Polar Bears.

It is a winter wonderland outside. It is beautiful and white and dreamy. However, I cannot seem to quit missing the warm sunshine and the vitamin d that comes from laying out for hours. Compromise. I have been wearing my bathing suit underneath my sweats and hoodie all day.

Complacency Springs

There once was this girl Susie. Susie was in a hurried rush to escape from the confines of her life placement within a shoebox village that we will (for the purposes of this story) call Complacency Springs. Now Complacency was a pleasant place to be and an even better place to grow up. It is the type of place where birds continuously tweet tunes of perfected delight as women stroll down the street with Chantilly lace waist hugging dresses. Four out of five people that Susie came into contact with on a daily basis in Complacency either hugged her or gave her a kind gentle word. The number one distinctive factor about this little village was its adherence to down home old-fashioned values. These values were both subliminally and overtly infiltrated throughout the village. From the perspective of an outsider looking in, Complacency seemed to be the “ideal”. The ideal place to escape from the hustle and bustle of mediocrity and repetitive motion. Complacency seemed to personify the idea of perfection that has only been depicted narratively in unrealistic utopian fiction novels. There exists only one snare in the romanticism that exists within the grandeur of this village. That is the sad fact that an impassable wall exists between Complacency and the rest of the outside world. This is no figurative wall that we are describing here. This wall is a physical structure that prevents beings from either entering or exiting Complacency Springs. Now you would think that the real tragedy in this story would be the fact that outsiders will never have the opportunity to experience the perfection that exists beyond those walls. They will never have the chance to be subjected to the true innocence of emerging fauna in the midst of the simple fog that covers the wooded parts of Complacency each morning. But no. No, the real sadness of this story exists with the angst that protrudes in between the ears and beneath the rib cage of the lead character of our story. Yes, Susie had the unique ability to find sadness in the quiet laugh and smile of the strangers she passed on a day-to-day basis. She found restlessness in the perfectly temperatured summer nights within her cottage home on the hillside. She translated the humming of humming birds and the tweeting of blue jays as a continuous taunting of a life that she would never experience.

Turkish coffee, a cure for the “mean reds”

So, today I went into work with a case of the “mean reds”. For those of you who may have never seen the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s , let me explain. The mean reds happen in those times in your life when you just don’t know what to do with yourself. You want to be alone. You want to be with people. You want to figure out everything that will make you successful in your life as well as give it all up and become a bum. You want to simultaneously laugh and cry. Your mind wants to think about everything and the nothing at the same time.

Unfortunately, during extreme cases of the mean reds (like today), it is absolutely impossible to function in a “normal” fashion during every day interactions with people. My biggest fear is that someone may ask me the wrong question (anything involving the word “future”) and unintentionally induce a panic attack that would end in me curling up in a ball and holding on to their ankles. In order to save myself, and those around me from my current social ineptness, I decided that I would work offsite. The solution didn’t end there.

In a community of a little over 10,000 people, it is impossible to go somewhere for a cup a coffee without having to make small talk with at least 10 people. And unfortunately, my usual desire to befriend everyone has narrowed my options. As I began to play out impending conversations in my head I began to feel my legs starting prepare themselves for “ball” formation.

I am now in a secret nook in the bar section in the Greek restaurant downtown. Fortunately for me, it is socially inappropriate to drink before five. I am chugging down Turkish coffee faster than they can serve it (and man! I am typing fast). I think this is my new hot spot. Maybe I could get a job here after I graduate.

When you can't beat em....

So, every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday the dance school downstairs from my apartment holds clogging lessons. The up side of this is that I get to fight with 20 sum minnie van mommas over a parking spot in front of my building and swim my way through the hoards as they take their talented daughters to class. The downside of this is that I get to hear the same first 45 seconds of a song repeated for over three hours as they begin to learn their routine. It is not so much musical repetition that is difficult to swallow, but more the constant thump thump thump as those gifted little daughters swing and stomp their feet to their heart's content. I have decided that I could either 1. choose to be grumpy for the duration of the dance lesson 2. Put on head phones and resent my downstairs buddies for the residual ear soreness the next day or 3. Stomp for two to three hours three nights a week. I am about 2 hours in. So far. So good.

small dream.

Most nights, I often wish that I had ballet slippers so that I could gracefully make my way from room to room as I carry on with my ordinary chores (toes pointed and head high). There, I said it.