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Antici….pation

/ Ashley / 1 Comment

A few weeks ago I listened to TED talk about anticipation. A group of people were polled on their favorite and least favorite day of the weekend. Nearly everybody said Friday was their favorite day and Sunday was their least favorite. Their reasoning? What lay ahead. They were excited for the prospect of the weekend and dreading the work week. That makes sense, right? But you have to wonder why people didn’t say Saturday as the favorite. Saturday is when you’re in the thick of the weekend – you’re participating in the plans you made on Friday or earlier in the week. So why not enjoy that day the most?

I have such a hard time living in the moment. I’m constantly aware of what is to come. This makes excellent at multitasking and delegating, which is why I was a fucking awesome McDonald’s employee when I was 16. But it makes for a pretty mundane existence day to day. I feel like my life is a perpetual vacation on which I take so many photos without appreciating the things and people around me. I don’t like that. I envy people who are able to live in the moment without feeling obligated to prepare for the future.

Preparing for the future is part of being a responsible adult. You don’t spend money wildly because you have bills. You don’t drink heavily on weeknights because you have work in the morning. You try to eat less red meat because your family has a history of heart disease. I fear that people view living in the moment as a sign of irresponsibility since it conjures ideas of childhood and naiveté. But remember when you were a child and the only thing you cared about was the game of make believe you were in? You weren’t worried about the scenario not concluding in an hour when you were called in for dinner – you just played and enjoyed yourself. I’d like to pinpoint the time when that changed for me, when I began realizing that time meant something and that hours in a day had to be doled out according to priority.  I think if I were able to do that, I would be able to remember how to live in the moment.

I moved into a new apartment this weekend. I’ll be sharing the place with Carissa, a good friend since high school. I’ve been excited about the move since we saw the place. It’s not anything special – just a two bedroom place in Appleton, but we’ve made it really nice. I’m using this as an opportunity to revamp my life. A new place means a new start. I’ve started thinking about what sorts of things I intend to do here.

  1. At my new apartment, I will be a girl who runs. Or at least jogs. About twenty yards from my patio, there is a bike trail that runs through a park. Since my bike needs repairs, I decided to jog on the trail to see where it went. I only went for about a mile or two, but I felt like I was participating in my life, like I was taking advantage of my new neighborhood. And also burning some calories and toning my thighs.
  2. At my new apartment, I will be charming and beautiful and always organized. I have really good intentions of keeping my space neat, but whether that will happen remains to be seen. I’m pretty considerate when it comes to shared spaces, because I know that I hate cleaning up after somebody else, but my room is a different story. I just feel like that now that I’m an adult who is working full time, I have at least some obligation to keep my room somewhat clean.
  3. At my new apartment, I will meet my neighbors and appreciate their bird feeders. In my backyard, there is a small grove of trees surrounding a bird feeder. I’ve seen robins, cardinals, blue jays, doves, finches, and even a hummingbird. He introduced himself as John, and we had a short conversation about the apartment. He said his partner would be coming home soon, and that he was sure we would see each other around.
  4. At my new apartment, I will write outside whenever possible. Carissa bought a small patio set. It’s the perfect sized for my laptop, a cup of coffee or glass of wine, and a small snack. It faces the backyard with the birds, rabbits, and chipmunks. Even though I live in a complex, it still feels secluded because I’m not looking into the windows of the surrounding buildings.
  5. In my new apartment, I will read books. I will read actual books. Not Kindle books, but actual paper books. Most of my books were in storage before, so I wasn’t able to pull out a novel, sprawl on my bed and read for a couple hours. But now, I can. Now, my books are available and I have a queen sized upon that is basically begging to be read upon.

I love anticipation.

Imagining Memories

/ Ashley / Leave a comment

Last night I hung out with a boy named Leo. Our parents are friends and I have vague memories of playing together as children, back in the days of Windows 98. Maybe even before that. I remember his dad having this pad hooked up to the computer where you could draw on it and it would appear on the screen. I thought it was magic. That’s about the only memory I have tied to him.

We’ve been facebook friends for a couple years now, I think, never really having met each other. We were both aware of the fact that we had things in common, though – he’s a writer who spent some time as an English major. So I figured we would have a lot to talk about. We did – a lot about books, writing, comedy, movies, and music. At one point, he asked if I liked writing or reading better.

It honestly stumped me for a minute. I want to say that I like writing better, but I read much more than I write. So, I told him about my writer’s dilemma which is basically every writer’s dilemma: lots of ideas bouncing around in my head that never actually get written down. Or they do get written down, but only in short fragments (“the scent of wine!” “relationship and nail color = personal evolution primarily in pink” “miss to ma’am” “I’ll explain everything to the geeks”) that I intend to expand upon. Inevitably, I never do. Then I’m doomed with the writer’s guilt of having ideas but never doing anything about them.

“You know that most writers are tortured, right?” he asked.

Of course I knew that. Then I recalled that notebook I carry around for when inspiration strikes. It’s been a few days since I’ve written in it. He also asked what my dream job was and for once, I gave an honest answer: “I want to sit around and write about myself all day and get paid for it.”

