down coat.  It’s the place where Scott perfected blobbing as a sport, the art of microbrew beer drinking, and received his PhD.  And although some of the aforementioned activities may suggest otherwise, Michigan is the place where we took on the role of adulthood.

And as many of us are acutely aware, being an adult is seriously overrated.  Especially on a Monday morning when you only have $4 in the bank account and another paycheck isn't due to arrive until Friday.  In the early days, balancing our limited budget definitely wasn't our strong suit.  We survived, and dare I say, even thrived.  We had an amazing network and community of friends to tap into for good laughs, and even better booze, when things were too much to handle.  If there’s one message Michiganders have communicated the clearest it’s to not take life, or myself for that matter, too seriously.     

So I return to San Diego with a new perspective.  And although San Diego hasn't changed all that much since I was last here, I sure have.  Although to be fair not everything has changed, I’m still feisty as hell, typically willing to take on a good argument, and occasionally have the ability to make a sailor blush with my language when so inclined.  But I digress.  Simply put, I have matured from a naive college undergraduate into a married woman with a career.  As expected with those major life changes, I have developed a different worldview, more responsibilities and a slower approach to life.

At first the transition wasn't easy.  Sure, I was living in a tropical paradise, but I missed my friends like I imagine an amputee misses a limb or like a mother misses her child when she leaves the baby with a sitter for the first time.  It was painful.  I wanted to share our wondrous experience with this amazing city because although most things looked the same as when I left, it all felt so new and thrilling!  And I wanted to share these emotions with the same people that we had created so many exciting memories with in years prior.  I have since adjusted, and although I still miss my Michigan family daily, I have rekindled relationships and friendships out West to expand my community.

I’ll tell you this much.  Since returning to San Diego, we have yet to take a sunny day for granted.  And if you know anything about San Diego, it’s mostly sunny here so we have been quite busy.  It’s been a grand adventure thus far.  Now that the stress of putting a home together is behind us – Scott and I struggled on a shared vision for furniture and home decorations – we are reacquainting ourselves with the Southern California lifestyle.  Our evenings and weekends are filled with time spent in the ocean, mostly surfing, but when it’s flat and I’m desperate even a swim does the trick.  The beautiful landscape inspires me daily, and when Mea and I take our lunchtime walk, I quietly give thanks to live in such a perfect place.

The ocean speaks to my soul in a way that is difficult to describe.  I feel at peace in the water.  While sitting on my surf board, I feel humbled by the vastness and enormity of the ocean.  Scott and I don’t talk too much out on the water- other than to compliment him on a good wave or critique my latest wipeout - we are mostly left to our own thoughts.  I reflect upon the past, and think about all of the people and events that have led me to this moment.  I fantasize about sharing these experiences with the people that matter most, and look forward to the day when I get to tell some of you “We’re going surfing!”

Furry Child

I love my dog. A lot. My Facebook and Instagram posts can substantiate this claim. It's pure fact. About 70% of my updates on social sites are Mea related. She's awesome. Sweet, smart, pretty, affectionate and exceptionally loyal. My husband even gets jealous from time to time.  At his weakest moments he wonders aloud if I love the dog more than him. Notice when he's jealous Mea loses her identity. She becomes, simply, "the dog".  

Many have joked that Mea is our trial run for having and raising children. If kids are as easy as Mea then sign me up! Mea was potty trained in a matter of weeks, and even though she has had the occasional spit up, I can honestly say it's never landed on me or my clothing. Mea will eat anything in sight and has no particular inclination to a specific type of food. She's an equal opportunity eater. She was sleeping through the night by her third night in the crate. My hubby may contest this claiming it took a few more nights for Mea to sleep through until the morning. Apparently I could sleep through the Apocalypse and definitely would not have heard a couple of whines from a little puppy downstairs. 

Regardless. I've heard of children who don't sleep through the night for years.  Family members actually take turns watching the child on a 24 hour cycle so each member can get a decent bit of rest.  A child who is on the bottle until they are almost 5 because they refuse to eat any other solid foods with decent nutritional content. This same child is colicky and spends most of her waking hours screaming, or fervently trying to pass a stool. The worst part - I am said child.

Some of you may argue that I have turned out better than most. First off, why thank you. However, I credit that to excellent parenting, supportive neighbors and a sister 14 years my senior. Truthfully, there was a crew raising me making great sacrifices including taking me down to the Las Vegas strip at 2 a.m. hoping that the lights will be enough of a distraction for me to forget about the pain in my stomach and stop screaming to eventually fall asleep. Think I would enjoy driving around at two in the morning to get Mea to stop whining? Especially if it had been going on for a couple of years? And I still had to get up for work the next morning? Let's put it this way - most of you should be very skeptical.  At best. 

I'm a firm believer in Karma. What you put out into the Universe you get back. Ten fold. In my early years, I gave the world a lot of screaming and difficulty. Although they are reluctant to admit now, I am positive that I pushed my wonderful parents to their absolute limit. They aren't patient people, this isn't much of a stretch. What's in store for me, Sweet Karma?

