I will clean this up. I will be motivated and won't put it off any longer. I will have a spotless room.
It doesn't matter how many times I repeat encouraging lies to myself, I know that I will never pick up my shit.
I have always thrived in mess, surrounding myself by papers and sticky notes clinging to multiple books cracked like an open-faced sandwich. Where is my draft of this poem? In the pile of stuff to my right, near the bottom because I haven't looked at it in a while. Where is this text book? Under my bed because I needed somewhere specific to place it so I wouldn't forget where it was! I have a system.
There is a distinct difference between messiness and filth. I am in no way dirty, just unorganized. I attempt to sound deep and say that it reflects how my brain works, but in all reality it is probably some combination of comfort and laziness. Filth is when there is trash, dirty dishes, crusty tissues, food crumbs, and moldy smelling towels piled on top of a brush that badly needs to be cleaned of broken hairs. Messy is the innocence of being ignorant of organization. Things, although clean, exist in piles and cracks. You constantly surprise yourself by finding a knick knack that has been tucked away under your mattress or in a shoe. Every day is a treasure hunt, finding notes from a middle school friend that you haven't talked to in eight years, or being frustrated because you can't find the new hair accessory that you JUST bought the day before and would look awesome with your work outfit--but you are five minutes late and five minutes can mean fifteen minutes late with traffic. Life becomes a live-action I-Spy book that you never quite finish.
Besides the normal stuff that one usually keeps in a room, my mess is mostly comprised of small "collections" of things that I find interesting. For example, I have specific places where I store tags from clothes. If a tag is super cool, or happens to have an awesome sticker of a sassy looking girl with pink pigtails and bell-bottom jeans surrounded by flames, then I want to save it. I might use it someday, or an archaeologist could be searching my room 200 years from now and learn about how clothes were priced before society all magically got dressed like in The Jetsons or Cher in Clueless. Early 2000s "junior's" departments from JC Penney and Kohls shouldn't be forgotten. And so they live strongly, in my jewelry box.
I also have a rock collection, coin collection, a quarter-specific collection (which totally differs from my coin collection because it has a portfolio where I can collect a quarter from each state), a glass doll collection (that I actually tucked away because they were actually scary as hell), a pez dispenser collection (I didn't even mean to start collecting these, like, I am not that kind of collector. I think that people just assumed that I would be the type of person to have pez dispensers and began giving me Disney Princess and Star Wars themed ones), a Wizard-Of-Oz novelty item collection complete with the Madame Alexander dolls that McDonalds gave out in happy meals, all of my Pokemon cards, puppets (hand, marionette, and finger), well over one hundred Beanie Babies, and a playbill collection--which seems pretty normal overall. I have also been recently acquiring pictures of scenes with anthropomorphic dogs and tacky holiday decorations. I'm still open to expanding with whatever else piques my interest. I have the room.
While sitting wrapped in my bed comforter and staring at my kingdom of junk, I am reassured by what I have. It shows that there is life here, that there is life in me. During my senior year of college, there was a period of three nights where I slept with a McDonald's bag full of empty trash. Okay, I know that sounds like it is spilling over onto the filthy side, but I was elated that I had driven to the fast-food restaurant by myself and gotten food when I had been scared to drive anywhere alone or even leave my bed just a few days before. It was a reminder that I could do things, and plus it became so hilarious to me that I felt that I couldn't part with my McDouble cheeseburger wrapper that had become my new teddy bear.
I have tried to clean my room. To label boxes and shelves, to neatly fold and color coordinate, to throw away things that I no longer need. Every time that I try, I am surged with panic, or sadness, like I am throwing away parts of my life. Parts that I will never live again, and the only things left over are in the backs of nightstand drawers and mason jars on closet floors. I regularly donate my clothes, but when it comes to the tiny bits of the mosaic that has become my life, I am hesitant. As I packed up my stuff to move out of my childhood home into my first apartment, I cried. I saw things that I had, things that should not have been transported, organized, or thrown away, because they have their space in my old room. They co-exist, breathing and insulating any fear or wisp of hope that I had ever had by nightlight. If a human body can be so compact with guts and muscle and bone, then why can't a space that is just as alive?
I am slowly starting to become "cleaner". My work desk functions well, and my apartment is coming together hesitantly but surely. I have gotten rid of many items and also have learned to let things go. But I want you to understand that it has never been a matter of having physical things, for I am not a materialistic person, but rather holding onto them and having control over the nest that I have built. An actual sculpture and interactive scrapbook of a life that can be hard to live, but a smile that will be brought on by a craft that you made in the first grade that still hangs over your bedroom mirror.
I will clean this up. I will be motivated and won't put it off any longer. I will have a spotless room.
Maybe tomorrow.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
The Call Of The Void
See this on Stigma Fighters at http://stigmafighters.
"You know when you have so much stuff to do, but thinking about it makes you stressed out, and then that stress keeps you from doing anything? Well you have anxiety, you know what I'm talking about right?" my coworker asked me while leaning against the beige wall of my cubicle. Her big eyes were swimming with possibilities, while I was thinking about how to get through the rest of my day without feeling sad.
"Yeah, I know exactly what you mean." I smiled back.
This same coworker spent time teaching English in Latin America and Malaysia. At 18, she ran away to Canada for a weekend. Somewhat recently, she dated a boy from Australia. A boy that she still video chats. A couple of weeks ago she convinced me to play pool in the middle of a semi-crowded bar. That was my equivalent. My Malaysia.
It's not that I am not spontaneous. I like to do things, I have done cool things--I don't even need to justify my small yearning for adventure that is sometimes poked here and there. But I live inside of my head and the worlds there. I see my imagination, while she has seen the actual world.
I laugh when I think of how she looks at me and my interests. We have little in common, and my twitter followers like to see when/how she hilariously and accidentally insults me next. She sees me as someone that sits around in cosplay licking Star Wars VHS tapes that I hold in one hand and playing a RPG with the other while Sailor Moon plays in the background. I like this visual. At least it's interesting.
Talking to her allows me to reflect. What have I done? More importantly, what am I going to do? It is easy to entertain the idea of traveling, or "at least trying something once". When I was a freshman in college I convinced myself that by my senior year I was going to have interned in Disney World, living out my childhood dream. I graduated 6 months ago, and haven't been to Disney World in five years. I ask myself if I regret not trying, and I am not sure if I do. By staying at my school I was able to go to Ireland, and have a memorable senior year with friends that I love. It could be a fair trade.
