Disclaimer: this post is not a PSA about the necessity of getting yourself stabbed with a flu shot. Instead, it’s a story of how I was somehow able to take something as simple as getting a shot and turn it into an uncomfortably awkward situation for every person involved.
I want to tell you a little story about the time when I attended a military ball with my friend Shannah. Full disclosure: I am writing this as if it occurred years ago. It did not. I got back from the ball yesterday. Anyway, let’s begin.
One of the darkest days of my life was when I found out that all of the college students taking the general education gym class were required to be a part of an intramural sports team. I was stunned when I heard the news. I felt like Rocky Balboa in one of those boxing movies that I never finished watching where he gets punched in the face over and over again. I had already nearly killed myself trying to run a mile and a half earlier in the semester, and now the teacher wanted me to play a sport with other students?
I recently made the drive from my home in Ohio to Virginia to attend an event planning conference that was being held in Washington D.C. Since I am relatively new to the world of event planning, I figured that it would be a golden opportunity to learn more about the career field that I have grown increasingly more passionate about.
I did something unforgettable in the spring of 2013. No, I didn’t write an earth-shattering exposé about the plight of refugees in the Middle East. I wish that I had done something that was memorable in such a positive way, but this was unforgettable in the worst way.
Visiting family for the holidays in snowy, Western New York recently brought back a memory from quite awhile ago: the time I drove the family car down a thirty-foot incline.
Most people who have gotten to know me over the past few years find it impossible to believe that I worked on a farm as a teenager. I don’t know if it’s because of my love of Starbucks or my penchant for using mildly intellectual words like “penchant,” but people rarely accept it when I say that I am well versed in farm culture. Since this will probably continue happening, I figured that the best way to explain this era of my life would be through a blog post.
When I graduated from high school, I thought that there was one activity that I would never have to participate in again: gym class. I figured that it was a battle that I would have to fight in middle school alone, and I was convinced that I had left the sweaty, always-picked-last activities were behind me. I realized that this was not the case as I discovered that I would have to take my school’s form of a gym class during my second semester of college.
I was sitting outside an ice cream parlor in the city of Oakwood on the eve of my birthday when I witnessed something that I would expect to see on a Bravo reality show, not in real life. My friend Adam had offered to take me out for ice cream in celebration of my impending birthday, and he had suggested Graeter’s, one of those overly trendy ice cream shops. (When I say “trendy” I mean that all of the ice cream is served in incredibly small portions and features hipster flavors such as “Chocolate Stout” and “Fair Trade Vanilla Bean”). Anyway, I digress.
The profession of cutting hair, like that of piloting a large aircraft or conducting brain surgery, requires a certain amount of skill and confidence. Unfortunately, a woman who cut my hair a while ago lacked both of the aforementioned qualities. With a job interview coming in less than two weeks, I knew that I needed to get a haircut. It’s not that I am opposed to having a haircut like Zac Efron in the first High School Musical, but I have neither the looks nor the talent to pull his style off. Armed with this knowledge, I headed to the most renowned hairdressing emporium that I could find: the budget hair salon Great Clips. In hindsight, it has been made quite clear that budget haircuts, like back-alley lobotomies, should be avoided at all costs.