The fact is, I got lucky with Mea. It's the Universe's special gift to me before the hard work begins. If you're lucky enough to know her, you understand how precious she is. At times she is so expressive and insightful, I swear she is part human. My mother attests that Mea's sweet nature and good behavior has everything to do with mine and Scott's parenting. "If your dog is this well trained, I can't wait to see what your children will be like." Here's to hoping.

Erratic Changes

Each month I undergo a major personality change, along the lines of a seismological shift of epic proportions.  I regress from being a capable, well-rounded, friendly individual into a whiney, emotional, bitchy shadow of a human being.  Shadow used intentionally as most of my actions can’t seriously be referred to as humane. 

And to address the obvious, yes, I am referring to my menstruation.  Period.  The Red Devil.  Aunt Flo.  Crimson Tide.  The Curse.  Whatever the hell you want to call it, because based on the mood I am currently in, it absolutely does not matter. 

It’s genuinely surprising that I make it through each month.  It’s even more shocking that as a group women are able to make it to the other side without committing a serious crime.  The type of crime that involves jail time.  Personally speaking, my mood fluctuations are so severe that if I were to be under the supervision of a professional, I could be diagnosed as manic and bi-polar.  Which is important to point out, under normal circumstances, I am neither.

To my husband’s credit, he treads this territory very carefully which ensures his survival when his wife is replaced by an insane lunatic.  He frequently inquires about my overall well-being and when I respond with, “I am definitely getting a sex change, and I hate being a woman!” with rage filled eyes, he doesn’t even bat an eye.  He’s quite used to this erratic babbling.  Overuse of the word “yes” also guarantees his safety.   

I want ice cream!

Yes.

I want to crawl into a corner and die!

I am not sure that’s a good idea, honey.

BUT I WANT TO NOW!! AND NEVER, EVER, EVER, NEVER COME OUT AGAIN!

Yes, whatever you say.

Eventually I have nothing else to say.  He isn’t arguing with me – so what the hell is the point?  It’s genius on his behalf.  Although to be completely fair, he doesn’t always make it to the other side unscathed.  No matter how many yes’s he dishes, or sweet toned responses delivered, sometimes it just isn’t enough. 

I don’t like you right now.  I might love you, but I sure as hell don’t like you.  Please don’t touch me.  Why are you breathing on me?  Do you have to breathe so loud?  Stop asking me questions.  IN FACT, JUST STOP TALKING TO ME PERIOD!

And to his credit, he does, upon which time the weepy alter ego makes her grand entrance.

I am so sorry.  I love you so much.  I don’t know why I feel this way.  Life’s just so hard, and I just feel overwhelmed by everything that is going on.  I feel so guilty about the bite sized Kit-Kat I ate after lunch.  I’m so fat.  And I feel like the lady at the check-out counter was judging me when I picked up ice cream.  My uterus is in danger of exploding.  I’m uncomfortable all the time.  It’s not you at all, you are wonderful.  I just feel like I could burst into tears at any moment.

And then I typically do- lots and lots of tears.  It’s embarrassing really, but Scott’s such a good sport about it.  He opens his arms to the same woman that tried to claw off his face only hours earlier, and attempts to calm me down.  Depending on the day into Aunt Flo’s visit, his embrace can be the perfect medicine.

Sometimes I fantasize about when all of this comes to an end.  I imagine that one day I will be celebrating menopause - saying good riddance to a monthly period!  It will be the return of a permanent, rational and, dare I say, even keeled Davina.  But from what I hear from women in the transition, menopause is a whole different ball game and may even be much worse.  And that my dear readers, is impossible to imagine.  

Seafarer

I'd like to believe I am open to change. That overall I am a forward thinking person ready to adapt to evolving situations and new opportunities that come my way. And generally, this is true. But when major change comes along (such as making a decision to move cross country again) or something totally new presents itself to me, the dark fear monster raises it's ugly head and nags.

"I happen to like things just the way they are," I defensively think. I've got a good thing going, why should I change it? Don't people always say the grass isn't always greener on the other side? Besides, my mother always told me the devil you know is better than the devil you don't. And thus, the cycle begins.

I'm like a toddler in a candy store refusing to leave. Internally, I'm throwing a full blown temper tantrum with arms and legs flailing at hyper speed. I'm screaming at the top of my lungs that I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE! And even if someone does buy me the new Hollywood Barbie, I'm still probably not moving. So there! (followed by a literal forceful sticking out of my tongue)

Fear takes over, I begin to feel like a child, and I'm too anxious to make a move. Most of the time, my rational self comes back into the picture and has the ability to talk logic to my terrified, four-year-old self.

"Change has always been good to you," my logical self soothingly promises. "Most life changing events have been very positive and you are glad you took the leap!"

As I begrudgingly give into my rational thoughts, I realize this is true. I've embraced a lot of change over the years, and most, if not all, have actualized a positive experience. I start to remember that I do, in fact, like change. That I am ready for something new. I'm going to tackle the unknown head-on and jump with both feet first without even looking back for a split second glance!

"But things are great the way they are. Do you really think you'll get so lucky again?" doubt asks. "Or are you going to screw up the perfect balance you have going, and end up regretting this change?"