I always have thought that I don't want to be on my death bed asking, "What if?" (although honestly, I contemplate three different ways daily that I could end up in this position sooner than expected, and I have a few things that I would like to do if it were to happen, well, now). I have sent out a few pieces to be published since I graduated college, and they were rejected, which is expected. I want to be published by May of next year (one year out of school), so I need to keep trying. I also have a website in the works that I haven't officially launched or paid for. There are small goals. Stepping stones to my new dreams.
"You know when you have so much stuff to do, but thinking about it makes you stressed out, and then that stress keeps you from doing anything? Well you have anxiety, you know what I'm talking about right?"
I think about it every day.
In the spring, I went hiking with my boyfriend. We had tried to go to a different park every weekend, and successfully did this for a little over a month before the rain started, or we became too tired to think of new places to go. While in Hocking Hills, we paused at a cliff. We were alone on the trail, with the type of silence that you can hear if you listen closely, and I was feeling an ocean in my stomach while looking at the ground below.
"What happens if I jump?" I asked him. "You couldn't stop me. Part of me even wants to, though I know that sounds completely crazy."
He laughed, knowing that I wouldn't do it. "I was thinking the same thing," he said. "It's called "The Call of the Void". I read about it recently on reddit."
He went on to explain that it is an unexplained psychological phenomena that almost everyone experiences. When we are driving, we could briefly think "What if I ran my car into oncoming traffic?" or while holding a knife "I could hurt myself or someone else right now if I really wanted to". These thoughts are fleeting, and as long as you don't dwell on them or contemplate seriously acting them out, then they are not a problem. The weird impulses are merely a fun little part of the weirdness that is being a human.
I often think about the conversation, about how it felt to look into the open air, and wonder if maybe I could've flown if I really jumped. Maybe people really can fly and I could've been the first one. My boyfriend would have been scared at first, but then would have seen me soaring upward, and smiled, thinking Wow, she looks really happy, and eventually the other hikers would have seen me and been glad for me too. I could have looped through the trees, and took off to see elsewhere, creating ripples in the ocean with my fingertips and then zooming back toward the sun because unlike Icarius, I wouldn't have had melted wings. I would have flown around the world, and yelled below to my coworker's ex-boyfriend, telling him that she asks me questions in my cubicle and makes me play pool in bars. I could have if I tried.
But here I am, on the ground, thinking of the opportunity that this void has given me to speculate metaphorically. What if I send things off to be published? What if I just finish my stupid website so that people can see the work that I love to do? What if I plan a trip somewhere, or run off to Canada too? I can't let the amount of exciting things that I want to accomplish paralyze me. I need to try flying, We all need to take a deep breath, and try flying.
So we can start now. We can form plans, set goals, or at least talk about dreams. We can speak of fake dreams, ones that will never come true, but realizing them will be just enough. We can get through the day without being sad, because for each chance that we lose out on, we have an infinite selection of more.
Basically, The Void is calling.
And you might as well jump.
"You know when you have so much stuff to do, but thinking about it makes you stressed out, and then that stress keeps you from doing anything? Well you have anxiety, you know what I'm talking about right?" my coworker asked me while leaning against the beige wall of my cubicle. Her big eyes were swimming with possibilities, while I was thinking about how to get through the rest of my day without feeling sad.
"Yeah, I know exactly what you mean." I smiled back.
This same coworker spent time teaching English in Latin America and Malaysia. At 18, she ran away to Canada for a weekend. Somewhat recently, she dated a boy from Australia. A boy that she still video chats. A couple of weeks ago she convinced me to play pool in the middle of a semi-crowded bar. That was my equivalent. My Malaysia.
It's not that I am not spontaneous. I like to do things, I have done cool things--I don't even need to justify my small yearning for adventure that is sometimes poked here and there. But I live inside of my head and the worlds there. I see my imagination, while she has seen the actual world.
I laugh when I think of how she looks at me and my interests. We have little in common, and my twitter followers like to see when/how she hilariously and accidentally insults me next. She sees me as someone that sits around in cosplay licking Star Wars VHS tapes that I hold in one hand and playing a RPG with the other while Sailor Moon plays in the background. I like this visual. At least it's interesting.
Talking to her allows me to reflect. What have I done? More importantly, what am I going to do? It is easy to entertain the idea of traveling, or "at least trying something once". When I was a freshman in college I convinced myself that by my senior year I was going to have interned in Disney World, living out my childhood dream. I graduated 6 months ago, and haven't been to Disney World in five years. I ask myself if I regret not trying, and I am not sure if I do. By staying at my school I was able to go to Ireland, and have a memorable senior year with friends that I love. It could be a fair trade.
I always have thought that I don't want to be on my death bed asking, "What if?" (although honestly, I contemplate three different ways daily that I could end up in this position sooner than expected, and I have a few things that I would like to do if it were to happen, well, now). I have sent out a few pieces to be published since I graduated college, and they were rejected, which is expected. I want to be published by May of next year (one year out of school), so I need to keep trying. I also have a website in the works that I haven't officially launched or paid for. There are small goals. Stepping stones to my new dreams.
"You know when you have so much stuff to do, but thinking about it makes you stressed out, and then that stress keeps you from doing anything? Well you have anxiety, you know what I'm talking about right?"
I think about it every day.
In the spring, I went hiking with my boyfriend. We had tried to go to a different park every weekend, and successfully did this for a little over a month before the rain started, or we became too tired to think of new places to go. While in Hocking Hills, we paused at a cliff. We were alone on the trail, with the type of silence that you can hear if you listen closely, and I was feeling an ocean in my stomach while looking at the ground below.
"What happens if I jump?" I asked him. "You couldn't stop me. Part of me even wants to, though I know that sounds completely crazy."
He laughed, knowing that I wouldn't do it. "I was thinking the same thing," he said. "It's called "The Call of the Void". I read about it recently on reddit."
He went on to explain that it is an unexplained psychological phenomena that almost everyone experiences. When we are driving, we could briefly think "What if I ran my car into oncoming traffic?" or while holding a knife "I could hurt myself or someone else right now if I really wanted to". These thoughts are fleeting, and as long as you don't dwell on them or contemplate seriously acting them out, then they are not a problem. The weird impulses are merely a fun little part of the weirdness that is being a human.
