Monthly Archives: February 2012

Euphoria

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We’ve all experienced it. That moment of unadulterated bliss found immediately upon waking up, right after you’ve hit the snooze button on your obnoxious alarm ripping you from your blissful dreams and attempting to force you into reality. The sun is shining through the window, you are snuggled beneath your blankets, in a cocoon of warmth, nuzzled into your favorite stuffed animal. You have on an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts, and you would be content to stay there forever.

This morning, my alarm went off like any other morning, and I woke to find my roommate already preparing herself for the day. She had already turned our temperature from the frigid arctic we like to sleep in to the toasty warmth needed in the morning, and I was content to lay there forever. I contemplated skipping my ten am class, not because I was sick, had work to do or even was tired. In fact, its my favorite class — I should want to attend. However, the appeal of my bed was too much to deny.

I argued back and forth with myself, all the while listening to the sounds of my roommate styling her hair and selecting an outfit, the sounds a normal person is one hundred percent familiar with in the morning. I said: Rachel, you should just stay here. You can e-mail the professor from your phone and all will be well, you never have to leave. This, sentiment was combated with my responsible side’s declaration that: You can’t skip class! You won’t be able to say Zeta Kappa at sisterhood, you won’t get to discuss this book you like so much, its the only class towards your major! What is wrong with you?

So what did I do? I closed my eyes and sunk back into the euphoria of my warm and toasty bed. The safety it provided from the world. And then my alarm went off for the second time, pulling me once again from my dream land. I hesitated once more before I crawled out of my bed, reassuring myself I could come back soon to this lofted bed, complete with approximately six blankets, a comforter, two pillows and a heated turtle, my haven from everyone and everything.

I got up, made myself a mug of green tea, put on a sweater and waltzed out the door into the brisk, yet warm winter morning — although it feels so much more like spring. Sporting my Betsey Johnson sunglasses and hearing the soothing words of Dyme Def on my iPod, I realized this: the world is mine. I don’t need a haven from it; I am responsible for my own happiness. Why would you ever hide of from the world when there are so many things to enjoy, to conquer?

While yes, I do not argue that I believe my bed can produce a happiness better than any drug. In fact, if given the choice, I will spend my free time in my bed, doing homework, writing blogs, reading books.. I will never, ever be afraid to leave it behind to take on the world. And that, is why I went to class this morning, to conquer the world.

 

 

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Growing Pains

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In the fourth grade, I was the tallest girl in the class. Hell, I was one of the tallest PEOPLE in the class, prepubescent, awkward, smelly boys included. But then, as time went on, something weird happened. Whenever called to line up according to height, I slowly progressed back through the line. I thought I was shrinking, I had to be.

I went home to my mother, certain that I was a victim of the cruel movie Honey I Shrunk the Kids, and that any day I would be back up at the front of the line. But, alas, she told me that everyone was experiencing growth spurts, and mine would probably just be a little later — I would know because I would be hungry and my bones would be sore.

I waited patiently for these mysterious “growing pains” my mother promised me, only to remain a barely there 5 feet and 2 inches until the present time — quite a bit past the fourth grade.I suppose when I was younger I was frequently upset by my vertical challenges, however as I’ve gotten older, I’ve grown to appreciate it and I think tall people should be jealous of me. 😉

Now, at age nineteen (and eight months — thank you), as a sophomore in college, I know what these “growing pains” are that Mama Dort spoke of.  Except, oddly enough, the pain isn’t so much in my bones as in my brain.

I’m changing everything about myself, but I’m doing it for me. I am growing as a person. I don’t want to make everyone else happy, I want to make myself happy. I started a new diet and exercise plan — okay maybe that’s the physical pain, I changed my major, started a blog, promised myself to change everything about my life that made me unhappy.

Its a process — and a long one at that. One that I wish had happened before I was two years into college, but hey, I guess I’m just a late bloomer.  So I might always be 5 feet tall, but at least I will be the person I want to be, and the pains will be worth it.

 

Secret Hideaways

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“For the first time in my life, I’ve got butterflies. And they aren’t because some boy noticed me or sent me flowers or someone I didn’t know complimented my new shoes or smiled at me on the bus. It’s because, for the first time in my life, I am excited. I am doing what I want to be doing. I am putting myself first, I am making myself happy. And I am terrified, but damn it, these butterflies are the best things I’ve ever felt. So I’m going to feed off of it. I’m going to turn my nervous energy into happy energy and be that girl I was always jealous of. I am going to conquer the world and love every minute of it. I am going to love myself and love what I’m doing and I am going to have butterflies for the rest of my life, and that’s all anyone should ever want.”

Approximately thirteen hours ago I posted this quote as the status on my Facebook page. I found it stumbling through old scripts stored on my computer late last evening as I reflected upon the drastic decision to change my major from pharmacy to literature after two years of college. Deep inside a file last edited in the year 2010, I found a folder labeled “Completed”.  Opening it, I stumbled upon a collection of words I coined myself, ranging from prose to poetry, script to essay, everything one could possibly imagine.

This induced a flashback.  I was thirteen years old again, full of preteen angst and the built up belief that my parents hated me — wow, was I naive.  The world was a dark and horrible place, and I escaped it by hiding in my Queen size bed with purple leopard print comforter.  I loved my bed, but not because it was comfortable (it wasn’t) or matched my taste (at the time, I wanted all things skull covered and black), but because it had this two “secret hiding places”. 

Now these were nothing more than sliding panels in the headboard designed for storage, but many times they saved me from my parents. You see, I had a bed time, but I didn’t much like it. I would sneak a flashlight into my room with me and I would read all night — books were my escape from the real world.  I also wrote.  I filled page after page with words about life, love, my future, fictional characters, my friends, anything you can imagine — I even dabbled in song writing — yes, imagine how well written those were. But any time my parents came into my room because they heard a sound, my “secret hiding place” was there to save me.

As I grew older, these habits didn’t change, but the bed did. It was retired to the guest bedroom and a new bed inhabited my room.  It was much more comfortable, and I still spent many hours in it reading/writing. As everything changed, one thing remained the same — I loved literature.

And then it became senior year, time to submit a written manuscript to the Thespian Festival.  I wrote a haunting play about the death of a close friend bringing a girl to recognize the important things in life.  And the closing line is what that quote was from. I never went through with submitting the play for review; I was beyond that. Just like my books and writing when I was a little girl, I shoved it into a “secret hideaway” on my laptop and closed that chapter of my life.

I applied to pharmacy school, was accepted, and began attending Ohio Northern University. I packed a box full of books to bring to school with me freshman year, but Thanksgiving break, they were all taken home. I didn’t have time for my one true love anymore.

And now, two years later, I realize the biggest mistake I ever made. I read the script last night, for the first time since I was a senior in high school and realized, I had finally, two years later, recognized what I knew all along. I wanted to be happy. And the eight people who liked it on Facebook seemed to agree that I’d made the correct choice.

I am a writer. I am a bookworm. I obsess over the details of my first meeting with my department head. I am a giddy school girl. I am a literature major, and for the first time, I really do have butterflies.