And so it continues, and sometimes much longer than I care to admit. But eventually I come around and realize that adapting to change is a process. I am definitely open to it, albeit in a highly guarded fashion, and I understand the importance of evolving. Getting stuck is far more terrifying than trying something new.

So with the help of my ever-loving, patient husband and my good natured, opinionated parents, I'm usually able to navigate the rough seas of change. Not only do they make the process so much more enjoyable, but they help me appreciate the positive impact it has on my life afterwards.

an obstacle called vagina

I never thought of my vagina as a hindrance to achieving my goals.  I was raised by a progressive, forward thinking, feminist family that encouraged me to reach for the stars.  They promised that if I put in the effort and received an education, I could do and become anything I wanted.  I set my sights high at a young age and imagined myself as the first female President of the United States.  I envisioned future me as a type of Wonder Woman with the world at my feet.  I could do anything, Mom and Dad really did say anything, I wanted!

So, I busted my ass in school.  I took my grades very seriously and reached to the top of my class.  I graduated from college as Summa Cum Laude and set out to make a difference.  Naturally reality set in along the way, and I slowly became aware of the glass ceiling and unequal pay that existed for many women in the workforce.  Introduced in academic lecture halls, and later discussed feverishly at dinners with friends and colleagues, this issue was a regular talking point.  But it never felt real to me.  It was always an intangible, that although outraged me to no end, I never fully believed this problem existed.  I thought it was leftover from the past and would eventually disappear.  Surely, by the time I established my career it would be a non-issue.  I was trying to fool myself into believing that it couldn't happen to me.  But it has... and it's only going to get worse.  

It's a sad joke that I find myself defending my rights as a woman in 2012.  These battles have already been waged and won on a government level. Why are they being re-introduced?  We already have enough trouble trying to change the culture on social and corporate levels, we don't need more headaches from a policy standpoint.  As far as I am concerned, it's a closed case ladies and gentlemen, and has been since the 70s.  As women, we have the right to plan our families through the use of birth control, we have the right to opt for an abortion within a health-care facility, and we have the right to equal pay if our skills and qualifications match the requirements.  It's a done deal.  I've been entitled to these rights for years, do you really think I am going to sit back and watch passively as they are snatched away from me?  Hell. No.

For women, this shouldn't be a question of politics.  Being a Democrat, and a liberal one to boot, doesn't drive my opinion for women's equality.  Being a woman does.  It's not a Republican vs. Democrat issue, it's a human rights issue which shouldn't be decided on party lines.  As women, it is our responsibility to remove the conversation from politics and take ownership over it.  Stop letting old, white men in Congress tell us what to do.

Trying to remove the politics from women's equality is quite frankly, impossible.  My pipe-dream so to speak.  Our country is too invested in the two party system and the lines have been drawn.  The issue of women's rights is for the Democrats.  A valuable lesson I learned while on a business trip in Texas, and stumbled my way into a very heated political discussion.  I don't want to stereotype, and this may come off a little trite, but I was surrounded by Texas bred, ex-Marines that vehemently believe women do not have the right to abortions, and that basically a woman's place is in the home with her children.  And much to my surprise, it wasn't just old, white men I mentioned earlier holding these opinions.  It was young, white men too.  Honestly, the forum didn't offer much other than white males.  I was acutely aware of my femaleness the entire conference.  During our political disagreements, I felt as though I had been thrown into a time warp.  Although bizarre and in direct contrast to my understandings, it is their reality.  Life for them functions this way.  But as far as I am concerned, we don't need our legal system placating these unequal beliefs.   

I'm a registered voter, and I am going to vote for the candidate that continues to protect these rights.  And I can only hope that every other woman voter is going to do the same.  It's a fight worth having, and we shouldn't sit passively and take it.  As Helen Reddy put it, "I am woman. Hear me roar".  Better watch out boys - vaginas are starting to take their rights back.    

  

  

nocturnal

Summer has arrived in Michigan, and I am starting to feel like my old self.  I'm a desert rat, and only feel at home in the heat.  As far as I am concerned cold weather is for polar bears, penguins and humpback whales, not for human beings.  I'm off kilter through out the winter months- cranky, cold, and constantly shivering- I typically struggle to put my best self forward.  But when the sun is shining and the warm air wraps around me like a favorite blanket, Davina returns.


It's been a wonderful spring in Michigan, and probably the first real spring since moving here.  For the last couple of years, the weather jumped  from sub zero temperatures to triple digit numbers on the thermometer.  It was one extreme to the next in a blink of an eye.  This year however, spring has matured slowly and its progression has been beautiful.  I've enjoyed watching the flowers bloom and the trees come back to life with all of the various pinks, reds, blues, purples and greens refreshing the landscape after a winter of dingy brown.  It has a revitalizing impact on my soul.  And although the days of glorious sunshine and vivid colors are amazing, spring is missing one important aspect - warm nights.  


There's something magical, and very romantic, about a warm, summer night.  It's always a little weird to be outside at night without a jacket - it feels as though you are privy to something special and unheard of.  I feel as if I am a member of a private club that only a select few people get to experience.  It's eerie because typically we associated darkness with cold, so it's an unexpected curve ball to embrace the warm temperatures.  Plus, it reminds me of my teenage years growing up in Vegas.  Vegas' summers are un-Godly hot and most people stay indoors, unless of course you are in a pool lathered in sunscreen.  The night is for the locals, when we come out of our air conditioned caves, and embrace the darkness.