I often think about the conversation, about how it felt to look into the open air, and wonder if maybe I could've flown if I really jumped. Maybe people really can fly and I could've been the first one. My boyfriend would have been scared at first, but then would have seen me soaring upward, and smiled, thinking Wow, she looks really happy, and eventually the other hikers would have seen me and been glad for me too. I could have looped through the trees, and took off to see elsewhere, creating ripples in the ocean with my fingertips and then zooming back toward the sun because unlike Icarius, I wouldn't have had melted wings. I would have flown around the world, and yelled below to my coworker's ex-boyfriend, telling him that she asks me questions in my cubicle and makes me play pool in bars. I could have if I tried.
But here I am, on the ground, thinking of the opportunity that this void has given me to speculate metaphorically. What if I send things off to be published? What if I just finish my stupid website so that people can see the work that I love to do? What if I plan a trip somewhere, or run off to Canada too? I can't let the amount of exciting things that I want to accomplish paralyze me. I need to try flying, We all need to take a deep breath, and try flying.
So we can start now. We can form plans, set goals, or at least talk about dreams. We can speak of fake dreams, ones that will never come true, but realizing them will be just enough. We can get through the day without being sad, because for each chance that we lose out on, we have an infinite selection of more.
Basically, The Void is calling.
And you might as well jump.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Words By The Wise, For the Wiser (Basically I Wrote Some Proverbs)
You can take the hedgehog out of the girl,
but you can't take the girl out of the hedgehog.
Especially if he is a mutant and hungry.
If you give a mouse a cookie,
and it accidentally bites your finger,
then it now knows the taste of human
flesh--and you should relocate.
Don't make a mountain out of a mole hill,
for some mole worked really hard on that hill
and its feelings will be hurt.
You can lead a hedgehog to water,
but all he will do is swim around in it.
Look left and right before you cross the street.
Or up and down, if you happen to be hovering
horizontally, facing the west.
Don't look a gift hedgehog in the mouth.
You can't teach an old dog new tricks,
because he probably already knows them all.
Dogs are smarter than us, and only grow
more ominous with age.
Don't spoil your dinner with dessert,
because next thing you know, your dinner
will want a later bed time, and more
television privileges.
Reach for the stars,
if you feel like looking like an imbecile,
because the closest star is 93 million miles away
and you are not that tall.
Don't hold your breath,
because if you do for too long,
you will probably pass out.
Always say your p's and q's,
or else you will only recite 24
letters of the alphabet.
The grass is always greener on the other side
if the other side waters it and uses proper fertilizer.
Sometimes less is more,
on opposite day.
but you can't take the girl out of the hedgehog.
Especially if he is a mutant and hungry.
If you give a mouse a cookie,
and it accidentally bites your finger,
then it now knows the taste of human
flesh--and you should relocate.
Don't make a mountain out of a mole hill,
for some mole worked really hard on that hill
and its feelings will be hurt.
You can lead a hedgehog to water,
but all he will do is swim around in it.
Look left and right before you cross the street.
Or up and down, if you happen to be hovering
horizontally, facing the west.
Don't look a gift hedgehog in the mouth.
You can't teach an old dog new tricks,
because he probably already knows them all.
Dogs are smarter than us, and only grow
more ominous with age.
Don't spoil your dinner with dessert,
because next thing you know, your dinner
will want a later bed time, and more
television privileges.
Reach for the stars,
if you feel like looking like an imbecile,
because the closest star is 93 million miles away
and you are not that tall.
Don't hold your breath,
because if you do for too long,
you will probably pass out.
Always say your p's and q's,
or else you will only recite 24
letters of the alphabet.
The grass is always greener on the other side
if the other side waters it and uses proper fertilizer.
Sometimes less is more,
on opposite day.
Saturday, September 12, 2015
(My) Absolute Truth About Anxiety
I rarely talk about any struggles that I have with anxiety and mild depression, and only recently began to write about it. I usually keep any thoughts about psychological stress in my head (they kind of fly around, similar to the spirits at the ending of Raiders of the Lost Ark if you would like a visual). I had an essay discussing my anxiety and fears published in my college's literary magazine during my senior year, and thought "Wow, okay..people are reading this. People might think differently of me, or be scared of how I think--but that is fine." I needed an audience outside of a few close, select friends to know, for at least one person to identify and know that perhaps they aren't alone.
I feel that mental disorders are often glamorized, especially in the art fields. There is a strange allure to the whole "tortured artist" thing, so writers/artists/musicians often try to emulate that, trivializing anyone that actually struggles with anxiety, depression, etc. There is nothing "cool" about the way that we feel, or knowing that you sometimes have trouble going to the grocery store or filling your car up with gas. These people will relish in their pretend darkness, or continuously say "I'm crazy! I'm so insane!", to which we ask "Oh really? Are you?" because most people that deal with this weight do not realize that they are in fact, "crazy", or would not broadcast it for attention.
A second example comes from those that are very organized and particular about their cleanliness or the way their work is arranged. You can often hear these people claiming "Haha, oh, I am SO OCD!", while I think of anyone that actually has OCD being embarrassed, ashamed, or brought down by society thinking that OCD is something as simple as being overly particular about your room or notebook. OCD isn't cute, or funny, and I feel sorry for anyone that has to go through life hearing these things said over and over.
As I step off my pedestal (careful not to fall because I have tiny appendages), I am about to take my reflections in a completely different direction. I do this not to make fun of anyone in the same little rowboat as me, but mostly as an actual, relatable to a response to the articles that I constantly see being shared via social media:
"What It Is Like To Love Someone With Anxiety", "Things No One Ever Told You About Dating Someone With Anxiety", "An Open Letter To Everyone About What Anxiety Is Like" *throws up*
I am sure some of these articles floating around are brave confessions from those that have an anxiety disorder, but I personally have not been able to identify with even one of these pieces. It is as if they were written by someone who is merely imagining what anxiety feels like, and then exploiting these peoples to get shares and likes online. Furthermore, although sometimes I may be frustrating with my irrational fears, times when I can't get out of bed, or crying without knowing why, something that I have never felt is apologetic. Or like I couldn't be loved. We can educate others so that the stigma against mental illness in America is erased, but we should never feel like we have to be sorry or justify anything that we feel to our families or loved ones. It is not heroic to love or "deal" with us.
So finally, 10 Things That Anxiety ACTUALLY Feels Like:
1. Like every embarrassing moment or small conflict you have had from the time you were in kindergarten until your present life are ingredients in a soup that is constantly cooking in your brain that you are also being forced to eat nonstop, every day.