That inevitably led to a short discussion about how being a writer is proclaiming to the world that you’re at least a little bit of an egomaniac since the very act of writing is asserting that your words, opinion, or perspective demands attention. It was refreshing to be able to talk about this in such a frank way. I’m all about self-deprecation, and since my writing is often a very personal subject, it was fun to make fun of it.

I decided to resolve my writing/reading dilemma this morning by actually writing instead of just thinking about it.

I’ve had this book, Writing Life Stories, for a few months now. It’s full of great exercises that I read through. That’s important: I read through them, I didn’t do them. So, to start out, I did a few. The first chapter is all about accessing your memory; exercises included mapping out a childhood neighborhood (done very sloppily and not at all to scale), writing a story about the map (I wrote about meeting my friend Allie), and charting a year of your life.  Through all of this I discovered one thing: Memory is weird.

While drawing the map, I recalled things I had completely forgotten about:  short-lived friendships with girls who lived on the far corner of my block for a summer or two, Allie and I whistling across the yards to each other at night, the prickliness of weeds in tall grass, and how my most vivid memories of my friendship with Allie take place in the summers.

I thought I wouldn’t have a problem charting out a year from my high school days, but that was near impossible. The years all blend together and I can’t even remember what I did for my senior homecoming. I don’t even know if I went. I have flashes of  events: losing a friend, getting dumped, an audition, doing a synchronized swimming routine to a Postal Service song (yes, that actually happened), falling in love, meeting significant people…but the order of these events is unclear to me. I also found that most years prior to 2006 are completely blurred to me.

The good news is that somewhere, I have a box of journals where I can find that information. I’ve always known how difficult it can be to access memories and I think that’s part of the reason I started journaling at such a young age. I’m sure that when I go through them I’ll be reminded of things I don’t even realize happened.

Funny how things seem so important in the moment in which they happen but then fade so quickly.

 

The Latest Anthem

/ Ashley / 1 Comment

I’ve been working unreasonable hours lately. All on my own will though. My supervisors have made it perfectly clear that any overtime I work is completely optional. I suppose it’s better than mandatory overtime. I’ve been doing it to keep busy. It’s sort of pathetic that to fill up my time, I decide to take on additional mind-numbing work. But it’s what I’m doing.

You would think that working 36 hours in the last three days would make me tired. But no, I’m just about wide awake around midnight, listening to my new favorite album – Chamber Music Society by Esperanza Spalding. Buy it now. It’s wonderful. It’s one of those albums that’s like a new discovery every time you listen to it. I may be speaking prematurely since I just got it yesterday. But I have listened to it about eight times today. The strings are beautiful and make me want to collaborate with other string players to create beautiful improvisatory avant garde pop jazz songs. If only I had those skills and actually played my violin more than a half hour once a week. During which, I play exclusively Suzuki Book 1 with an eight year old who likes mustard on pancakes (true story).

I decided to stay after the lesson this week to play on my own. It was rough. My fingers have sort of forgot how to vibrato properly. I lost my bow grip about five  years ago and have since been struggling to get it back. My six month hiatus didn’t exactly help that. Regardless, it felt good to be making sound again. I’m not ready to call it music. Right now, it’s just some horse hair across some steel making sounds in some sort pattern. It will eventually become music though. And I’ve already made plans to collaborate with a cellist to play some duets together. I think it will be fun. From what I understand, he’s also returning to playing after having not played seriously for months. So if initially we suck, at least we’ll suck together.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I was this lost in an album. It’s beautiful in such a terrible way. It makes me nostalgic for moments I have yet to experience. It makes me want to drink a single glass of white wine and cook an amazing italian meal for myself and a handsome man. It makes me want to sit alone on a patio and watch a storm roll in. I also want to eat meringue for some reason.

I’m doing my best to focus on myself right now. I’m trying to remember the things I was once passionate about. The last time I remember really being on my one was my freshman year. I was excited about so much. About music and art and lovely quotes that I couldn’t quite wrap  my head around. I was eager to express myself by whatever means available. This resulted in decoupage, about six new playlists a week, a devotion to Bukowski and beat poetry that last about three months, and a fierce coffee addiction. Looking back, I was immature about a lot of things. But of course I didn’t see it that way. I saw myself as a cardigan-wearing maverick who happened to be really excited about pretty words. I was also very clever and mature for my age. [read: I made some foolish decisions, read some very bad books, and thought I was hip when I introduced friends to awful bands they hadn’t previously heard of.]

I’m getting back to that point – not the 18-year old naivete, because that would be terrible, but getting back to seeing myself as an individual who is free and morally obligated to discover herself. Right now, this consists of working 50+ hours in a cubicle every week, reading terrible best sellers , listening to jazz that makes me feel like I’m seeing it live, working through Soulpancake, trying new recipes, and accurately designing how my new bedroom will look.

Anyway, I’m starting to lose concentration, so I think it’s finally time I go to bed. But I’ll leave you with this, just because I can’t stop listening to this song.