I have fond memories of late nights spent on my parent's back patio with my teenage friends - without a care in the world, or a single jacket within the group - we would pass the time with jokes and laughter into the wee hours of the morning.  We were carefree and felt invincible.  Those were our nights filled with thoughts of love, change and uncertain futures.  We opened our hearts to each other during those late, midnight hours transforming ourselves into the adults we would later become.  And although this might sound cliche, the warm nights made expressing our feelings safer and easier.  My mind wasn't preoccupied with feeling uncomfortably cold, and my body wasn't working hard to keep itself warm, so I was free to focus on myself.  My thoughts, my feelings and my expectations - all of which were overwhelming and totally confusing during my fragile, teen years.  But those pleasant Vegas nights saw me through the turbulent high school phase.


Last night was reminiscent of those balmy, Vegas nights.  I spent the evening with my husband and two close friends at dinner.  Afterwards, we walked a couple of blocks to Washtenaw Dairy to get dessert.  Sitting outside on the wooden bench in the dusk hours enjoying a strawberry ice cream cone, I felt 16 again.  I was warm.  I wasn't wearing a coat.  And I felt safe.    
   

enriched soil

In the middle of a conversation with a friend, whining and complaining about life and the current state of affairs with my workweek, I blurted out that I needed more enrichment.  It came as a total surprise to me as I was unaware of needing, or lacking, said enrichment.  It sort of popped out of my mouth.  It was hovering in my subconscious for weeks, and before I had a chance to reflect on what I actually meant, I spilled "I just need more enrichment in my life"


And it sounds a little bourgeois.  Something I never considered myself to be, nor did I ever hope to discover about myself.  My life is actually quite fulfilling at the moment, and upon reflection, it sounds quite selfish, and dare I say pessimistic, to ask for more.
A pessimistic bourgeois - I shudder at the thought.


But it's true, my life is incredibly satisfying.  I have a wonderful husband with whom I share a very deep, respective and understanding relationship.  Through our (almost) 4 years of marriage, we have cultivated a partnership that goes beyond what I had originally hoped a marriage to be.  I have amazing friends that are supportive, interesting, comical and loyal - all of the major qualities I use when defining a friend.  As far as personal relationships go, I am well fulfilled and connected.  


I am in the middle of training for my first half-marathon race, and although this may sound crazy to all of you non-runners out there, as well as myself circa 2009 and before, I am thoroughly enjoying the process.  Sure, my knees are sore, and I have a blister larger than a Mexican cockroach on my left foot, but the overall training has been deeply rewarding.  It's an amazing feeling to push my body further and further each week and achieve milestones I never thought possible.  And the running itself is a release - a time for me and me only.  I commune with nature soaking in the different sights and smells of the great outdoors, and most of all, I let my mind relax.  My body is doing all of the work, so my mind goes on a temporary vacation.  It simply floats from thought to thought.  Rather than anxiously running (no pun intended) my to-do list for the week, month, life in general - I basically drift. It's my meditation.  


So, you might ask, and I have asked myself since this crazy enrichment statement, what is missing?  You, my dear blog.  You.  I miss writing.  I miss the creative passion within my soul, and writing has always been the best way to set it free.  It's my creative self that I have been shutting out for too long.  The part of me that gets shoved to the side by other "more important" and demanding requirements.  And I think it's only become more obvious now that I am in the workforce.  While in school, I was constantly using my creativity - whether to write an article for the school paper, layout a new page design, come up with a research paper - my creative self was constantly being put to the test.  Whereas my work place simply requires me to push paper and monitor customer accounts.  Although not always easy, it's much of the same day in and day out.  


But it's time for a change and no more excuses.   Embracing my optimistic side, which is getting much stronger as I get further into this blog, I challenge myself to find that enrichment. To set aside the time to unleash creative, not-at-all pessimistic, or bourgeois Davina.  

In review...

At one point during the NYE festivities last night, I asked everyone to give me their best "2011 in review" face for pictures. When it came to my turn, I put on my cheesiest smile, gave 2 very big thumbs up and emphasized as much excitement as possible. Although my silly behavior was largely due to the delicious beer that Corner Brewery was offering, I think my pose does summarize 2011 well.

It's been a whirlwind year. I experienced many new travels, including a transatlantic trip to Switzerland in October. It was a wonderful trip filled with amazing adventures and people. It was the vacation of a lifetime, and I feel so grateful to have had the opportunity to visit Claudine and Andrew. It wouldn't have been as memorable without them.

It's also been the year of love with quite a few of our friends exchanging marriage vows this year. I was a maid of honor in Monique and Brian's fabulous Temecula wedding. I was a bridesmaid in Molly and Seyth's fun-filled Corner Brewery wedding. I was a guest at Laura and Kreg's romantic and family oriented bash. Each wedding contained it's own unique experience, and I will carry those memories for the rest of my life.