2. Like the scared or bad thoughts are a song that you can't get out of your head no matter how hard you try, or want to think of a better song. One time when I was younger, I went to my mom crying in the middle of the night because I couldn't get the Winnie the Pooh theme song out of my head. She rolled over, sleepily, and said "Just think of something else". I eventually fell asleep, only to wake up two hours later with "Here in the hundred acre wood.." being the first thought I had. Irrational feelings can be like that.
3. Like there is a super intense game of "Would You Rather?" going on in the back of your mind all the time. The players are too loud, and won't be quiet no matter how many times you ask them to. Some of the best questions are, "Would you rather die in a car accident or get a phone call in the middle of the night that your family all died in a car accident?" and "Would you rather someone break into your house and kill you while you sleep or be in a mass shooting in public?"
4. Like the episode of Spongebob when he has the ability to walk into other people's dreams. You think of five alternative, horrible situations, and feel out of your body as you are able to vividly experience each one.
5. Like you are in a game of "Telephone", with everyone whispering and the phrase changing, but you have to sit in the middle of the circle and aren't allowed to play or hear what is being said. You see people laughing and participating together in a functional way, but you are upset and confused by what they are saying, and frustrated because you are left out. You assume that it is about you.
6. Like your ENTIRE Twitter feed is full of subtweets, that all vaguely describe or relate to you, even from people that you haven't met, or celebrities. You think "What could I have done to make everyone dislike me so much?"
7. Like you are trying to listen to your favorite childhood CD in your car but it keeps skipping and stopping when you are just trying to move forward with "Oops I Did It Again". You are frustrated and stuck and want to just break the CD in half since it is junk but know that you would regret that and are disappointed because you just wanted to hear the damn song and then overwhelmed with how fast your life is passing you by that this CD even appears as being "old" to you.
8. Like you are casually walking through the shallow end of an unfamiliar swimming pool and suddenly it slopes to the deep end. Everything was fine and relaxed while you enjoyed the water kissing your shoulders and the sun warming your head, but you are now accidentally under water, scraping your toes across the floor to find the shallow end again, while swallowing water and trying to tread so that you don't drown.
9. Like your boss, professor, or any other authority figure is speaking to you in code as if they want to trick you. "We really appreciate your efforts here" seems like it has to have a double meaning, and absolutely anything they say to you is a test so that you should work harder.
10. Like you are standing by the window of a huge skyscraper. You feel the vertigo and your pulse quickens as you look at the cars below, scared of the height but then also wondering what it is like to fall, with only the clear glass separating you from a vast world and space that goes on for longer than you can comprehend. Except you experience this while on the couch, in the shower, or in bed, realizing that you aren't in a tall building at all.
I smile subtly as I finish this, for it feels like I have taken a chunk of words out of my chest and spread them in front of me for other people to sniff and poke. It feels good, and I kind of feel good. I hope that, like my essay I was so scared to put in the open before, someone can read this and think "Yes, I get this! Do you get this? It's going to be okay." And it is.
I hope that we all avoid the deep end of the pool as much as possible today,
Jordan
I feel that mental disorders are often glamorized, especially in the art fields. There is a strange allure to the whole "tortured artist" thing, so writers/artists/musicians often try to emulate that, trivializing anyone that actually struggles with anxiety, depression, etc. There is nothing "cool" about the way that we feel, or knowing that you sometimes have trouble going to the grocery store or filling your car up with gas. These people will relish in their pretend darkness, or continuously say "I'm crazy! I'm so insane!", to which we ask "Oh really? Are you?" because most people that deal with this weight do not realize that they are in fact, "crazy", or would not broadcast it for attention.
A second example comes from those that are very organized and particular about their cleanliness or the way their work is arranged. You can often hear these people claiming "Haha, oh, I am SO OCD!", while I think of anyone that actually has OCD being embarrassed, ashamed, or brought down by society thinking that OCD is something as simple as being overly particular about your room or notebook. OCD isn't cute, or funny, and I feel sorry for anyone that has to go through life hearing these things said over and over.
As I step off my pedestal (careful not to fall because I have tiny appendages), I am about to take my reflections in a completely different direction. I do this not to make fun of anyone in the same little rowboat as me, but mostly as an actual, relatable to a response to the articles that I constantly see being shared via social media:
"What It Is Like To Love Someone With Anxiety", "Things No One Ever Told You About Dating Someone With Anxiety", "An Open Letter To Everyone About What Anxiety Is Like" *throws up*
I am sure some of these articles floating around are brave confessions from those that have an anxiety disorder, but I personally have not been able to identify with even one of these pieces. It is as if they were written by someone who is merely imagining what anxiety feels like, and then exploiting these peoples to get shares and likes online. Furthermore, although sometimes I may be frustrating with my irrational fears, times when I can't get out of bed, or crying without knowing why, something that I have never felt is apologetic. Or like I couldn't be loved. We can educate others so that the stigma against mental illness in America is erased, but we should never feel like we have to be sorry or justify anything that we feel to our families or loved ones. It is not heroic to love or "deal" with us.
So finally, 10 Things That Anxiety ACTUALLY Feels Like:
1. Like every embarrassing moment or small conflict you have had from the time you were in kindergarten until your present life are ingredients in a soup that is constantly cooking in your brain that you are also being forced to eat nonstop, every day.
2. Like the scared or bad thoughts are a song that you can't get out of your head no matter how hard you try, or want to think of a better song. One time when I was younger, I went to my mom crying in the middle of the night because I couldn't get the Winnie the Pooh theme song out of my head. She rolled over, sleepily, and said "Just think of something else". I eventually fell asleep, only to wake up two hours later with "Here in the hundred acre wood.." being the first thought I had. Irrational feelings can be like that.
3. Like there is a super intense game of "Would You Rather?" going on in the back of your mind all the time. The players are too loud, and won't be quiet no matter how many times you ask them to. Some of the best questions are, "Would you rather die in a car accident or get a phone call in the middle of the night that your family all died in a car accident?" and "Would you rather someone break into your house and kill you while you sleep or be in a mass shooting in public?"
4. Like the episode of Spongebob when he has the ability to walk into other people's dreams. You think of five alternative, horrible situations, and feel out of your body as you are able to vividly experience each one.
5. Like you are in a game of "Telephone", with everyone whispering and the phrase changing, but you have to sit in the middle of the circle and aren't allowed to play or hear what is being said. You see people laughing and participating together in a functional way, but you are upset and confused by what they are saying, and frustrated because you are left out. You assume that it is about you.
6. Like your ENTIRE Twitter feed is full of subtweets, that all vaguely describe or relate to you, even from people that you haven't met, or celebrities. You think "What could I have done to make everyone dislike me so much?"