Ten Tips for Surviving the First Two Weeks, Ashley-style

/ Ashley / 1 Comment

As far as I can tell the worst part of this whole thing has been the unpredictable nature of my mood. I will go entire days feeling invincible only to have a line from a song I’ve been listening to all day long send me into a fifteen minute sob session. Then, just as quickly, I go back to feeling fine. I have to wonder if this is what it feels like to be bipolar. It certainly feels like some form of insanity, especially during the low moments. Regardless, I’m still fervently believing that each day gets a bit easier. I’m still holding onto the idea that there is a linear progress to this mess. How straight that line is, I can’t really say. But I’ve been trying to think of ways to quantify my progress, which is ridiculous since I’m operating at an 80-20 ratio of emotion to logic. Emotions cannot be quantified, but it sure as hell makes me feel better if I can pretend otherwise. I thought about tracking how many times I cry, how many times I think about him, how many times I feel the bottom of my stomach fall out, how many times I feel like hurling because I’m so sad. All of these things sound completely psychotic, thus my insanity diagnosis. Then I thought about the progress: How often I see friends, how often I do things that make me happy, how many times I’m able to pull a mental u-turn, or how many times I’m able to cancel the pity party. Again, this is impossible since I’m far too close to the situation to assess it objectively.

Tossing all of this aside, I’ve compiled my own list for how to survive the first two weeks after a breakup Ashley-style.

  1. After making the decision, listen to Taylor Swift songs for approximately two days. Do this in the shower when nobody else is home and you have the opportunity to interrupt Last Kiss with terrifying sounds you’ve never previously heard come from yourself.
  2. Since you will have virtually no appetite, nutrition will be a nuisance. You’ll feel the affects of hunger – the dizziness, empty bile-bubbling feelings, the headaches, and general feeling of lethargy – but you will have no desire to eat anything. This includes your beloved carbs, gooey caramel and chocolate bars, ice cream sundaes, as well as the salads you’ve been eating in an attempt to lose a few pounds. I recommend drinking a lot of fruit protein smoothies by Naked and Bolthouse Farms. Since you don’t even have to chew, these are ideal for the days when you’d rather be in bed than sitting in a cubicle.
  3. Listen to Somebody that I Used to Know at least 300 times in a period of 72 hours. Claim to enjoy the entire album after two or three obligatory listens, then plug in your headphones, abandon any sense of self-respect, and put the song on repeat. Hey, at least nobody has to know about this. At least until you advertise it on your blog like a real genius.
  4. Sing karaoke. Don’t feel like you have to go by yourself. Agree to sing My Heart Will Go On with two girlfriends, and Dancing Queen as a duet. This may require you drink four 7&7s. Apparently you will also close the night with Losing My Religion, have only a vague memory of that and laugh about it when you pick up your car the next day. Promise yourself and friends that you will sing Rich Girl next week by yourself.
  5. When things are just too much to think about, turn to Grey’s Anatomy. You’re in luck since Netflix has the first seven seasons. Instead of feeling sorry for yourself, you can watch McDreamy and McSteamy do their surgical thing, wonder how Cristina’s hair has so much volume, and decide Meredith looks best with bangs. Be sure to wear sweats and cuddle up in fuzzy blankets. Forget that one of the blankets is one that his mother gave you for Christmas two years ago.
  6. Go to bars with friends on and be reminded of the fact that the only  men who approach you are 40-somethings in pleated pants. Decide that men your own age are children who sometimes wear men’s clothing. After reminding yourself that you are single and the “I have a boyfriend” line is no longer valid, adopt your own dating mission statement that eliminates the possibility of you wasting time with boys who are afraid to ask you to dinner: “If you don’t know how to pursue me, I’m not interested in you.”
  7. Expand your breakup music collection to include Fiona Apple, Lykke Li, Ingrid Michaelson, Lily Allen, Kate Nash, the entire new Norah Jones album, and one Cake song. Do not include Adele  since her music requires you to be drinking from a bottle of red wine while weeping. Seriously, it’s obnoxious and you will not let yourself sink to that level.
  8. Make it official by throwing away his clothes and dying your hair one night. That same night, decide to be a fearless bombshell and go to a party on your own and rock that red lipstick look you’ve always wanted. Enjoy yourself. See friends you haven’t in a while. Realize the elation that comes when you’re not tethered. Do your best to savor that feeling. You’ll need it when you’re feeling lonely.
  9. Buy a new journal. Your old one chronicles the entire relationship, but it’s far to painful to actually put pen to paper and describe how it all came to an end. So get a new journal, or at least tell yourself to, one that will allow you to write about your new life as a single twenty-something.
  10. Go to your cousin’s wedding. Realize that family members will want to ask questions or offer words of support. Tell them through watery eyes that you don’t want to talk about it. Run into the bathroom when Norah Jones’s Come Away with Me is played. Allow yourself only to let a few tears fall. Return to the dance floor only to cry when a Bee Gees song is played. Tell your dad you want to go home. Realize the next day that it’s kind of hilarious that disco makes you cry.

I can’t guarantee recovery if you follow these steps, but I do know that for all intents and purposes, this will ensure your survival. You will not crumble and waste away and you will live to see another day.