Scott and I celebrated our 3 year wedding anniversary this year in Northern Michigan along the beautiful Torch Lake. It was an incredibly romantic weekend filled with wine tasting, delicious food, and "hotel room" time. We didn't let the unseasonably cold weather bring us down, and brought our own heat to the lakeside. Our relationship has grown to deeper levels of commitment, trust and love than I ever thought possible. I cannot wait to see how much further our relationship develops into 2012.

I didn't get to see my parents as much as I would have liked. But the time I was able to spend with them, I hold very close to my heart. It's a daily struggle to be over 2,000 miles away from them, so phone calls and skype chats help to keep me going. I am so thankful to be able to communicate as honestly and openly with my parents as I do. They have no idea how much I truly value our close relationship. Here's to 2012 holding much more face to face time.

As with life, 2011 also brought some hardships and very difficult events. Scott and I were struck by tragedy when his cousin, Nate, fell to his death during a rock climbing trip. Nate's death shook both of us to our core, and left us feeling very vulnerable and devastated. Although his funeral was exceptionally difficult and trying, I consider us fortunate to have been surrounded by Scott's loving family. It was an incredible experience to be around so many extraordinary people, and see how the power of love can truly initiate the healing process. The wounds are still open, and the pain can still cut very deep, but each day I try to carry on Nate's zest for life and openminded outlook.

I bought a new car. I developed relationships with clients at work. I backpacked on a beach. I climbed a mountain. I made new friends. I lost some friends. I re-connected with old friends. I attempted cooking. I crocheted a beanie. I took new risks. And I definitely made a couple of mistakes along the way. But it's been a learning year, and I feel as though I have grown and matured in a positive direction. I can only hope that 2012's path is just as interesting and exciting.

Resolved

I've neglected you lately. And I am sorry. There are times when life seems so overwhelming and challenging enough as it is, that the thought of trying to conquer the blank page seems terrifying. So, before the new year begins and making resolutions becomes decidedly trite, I am resolving to nurture my craft of writing. Even if it's just a paragraph or two, I will make the effort.

And so the exertion begins...

Similar to a training plan for a 10k race, the first mile is always the hardest. No increase will be as difficult as that initial mile. The jump from 2 miles to 3 miles wasn't nearly as physically trying as that very first mile. After months of laziness and distraction, this is my First Mile. I will work through the awkwardness of forced ideas, and hopefully stumble upon the familiar and comfortable rhythm. It's the perfect arrangement of words developing into a melody that keeps me coming back for more.

I will keep my excuses to a minimum and do my best to keep things interesting. I want to share my experiences, and hopefully communicate my feelings of wonderment and awe related to the roller coaster that is life. I plan to dissect my perspective on different issues, including the complications of human relations, and hopefully persuade others to take a step outside of their own box.

It's baby steps, and most of mine are probably smaller than a 1 year old's stride. I am comfortable in routine and feel most secure when I can anticipate what the future holds. It's time to break the pattern.

It's going to be bumpy, and I'm prepared for frustration and anxiety. But for once, I am not going to let anxiety dissuade me, and in the end hopefully recreate my love affair with writing.

Never Seen

While sitting in the kitchen with my husband discussing potential eye surgery for our dear puppy, Mea, I had an amazing feeling of déjà vu. I interrupted my husband and gasped "I've experienced this exact moment before!"

Everything about the moment was familiar. From the way we were sitting at the kitchen table in front of the laptop to the words Scott used to describe the logistics of the eye surgery. My inner emotions even felt repetitive.

And I was flabbergasted.

I have only experienced déjà vu a couple of times in my life, and whenever it occurs I feel breathless. There is something so odd about the déjà vu experience- it’s familiar, yet unsettling; comforting, yet awkward.

I have heard some people claim that déjà vu is simply a memory from our previous lives that has surfaced to our subconscious. I could buy into this theory and spend hours fantasizing about what I was in previous lives. I would love to picture my past life spent as an Arabian princess, a Japanese warrior, a lonely fisherman, or a famous Opera singer. It all sounds so thrilling.

But my cases of déjà vu are too specific to be a memory from a previous life. It is implausible to believe that in a past life I experienced that EXACT same situation. For one, computers and laptops haven’t been around long enough. And two, the emotional experience is also too precise.

Other déjà vu believers theorize it’s a spiritual experience. Our soul has left our body and experienced the moment before our body is given the opportunity. Once our soul re-enters the body and lives the moment in real-time the experience becomes déjà vu. That too, is fascinating. It also lends the question, what else is my soul capable of doing? Does my soul leave my body often? Perhaps when I am dreaming? Are these experiences buried somewhere in my mind?

Do I even have a soul?

Fictional Dialogue

In an effort to expand my writing style, this entry will be my first stab at fictional writing. I do well with non-fiction- my life’s experiences and the thought process of my mind. However, if I plan to write a novel one day, which I do in case you were wondering, I need to work on dialogue, developing the context and detailing the surrounding environment.

Here’s one for dialogue:

Entering my apartment door, I exhale the evening’s stresses and look forward to a relaxing evening on the couch sipping a glass of wine and watching the newest Shark Week on Discovery.

“Where have you been? Have you not received my calls? Why in the world didn’t you text me back?” Lucia, my roommate for more than three years, asks in bewilderment before I even finish pulling my keys out of the lock.