7. Like you are trying to listen to your favorite childhood CD in your car but it keeps skipping and stopping when you are just trying to move forward with "Oops I Did It Again". You are frustrated and stuck and want to just break the CD in half since it is junk but know that you would regret that and are disappointed because you just wanted to hear the damn song and then overwhelmed with how fast your life is passing you by that this CD even appears as being "old" to you.
8. Like you are casually walking through the shallow end of an unfamiliar swimming pool and suddenly it slopes to the deep end. Everything was fine and relaxed while you enjoyed the water kissing your shoulders and the sun warming your head, but you are now accidentally under water, scraping your toes across the floor to find the shallow end again, while swallowing water and trying to tread so that you don't drown.
9. Like your boss, professor, or any other authority figure is speaking to you in code as if they want to trick you. "We really appreciate your efforts here" seems like it has to have a double meaning, and absolutely anything they say to you is a test so that you should work harder.
10. Like you are standing by the window of a huge skyscraper. You feel the vertigo and your pulse quickens as you look at the cars below, scared of the height but then also wondering what it is like to fall, with only the clear glass separating you from a vast world and space that goes on for longer than you can comprehend. Except you experience this while on the couch, in the shower, or in bed, realizing that you aren't in a tall building at all.
I smile subtly as I finish this, for it feels like I have taken a chunk of words out of my chest and spread them in front of me for other people to sniff and poke. It feels good, and I kind of feel good. I hope that, like my essay I was so scared to put in the open before, someone can read this and think "Yes, I get this! Do you get this? It's going to be okay." And it is.
I hope that we all avoid the deep end of the pool as much as possible today,
Jordan
Sunday, August 9, 2015
(Better) Questions To Ask Your Significant Other
A few weeks ago, I noticed a somewhat viral "copy and paste" questionnaire that women were putting in their Facebook status updates. The rules were simple, you had to ask your significant other questions about yourself, and put their answers. The list was long, awkward, and honestly unintentionally hysterical. You had to type exactly what your S.O. said, answering questions like "What is my wife/girlfriend's biggest fear" or "favorite thing to do?" The only thing weirder than this strange ~relationship test~ was the fact that I willingly and creepily read the bizarre results of each participator that I could find.
I was mostly blown away by some of the conceited responses from the boyfriends' end. For example, to the "favorite thing to do" question that I previously mentioned, one boyfriend stated "Spending time with me". I laughed out loud, wondering if the girl blushed and batted her eyelashes as she typed those words into the little white box at the top of her Facebook feed, thinking Oh, he knows me so well. I highly doubt that ANY person's favorite hobby is spending time with another person. It does not matter if they are the love of your life, or make you extremely happy-- but jeez, no one is that great. My favorite thing to do? Eating cookie dough in my bed while watching multiple episodes of "Sex And The City". (I mean, someone else could be there if they wanted, but the situation is far more religious if I am by myself)
I took all of these questions into consideration and decided to come up with a more effective list. I have even asked my poor boyfriend some of these questions, to his dismay, because he is often caught off guard by my abstract thought balloons that pop in his face while he is just trying to eat mini donuts and watch Jeopardy. However, no matter who you are currently dating, I think that these questions will give you the results that you were hoping for.
Questions To Ask Your Significant Other
1. If you found out that I was missing, how exactly would you describe my physical appearance to the police?
(To this one, my boyfriend said "Short and curvy with long wavy hair and blue eyes". I was hoping for more of an answer like "A sprite-like face with a sprinkling of freckles, beachy waves of dark brown hair that cascade down her hour-glass figure, small feet and hands that appear childlike, reflecting her wondrous spirit and demeanor, and two slightly crooked teeth that add to her character and make her seem easy to relate to")
2. If I randomly and magically turned into a puppy, would you keep me as a pet?
(He said "No, because that would never happen". I, however, am still not ruling it out.)
3. How about a fish? Would you buy me all of those tank decorations, like the small castles and mermaids and stuff because it would probably make me happier since I have to be a fish now?
4. If I was a mythical creature, what would I be and why?
5. Does my singing voice sound like a famous person's singing voice?
(He said no and I was not happy because the right answer is obviously "A Christina Aguilera/Idina Menzel hybrid")
6. If I died would you try to contact with my ghost by any means possible and forever mourn my death and probably never date anyone again?
7. If you could see me existing and thriving in any television series universe, what would it be?
8. Do you think that I would survive during a zombie apocalypse? Would you kill me if I was a zombie or put me in a cage and keep me as your zombie girlfriend/boyfriend/partner?
(He said "No. And no, I would kill you." UH I WOULD TOTALLY SURVIVE because I am already paranoid/cautious as hell and great at hiding. And I would make a cute zombie girlfriend with like a skull bow or something.)
9. If you could be a cartoon and marry any other cartoon, which one would you pick?
(Mine would totally be Dean McCoppin from The Iron Giant.)
~And finally~
10. In a Neverending Story situation, if I was your horse Artax would you actually let me die in the Swamp of Sadness or would you risk your life to save me instead of just staring and crying about it like Atreyu did?
------
Don't raise your expectations too high,
Jordan
7. If you could see me existing and thriving in any television series universe, what would it be?
8. Do you think that I would survive during a zombie apocalypse? Would you kill me if I was a zombie or put me in a cage and keep me as your zombie girlfriend/boyfriend/partner?
(He said "No. And no, I would kill you." UH I WOULD TOTALLY SURVIVE because I am already paranoid/cautious as hell and great at hiding. And I would make a cute zombie girlfriend with like a skull bow or something.)
9. If you could be a cartoon and marry any other cartoon, which one would you pick?
(Mine would totally be Dean McCoppin from The Iron Giant.)
~And finally~
10. In a Neverending Story situation, if I was your horse Artax would you actually let me die in the Swamp of Sadness or would you risk your life to save me instead of just staring and crying about it like Atreyu did?
------
Don't raise your expectations too high,
Jordan
Sunday, July 19, 2015
3 Reasons That My Childhood Basement Is Haunted (Or That Toy Story Is Real)
My eighteen-year-old sister has an averagely nice boyfriend, who takes her on averagely nice dates and buys her averagely nice gifts for her birthday and just-because. My family decidedly likes him, and I have therefore recently made more of an effort to hang out with them both. We chat, and they tell stories of their technological woes, instagram drama, snapchat stories, etc, while I continously sound like I am 80 with remarks like "Just think, when I was just a little younger than you I had to go to the public library to print off my school work!" or "I used to have a flip phone with limited texting, and it only texted in capital letters so I looked like I was angry all the time!"
