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 have loved books for as long as I can remember. Even as a child, I distinctly remember the thrill that came from receiving a book as a gift. I relished the opportunity to turn the pages and immerse myself in the world that they contained. And to this day, I still experience joy each time I open a new book. Wow, this has taken a much more nostalgic turn than I originally planned. I should probably give you some context for why I am writing so enthusiastically about inanimate objects.
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.
A new year (birth year, that is) means a new set of goals. Last year I decided to move away from setting a goal for every year of my life in favor of fifteen more manageable goals. To be honest, these goals did not excite me. I wrote them in a haze of uncreativity last year when I was having difficulty finding something to write about, and I struggled to feel excited about many of them.
In the words of Sia, “I’m aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiivvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!” I know that I’ve been M.I.A. for quite some time, but I’ve committed to getting back into blogging. To show how committed I’ve become, I’m planning on publishing a few posts within a few days. Yes, you heard me right; I will be posting more than once per month! But before I get into the swing of things, I want to wrap up my goals from my year as a twenty-two-year-old.
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.
I was standing near the front of the recital hall feeling overheated and claustrophobic as I prepared to step onto the stage. As an Admission Office employee, I had been asked to give the university’s introduction presentation to a group of visiting high school music students. I had given this presentation what felt like one thousand times before, so I wasn’t concerned about it before entering the hall. That quickly changed as I mingled with some of the other presenters for the evening and realized how ill-prepared I was to speak to this particular group of music-focused (antisocial) high school music students.
Earlier this year, I received news that was devastating. I was in the middle of the admission process for graduate school, and I had high hopes that I would be able to begin the second portion of my higher education later this year. Feeling overly positive, I did not put much thought into what I would do if I were not accepted into the program. Well, I ended up being forced to learn how I would handle graduate school rejection.
76 minutes. 5 days per week. No, I’m not referring to the amount of time that I do cardio each day; rather, I am talking about how long I drove in complete and utter silence. When devising my goals as a twenty-two-year-old, I thought about how much I rely on music to make time fly when I have to drive somewhere. Within a few seconds of getting into my car, I find myself plugging in my phone, turning on Spotify, and letting my mind zone out to the music. Music is by no means bad, but I thought that would be a good exercise in self-awareness to remove it from my commute for a week.