Frazzled and clearly desperate about a new dilemma in her life, she looks like hell standing in our apartment’s foyer. Disappointed about a missed opportunity for an easy night, I will myself to look concerned about Lu’s latest problems.

“My phone died and I forgot to bring my charger,” I say in a tone of convincing empathy and worry. “What’s wrong? You look frazzled!”

Hesitating for dramatic effect, which is something Lu has perfected over the years due to her on and off acting career, she murmurs “Yesterday evening I saw Kevin with another woman at the farmer’s market. They were holding hands,” she continues as self-pitying tears fill her eyes, “and he looked so happy and comfortable cuddled next to her.”

Kevin is the same guy who she broke up with two years ago. He was a bastard. Correction, is a bastard. Kevin was a cheating, two-timing, good for nothing, jobless fool who strung her along their lengthy five month relationship. She hasn’t been able to move on even after filling her evenings with other men, and much better looking men in my opinion, that she meets at various auditions around the city.

“Lu,” I begin trying to hide my irritation, “it’s been years since you and Kevin were together. You truly need to move on! He was useless when you were together and he’s still probably still just as awful. You know as well as I do that he is good at faking interest and is probably screwing around on her the same way he two-timed you!”

Flopping on our overstuffed red leather couch, which I can’t stand the sight of but gave in to Lu’s insistence on the importance of dramatic surroundings, she says “That’s not fair. You know how much he means to me.”

“Meant, Lu , past tense. Can we move on? I know it sucks to see an ex, but it’s been over two years and you two didn’t date for that long,” I pause long enough for this information to sink in and continue to change the subject, “Have you even showered today? Your hair looks greasy! I thought you had an audition?”

There is no better way to get Lu interested in another topic than talking about her appearance. She prides herself on her long, curly, blonde hair and hates to think it is anything less than perfection.

“I couldn’t bring myself to even get dressed,” she responds pulling at her PJ pants. “After the incident I came straight home, changed into these and fell into bed. I’m so distraught I can barely eat and when you didn’t come home last night I only got worse,” she complains while putting her head in her hands to further illustrate her anxiety. “Where were you anyway?”

“Working late,” I respond. It’s a bold faced lie, but it’s not worth getting into with Lu. She doesn’t really know much about my real life and I think it’s much better that way because she’s too sensitive and chatty to deserve the truth. It sounds harsh, but it’s simply the way it goes. It’s not that I don’t like Lu, because I do; in fact, I adore her. She’s quite spunky and usually suggesting fun events for us to go to together so in that way is a great form of escapism for me.

“You work too hard. I think we need to find you another job because that PR Firm is slowly killing you,” she responds. She hesitates for a minute and with a serious look on her face suggests, “We’ll find another career opportunity for you once we figure out how to murder Kevin. Or make him love me again.”

Accepting the fact that my DVR’d Shark Week is no longer on the agenda tonight, defeated I walk over to the fridge, “We’re going to need a bottle of wine for this one.”

“Or two,” Lu responds with a giggle.

Carrots are good for you?

I’m prone to anxiety attacks. Ever since I was a little kid, I have had terrifying bouts of crying, hyperventilating, panicky breakdowns. When I was younger they were triggered by smaller things such as having to go to bed at a certain time or a test I was supposed to take the following day. As I have gotten older, the attacks come at about the same frequency but usually require tougher issues to push me to that breaking point.

On Sunday night I reached the edge. After seeing $25k in hospital bills from a “troubled appendix”, weeks of pain with my back, frustration at work, and days of more intense back pain from the cortisone shots – I lost it.

Blubbering about my issues to my exhausted husband, I felt as though the weight of the world was on my shoulders. The heaviness on my chest increased as I went down the list of all the things that were worrying me and the more I thought about my concerns the worse I became.

During my attack I couldn’t understand why life was so difficult. Isn’t it supposed to be easier than this? Why do I always feel like I am on a treadmill sprinting without any opportunity to press the emergency stop button? Why did the reward, or the figurative carrot, never come? Had I betrayed my younger self by settling down in a passionless job to simply pay the bills? What was the point of working my ASS off in college?

After letting me bitch for about 30 minutes, Scotty took a deep breath and explained that, as unfortunate as it may be, this is life. There are tough moments and there are glorious moments. He attempted to remind me of all of the good things in my life (of which there are plenty), but in my condition, I didn’t let him get too far down the happy road.

Exhausting the ‘life has moments of rainbows and butterflies too’ angle, Scott took a more realistic approach and offered some invaluable advice. He told me I needed to slow down. That everyone is chasing that damned stringed carrot, and in fact, it never goes away.

The reward is always changing and morphing into something bigger and better- the carrot gets juicier and fatter- and I always feel as though I am not reaching it. But I am reaching it! I am making progression toward my goals, but too concerned with the next step to take time to enjoy the smaller rewards.

He advised me that instead of running full speed after the carrot, I should take a leisurely stroll toward it. He encouraged me to stop to smell the flowers, take breaks once in awhile and cut myself some slack when I slip and fall along the path. The carrot is always going to be there, so what’s the point in exhausting yourself on the journey to get it?