Why do I say these things? It makes my sister and averagely nice boyfriend feel slightly uncomfortable (because they don't know why I am saying them either), and somehow makes me feel ~more than~ slightly wise, or like I have a chiseled character because I didn't have a printer in my house or internet until middle school. Perhaps this is why the generations before me have said similar things to people my age, about party-line phones or playing jacks down by the soda fountain--to feel better about themselves that things used to be a little more inconvenient. (Knowing that I had to beg my parents to take me to the library and then pay ten cents to print off a book-report made me the person that I am today, probably). However, the type of satisfaction that we really get is saying in an underlying way, "You don't know how easy you have it, you little shits."
And I know, I know, I really had it easy too. But it's still fun.
These conversations eventually lead to me talking about the dinosaur of AIM instant messaging, and how I would spend hours in the basement talking to up to seven different friends. My heart would leap when the creaking, opening door sound was made, and I saw that my crush was now online. I would spend hours trying to make my profile super cool with ambiguous and angsty alternative rock lyrics, or a sprinkle of inside jokes to make anyone else reading it think "She is so interesting and random, wow!" And then the away message--that was another ball game entirely.
Honestly, I still think that instant messenger should exist as a primary form of communication. It was awesome.
With the instant messenger, I inevitably also start talking about our creepy basement, mostly at my sister's request. Our childhood computer was located downstairs in the "play room". Outside of the playroom was a saloon style restroom (thanks to my mother and her interior design creativity) that goes against a full stocked bar. The bar proceeds a foosball table and pinball machine, which leads to a Speed Racer slot machine, big screen T.V. (with surround sound, ~ooooh~), and a "music room" that has a keyboard, drum set, and boxes of records and cassette tapes mixed with a plethora of holiday decorations and an old work-out stationary bike. So basically, our basement is in fact not creepy at all. It was finished with a blue-grey carpet, there are leather couches and a red velvet love-seat, and enough Ohio-State novelty items to make Woody Hayes blush.
However, a basement is a basement, no matter how nice, and when seventh grade me sat downstairs feverishly typing in chat rooms and listening to Panic! At The Disco, it could be terrifying. To conserve electricity, I would often only have the playroom light on, and leave the door to that room open so that our internet could stay connected to my father's work computer upstairs. I'd make an effort to stare straight ahead at the screen, and not turn to the right to look out into the black abyss, or think about a scaly hand reaching from the wall beside my head and grabbing my face (like I saw in a horrible movie that I rented from Blockbuster years prior, RIP Blockbuster).
So here I would be, at ages 13 and 14 (the reign of the AOL instant messenger), scared out of my wits while "typin lyk dis" to all of my friends--which is honestly scarier than anything that I am about to tell you. But, my little sister delights in hearing the following tales, dealing with children's toys, that indeed confirm that my childhood basement is haunted (or that Toy Story is real).
Reason One: Mommy, please!
To the left of the computer desk was a large, Fisher-Price toy chest that contained beanie babies, McDonald's happy meal plush toys, and multiple baby dolls. While taking a break from the screen, I decided to open up the chest one evening, while in the basement alone, and view toys that I had not played with in years. On top, was who used to be my favorite doll, Sally. Sally once wore cute patterned overalls and had pigtails in ringlet curls, but now was naked, only wearing the weird white leotard looking things that naked dolls often do, and had matted hair that had apparently fallen out in parts. I noticed also, to my dismay, that part of her mouth and nose had been chewed off by a mouse. Essentially, she looked horrifying, which stirred my pity and nostalgia even more. "Oh, Sally," I whispered, "What happened to you?"
Another fun thing about Sally is that if you squeezed her abdomen hard enough, she would say in an adorable voice: "Mommy, please! Let's play house!" with a surprising amount of colorful intonation. I smiled at remembering this, feeling like there was a spotlight on me and my childhood friend, as I gave her rough-body a squeeze.
"Mommy please," she began, with half a face and less than a full head of hair, "LETS PLAY HOUSE" her voice contorted, in a rumbling, statically, deep way that made me throw her and run upstairs screaming. I realized later that her motor simply had gone bad, and she sounded so from a lack of use, but I am also not ruling out the possibility that it was a demon speaking to me from my doll. You know, just maybe.
Reason Two: Go Buckeyes!
I previously mentioned the bar and Ohio-State decor, and included in that was a little Brutus The Buckeye that cutely yelled "Go Buckeyes!" or played the OSU fight song when thrown on the ground. He sat at the bar, next to a series of bobbleheads, and was exclusively used during games. During a dark night of messaging and working on my Myspace top friends list, I was interrupted by an abrupt "Go Buckeyes!"
My heart felt like it had been electrocuted, and my fingers began to sweat against the keys. I figured it was a fluke, or that I imagined Brutus cheering after hearing him so many times before. About a minute later, I could hear, loud and proud, the OSU fight song piercing the dark air of the basement. I slowly got up, switched on the lights leading to the bar, and walked over to see if my sister was playing a trick on me. But there was Brutus, smiling, looking straight into my soul with his embroidered eyes. Again, I ran upstairs screaming.
Like the doll, it is certainly possible that his motor was glitching and went off without being pounded on the ground. OR, Brutus was evil and should be burned in the fire place. I haven't touched him since.
Reason Three: Yuuuum!
Behind the computer desk is a wall divider that has a built-in puppet window (for shows and the like). On top of the divider sits simple art projects, and two old Furbies. Both Furtbies had the batteries removed, because we once ago decided that there was no other way to keep them quiet. They had laid dormant for years, staring at the back of my head as I typed away.
Until one evening, when I head a mechanical creak, like a tiny machine was moving. I turned in my chair slowly to notice that one of the Furby's ears were moving up and down. I thought I imagined it, but they kept going, until the Furby let out a ferocious "Yuuuuummm!!!" LIKE IT WANTED TO BE FED.
And, like the times before, I ran upstairs screaming. I later checked, and there were still no batteries inside the toy. I have no explanation for this one.
*****
Now, I can finally go into our basement without feeling as scared (10 years later), but still avoid looking at the Furbies, or opening my toy chest. In fact, I usually stay away from the play room all together, and my sister tends to do the same after my stories.
And everything that I have said is true. I can play the moments in my head over and over, sometimes laughing and other times getting seriously freaked out.
And well, that's my story.
Believe it, or not.