His advice dried up my tears immediately (which for anyone who knows me well enough understands that this is no easy feat). I slept soundly that night and woke up the next morning with a more optimistic and fresh perspective.

I am still going to chase after the carrot, after all I am a driven and ambitious woman, but I am going to make an effort to enjoy the journey. And, of course, with my Scott’s hand in mine it should go a lot more smoothly.

Calm Minded

Last week I attended a Hatha Yoga class for the first time. Although quite different from many of the other yoga styles I have tried, including Vinyasa and Bikram, I quite enjoyed the class because of its differences to these other yoga styles.

Walking out of the class, I didn’t experience my usual post workout symptoms- fatigue, sore muscles, shortness of breath- all the typical signs of a challenging physical workout. And surprisingly, I was fine with that because for the first time in weeks I had a clear mind.

The class centered around seated positions and encouraged a strong connection to the mind’s eye, also known as the third eye. We were consistently reminded by our instructor to concentrate “between our eyebrows” and pay particular attention to our breath. And because the poses weren’t overly challenging, I was able to connect with my breath better than other yoga practices.

Toward the end of the class, we engaged in a breathing exercise that the instructor described as “cooling”. Sitting upright with our legs crossed, we were instructed to breathe in through the mouth with our tongue formed in a roll, and to exhale out of the nose. In any other situation this would have been hilarious to me; in fact, for the first minute I had to suppress a few giggles. But the breathing exercise was no laughing matter- it was wonderful! Not only did my entire body literally cool down, but my mind and body were able to fully relax and surrender to the flow of my breath.

After the breathing exercise, I entered into the final savasana pose with a calm mind and body. I always enjoy the savasana pose in my yoga practice because it allows me to, of course, take a break from the challenging practice, but also gives me an opportunity to relax and center my being. Usually though, my mind is filled with so many tasks and to-do items, that I can only fully practice savasana for about one minute before my mind takes over and anxiety sets in.

This class was different. I was relaxed enough to let both my mind and body completely go. I didn’t engage in any thoughts that entered my brain, and instead took the advice of the instructor to let my thoughts pass me by. Ideas floated through my consciousness, but not once did I engage any of my thoughts- I simply let them flow unattached.

The disconnect from my mind was an interesting experience, and more importantly a relaxing and calming one. Usually, due to my controlling nature, I have difficulties “letting go” and panic when I don’t feel in touch with myself. But I reveled in this new experience and I hope to practice it again soon.

First Day

Very few of my childhood memories are as clear as my first day of kindergarten. I can still feel my five year old heart pounding in my chest, my tiny palms sweating and my quickening breath as I entered the doors of CH Decker Elementary School for the first time.

Needless to say, I was terrified. There were so many strange faces looking at me, wearily judging me the same way I was taking in their differences and similarities. Many of the children had formed bonds and friendships in Pre-School, and clustered together in small groups through out the classroom reviving familiar relationships. I didn’t attend Pre-School so the classroom scene was a brand new experience for me.

It was easier to face the students and teacher with Mom and Dad at my side- as long as they stayed close to me I felt much more assured that I was safe. Thirty minutes into cursory introductions and Ms. Dickinson explaining to the parents her plans for the year, the parents were told they could leave and come back at noon for dismissal.

LEAVE????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????????? I think not. Stricken with panic, I wrapped both arms and both legs completely around Daddy’s right leg before he had the opportunity to get out of his chair. Bending over he whispered, “It’s time for me to go. You’ll be okay. See all of the other children’s parents are leaving.”

I looked around the room and examined the other children’s faces. They all looked calm and comfortable as their parents left the room. None of them showed the same signs of anxiety that I was experiencing; in fact, most of them seemed excited to have a parent free classroom. I did not share their sentiments.

“I want you to stay,” I said to Daddy as I began crying. “I am too scared,” I continued as I buried my head behind his leg. Noticing our scene, Mrs. Dickinson came over to try and persuade me to let Daddy go home. She said that all of the other children were okay, so I should be too. She promised that we were going to have a nice day and Daddy didn’t need to be in the classroom.

I didn’t even look at her. I refused to bring my head from behind Daddy’s leg. As far as I was concerned, Mrs. Dickinson was officially the devil and no matter what she said or did or promised I absolutely was not letting go. And I didn’t. Daddy told Mrs. Dickinson that he didn’t mind staying and it would probably make the adjustment to going to school daily much easier for me. She assented and proceeded with the curriculum for the day.

As we went through names, numbers and the alphabet I kept myself wrapped around Daddy’s leg. I refused to relent and kept a tight grip for the entire day. It was much easier for me to watch everyone from behind Daddy’s leg as I could study the other children without them realizing it. Daddy’s presence was my safety blanket.

I don’t remember what I said to Mommy that evening about my experience at school after she left, but she has since told me I only had positive news to report. I told her the teacher seemed nice and I hoped some of the girls would become my friends.

The next morning Daddy took me to school and walked me to the door fearing he would have to sit through another day of kindergarten. I surprised him, and myself, when we reached the doors and I kissed him goodbye. “I don’t need you to stay today. I can do it all by myself.”