Jordan
Why do I say these things? It makes my sister and averagely nice boyfriend feel slightly uncomfortable (because they don't know why I am saying them either), and somehow makes me feel ~more than~ slightly wise, or like I have a chiseled character because I didn't have a printer in my house or internet until middle school. Perhaps this is why the generations before me have said similar things to people my age, about party-line phones or playing jacks down by the soda fountain--to feel better about themselves that things used to be a little more inconvenient. (Knowing that I had to beg my parents to take me to the library and then pay ten cents to print off a book-report made me the person that I am today, probably). However, the type of satisfaction that we really get is saying in an underlying way, "You don't know how easy you have it, you little shits."
And I know, I know, I really had it easy too. But it's still fun.
These conversations eventually lead to me talking about the dinosaur of AIM instant messaging, and how I would spend hours in the basement talking to up to seven different friends. My heart would leap when the creaking, opening door sound was made, and I saw that my crush was now online. I would spend hours trying to make my profile super cool with ambiguous and angsty alternative rock lyrics, or a sprinkle of inside jokes to make anyone else reading it think "She is so interesting and random, wow!" And then the away message--that was another ball game entirely.
Honestly, I still think that instant messenger should exist as a primary form of communication. It was awesome.
With the instant messenger, I inevitably also start talking about our creepy basement, mostly at my sister's request. Our childhood computer was located downstairs in the "play room". Outside of the playroom was a saloon style restroom (thanks to my mother and her interior design creativity) that goes against a full stocked bar. The bar proceeds a foosball table and pinball machine, which leads to a Speed Racer slot machine, big screen T.V. (with surround sound, ~ooooh~), and a "music room" that has a keyboard, drum set, and boxes of records and cassette tapes mixed with a plethora of holiday decorations and an old work-out stationary bike. So basically, our basement is in fact not creepy at all. It was finished with a blue-grey carpet, there are leather couches and a red velvet love-seat, and enough Ohio-State novelty items to make Woody Hayes blush.
However, a basement is a basement, no matter how nice, and when seventh grade me sat downstairs feverishly typing in chat rooms and listening to Panic! At The Disco, it could be terrifying. To conserve electricity, I would often only have the playroom light on, and leave the door to that room open so that our internet could stay connected to my father's work computer upstairs. I'd make an effort to stare straight ahead at the screen, and not turn to the right to look out into the black abyss, or think about a scaly hand reaching from the wall beside my head and grabbing my face (like I saw in a horrible movie that I rented from Blockbuster years prior, RIP Blockbuster).
So here I would be, at ages 13 and 14 (the reign of the AOL instant messenger), scared out of my wits while "typin lyk dis" to all of my friends--which is honestly scarier than anything that I am about to tell you. But, my little sister delights in hearing the following tales, dealing with children's toys, that indeed confirm that my childhood basement is haunted (or that Toy Story is real).
Reason One: Mommy, please!
To the left of the computer desk was a large, Fisher-Price toy chest that contained beanie babies, McDonald's happy meal plush toys, and multiple baby dolls. While taking a break from the screen, I decided to open up the chest one evening, while in the basement alone, and view toys that I had not played with in years. On top, was who used to be my favorite doll, Sally. Sally once wore cute patterned overalls and had pigtails in ringlet curls, but now was naked, only wearing the weird white leotard looking things that naked dolls often do, and had matted hair that had apparently fallen out in parts. I noticed also, to my dismay, that part of her mouth and nose had been chewed off by a mouse. Essentially, she looked horrifying, which stirred my pity and nostalgia even more. "Oh, Sally," I whispered, "What happened to you?"
Another fun thing about Sally is that if you squeezed her abdomen hard enough, she would say in an adorable voice: "Mommy, please! Let's play house!" with a surprising amount of colorful intonation. I smiled at remembering this, feeling like there was a spotlight on me and my childhood friend, as I gave her rough-body a squeeze.
"Mommy please," she began, with half a face and less than a full head of hair, "LETS PLAY HOUSE" her voice contorted, in a rumbling, statically, deep way that made me throw her and run upstairs screaming. I realized later that her motor simply had gone bad, and she sounded so from a lack of use, but I am also not ruling out the possibility that it was a demon speaking to me from my doll. You know, just maybe.
Reason Two: Go Buckeyes!
I previously mentioned the bar and Ohio-State decor, and included in that was a little Brutus The Buckeye that cutely yelled "Go Buckeyes!" or played the OSU fight song when thrown on the ground. He sat at the bar, next to a series of bobbleheads, and was exclusively used during games. During a dark night of messaging and working on my Myspace top friends list, I was interrupted by an abrupt "Go Buckeyes!"
My heart felt like it had been electrocuted, and my fingers began to sweat against the keys. I figured it was a fluke, or that I imagined Brutus cheering after hearing him so many times before. About a minute later, I could hear, loud and proud, the OSU fight song piercing the dark air of the basement. I slowly got up, switched on the lights leading to the bar, and walked over to see if my sister was playing a trick on me. But there was Brutus, smiling, looking straight into my soul with his embroidered eyes. Again, I ran upstairs screaming.
Like the doll, it is certainly possible that his motor was glitching and went off without being pounded on the ground. OR, Brutus was evil and should be burned in the fire place. I haven't touched him since.
Reason Three: Yuuuum!
Behind the computer desk is a wall divider that has a built-in puppet window (for shows and the like). On top of the divider sits simple art projects, and two old Furbies. Both Furtbies had the batteries removed, because we once ago decided that there was no other way to keep them quiet. They had laid dormant for years, staring at the back of my head as I typed away.
Until one evening, when I head a mechanical creak, like a tiny machine was moving. I turned in my chair slowly to notice that one of the Furby's ears were moving up and down. I thought I imagined it, but they kept going, until the Furby let out a ferocious "Yuuuuummm!!!" LIKE IT WANTED TO BE FED.
And, like the times before, I ran upstairs screaming. I later checked, and there were still no batteries inside the toy. I have no explanation for this one.
*****
Now, I can finally go into our basement without feeling as scared (10 years later), but still avoid looking at the Furbies, or opening my toy chest. In fact, I usually stay away from the play room all together, and my sister tends to do the same after my stories.
And everything that I have said is true. I can play the moments in my head over and over, sometimes laughing and other times getting seriously freaked out.
And well, that's my story.
Believe it, or not.