My Interior

I am growing and changing all the time.  Each day, I encounter new adventures that help me flourish as an individual.  I am not the Davina I was fifteen years ago.  Hell, I am not even the Davina I was three years ago.

But that doesn't mean I can't channel her.  

I remember who I was five, ten years ago and can empathize with that person.  I believe this is crucial to my humanity.  Although I have made mistakes in my past, or made decisions I am not entirely proud of, I don't punish or disregard the person I was when I made those choices.  

I know quite a few people- more than I would like to count actually- that try to abandon the person/self they were in the past.  They are ashamed of a previous relationship, or a bad addiction, and make an attempt to erase those years of their lives.  

I've heard it a million times.  "I try to forget it even happened."  "It's as if those years happened to someone else."  "The decisions I made were ridiculous.  I have no idea who that person was- it definitely was not, and is no longer, me."

But it was you.  You can't change the core of your being.  And I don't believe you should try.

I can still channel my five year old self that would throw temper tantrums over my dad not giving me enough time to pick out a Barbie Doll.  No, I do not throw raging fits over toys anymore, but I can still remember why I felt those emotions.

I am not proud of the Davina who continued to date a boy for months even though he cheated on me with numerous hussies.  But I don't want to forget her either.  

I want to remember why I made the choices I did, no matter how ridiculous they were in order to continue my personal development.  If I abandon, or even try to ignore the person I was, then I am cheating.  I would be fooling not only those around me, but most importantly, I would be tricking my soul.

Because even after all my years of physical change and development, the core of my being, my soul, has generally remained the same.   

Child Star

I was born to be on stage.

Unfortunately though, I wasn't blessed with the talent. My father’s singing gene did not get passed down to me, which was something I didn’t become painfully aware of until just before puberty.

During childhood I held allusions that I would grow up to be a famous singer. I promised my daddy that the singing business would never leave the Coady family. I would take over Dave Coady’s Irish Express when he retired. Of course the name would have to be changed, but we would handle that when the time came.

I spent weekend afternoons running errands with daddy, which I saw as a perfect opportunity to showcase my singing talents. While in the car, between the post office and the cleaners, I would belt out my favorite Mariah Carey or Celine Dion songs—with my headphones on.

I actually feel sorry for him now. He never once told me I was a terrible singer. He simply encouraged my other talents and told me to explore different options.

But I was relentless. I watched Grease like it was going out of style. While dancing and singing in front of the television dressed up in purple pants, faux leather jacket, and blue cowboy boots all topped with bright red lipstick (all borrowed from my mother’s closet), I believed I was the next Sandra Dee.

It wasn’t until I recorded myself singing that I realized I was awful. It is uncanny how similar I sound to a Tom Cat alley fight. Needless to say I was heartbroken. Devastated. Shattered.

I abandoned my dreams of starring on Broadway. I found other dreams and left my singing career as a thing of the past. I continued dancing and actually found decent success, but honestly, you can’t be a real star unless you can do both singing and dancing.

I still have an affinity for singing- I sing while showering, cleaning, driving, and sometimes working. But it is now done in private as I prefer not to have an audience. And I definitely do not sing loudly while wearing headphones. I no longer have the confidence or reckless abandonment as I did as a child.

But sometimes, while no one is watching or listening, I imagine my bedroom is the stage and the center spotlight is shining directly on me.

Pining

While driving through my college campus last weekend I was struck by the oddest feeling- sadness.

I really miss college.

During school I spent most of my time thinking about how much “easier” and “better” life was going to be when I graduated. I anticipated the days when I would no longer have the responsibilities of writing papers, studying for exams or attending lectures. When I felt bogged down by the amount of studying or writing I had to do, I always made myself feel better by counting down the weeks left in the semester. To help me trudge through I would reason, “Sure I have a 22 page paper to chunk out in three days, but in two more weeks it will all be over!”

Life didn’t get any easier. In fact, it got a whole lot harder.

Gone are the days of variety and discovering new things. The workday generally consists of the same routine day in and day out and surprises don’t happen very often. Classes on the other hand were always introducing new concepts or ideas, and although I didn’t always agree with these thoughts or theories they usually gave me something new to think about.

I yearn for the challenges of college. I miss juggling my various classes and the feeling of achievement when I received a good grade on a test or essay. The constant feedback of doing well, or not so well, gave me a sense of progress. I was on a path to self-betterment.

I also miss the freedom. If I wasn’t feeling well, or simply wanted to skip down to the beach for the afternoon, I had no one to answer to except myself. As long as I made up the work, or received the notes from a classmate, I was in the green. Could you imagine skipping out on work for the afternoon simply because you thought it was nice outside? Hardly. I can see my boss’ reaction now.

I went to one of the most beautiful colleges in the country. Nestled upon a hill in San Diego, the landscape and location always made me feel as though the world was at my feet. I felt that equipped with a Liberal Arts education from a good institution, I could accomplish anything. Upon graduation I would start my ideal job and my career would take me to fun and exciting places. Office work was not what I had imagined.

But there is still time, and I am still quite young. The world is my oyster and I have the opportunity to make whatever I want out of myself. Hopefully, my college education will help take me to those career places I dreamed about only a few short years ago.

If not, I could always go back.