Jordan
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Geography Lesson One: Ohio and Pennsylvania Are Neighboring States
The Thursday before Independence Day weekend, my boyfriend and myself drove the seven and a half hours to Philadelphia to visit a close friend. I had been to Pennsylvania a handful of times in the past, and even to Pittsburgh (which I consider a larger city), but had never been to Philadelphia. Our friend, Orey, had lived in the city for a little over a year, working as a supervisor for a tourism company and taking graduate classes, working toward his Masters in Creative Writing.
We were thrilled to visit Philadelphia, one of the most populated cities in the United States, and also nervous about how we would fit in. Orey had previously warned us that Philadelphia natives can easily identify people that are tourists, especially midwesterners. He had been outed as an Ohioan on a few occasions, once after saying "Bless you" to a complete stranger after they sneezed, and other times for starting a friendly conversation in public. In Philadelphia, small-talk does not exist, and sneezing is apparently a private matter.
"Where are you from?" they would ask him.
"I live in West Philly." he'd reply.
"Yeah, but you're not from here." they'd insist.
The week before we left, Orey requested that we each send him a wish-list of things we wanted to do. The first two things on my list were "TACO BELL" and "LIBERTY BELL". (In college, the three of us frequented Taco Bell more times then I care to admit, and I am a sucker for any historical landmarks). Orey excitedly showed his co-workers our wish lists, which warranted a response of skepticism and judgment. "Do all people in Ohio like Taco Bell?" one asked. "They really like to eat, just like you" said another. Orey later reported to me that many of his coworkers had never experienced Taco Bell in their lives. What do they eat? Are they rich or something? were the first two questions that I blurted, to which he responded "I just don't know. People are different here. A lot of them that I met don't even realize that Ohio is right next to Pennsylvania." (I later spoke with a little girl while getting a Philly cheese steak who didn't know what Ohio was, and thought it was a suburb of Philadelphia)
Not that I use fast-food as a major component my identity, but I was certainly taken aback. When we first got to the city, we drove to pick Orey up at his place of work.
"Here we go..." I said to my boyfriend teasingly. "You are just a country boy and I am a dough-eyed midwestern girl, taking on the big city."
"Uh, I am not a country boy." he replied, scanning his eyes across the narrow roads.
"Living in Columbus for four years doesn't count, you are still from the middle of nowhere" I replied smuggly, attempting to see the tops of the skyscrapers that ran past the car windows.
Early on in our trip, we met Orey's co-workers and friends. He introduced us as his "Ohio friends", but I decided to ham it up anyway. I was overly friendly, super smiley, and tried to sneak in as many "bless you"s and "excuse me"s as I could. Outside of meeting his coworkers, when I waited in lines at the bathroom, I attempted to start conversations with the women standing next to me. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. At other times, I walked aggressively past others on the city streets, grazing shoulders or bumping handbags without an apology. I didn't smile or nod to children or the elderly that shuffled on by, attempting to blend in.
When I previously traveled to France and Ireland, I desperately tried to appear European. I wore darker colors, didn't carry a map, and turned my insides while trying to keep my face calm and neutral while walking through an exciting, beautiful new place. I didn't want to stick out. However, in Philly, I found that it was easier to be cheerful than to blend in. Of course, I should clarify that Philadelphians are not rude, horrible, or unfriendly. I met wonderful people who were helpful and enjoyable to be around, but the difference in culture between the midwest and the east coast is notable. Nevertheless, in Philly, in America, I no longer wished to mesh with what was around me. I wanted everyone to know that I was from Columbus, Ohio, where we sell cow novelty items and John Deere hats in our airports. Let Orey's coworkers know that I love imitation Mexican Food, and that I have never seen the Liberty Bell in my life but dreamed of the moment when I would lay my eyes upon its cracked glory.
So, I wore a hot air balloon patterned dress and ran to the top of the Philadelphia Museum of Art Steps..AKA, THE ROCKY STAIRS!
I repeatedly asked "What is the difference between a Water Ice and Italian Ice? I don't get it?"
I cried during a 3D informational film at Orey's work that was narrated by a Benjamin Franklin impersonator.
And then again at Al Calpone's cell at Eastern State Penitentiary.
And when I saw Independence Hall.
And finally when we found a cute baby bird on a porch in Society Hill.
By the end of the weekend, I loved it. The history, the architecture, but mostly experiencing how another sect of America lives and functions in the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection. Plus, it was way cool to experience the Fourth of July in the city where the Declaration of Independence was signed. I also got to wait for an Uber by the real Benjamin Franklin's grave.
We had an awesome time.
Bless you, Philadelphia,
Jordan
We were thrilled to visit Philadelphia, one of the most populated cities in the United States, and also nervous about how we would fit in. Orey had previously warned us that Philadelphia natives can easily identify people that are tourists, especially midwesterners. He had been outed as an Ohioan on a few occasions, once after saying "Bless you" to a complete stranger after they sneezed, and other times for starting a friendly conversation in public. In Philadelphia, small-talk does not exist, and sneezing is apparently a private matter.
"Where are you from?" they would ask him.
"I live in West Philly." he'd reply.
"Yeah, but you're not from here." they'd insist.
The week before we left, Orey requested that we each send him a wish-list of things we wanted to do. The first two things on my list were "TACO BELL" and "LIBERTY BELL". (In college, the three of us frequented Taco Bell more times then I care to admit, and I am a sucker for any historical landmarks). Orey excitedly showed his co-workers our wish lists, which warranted a response of skepticism and judgment. "Do all people in Ohio like Taco Bell?" one asked. "They really like to eat, just like you" said another. Orey later reported to me that many of his coworkers had never experienced Taco Bell in their lives. What do they eat? Are they rich or something? were the first two questions that I blurted, to which he responded "I just don't know. People are different here. A lot of them that I met don't even realize that Ohio is right next to Pennsylvania." (I later spoke with a little girl while getting a Philly cheese steak who didn't know what Ohio was, and thought it was a suburb of Philadelphia)
Not that I use fast-food as a major component my identity, but I was certainly taken aback. When we first got to the city, we drove to pick Orey up at his place of work.
"Here we go..." I said to my boyfriend teasingly. "You are just a country boy and I am a dough-eyed midwestern girl, taking on the big city."
"Uh, I am not a country boy." he replied, scanning his eyes across the narrow roads.
"Living in Columbus for four years doesn't count, you are still from the middle of nowhere" I replied smuggly, attempting to see the tops of the skyscrapers that ran past the car windows.
Early on in our trip, we met Orey's co-workers and friends. He introduced us as his "Ohio friends", but I decided to ham it up anyway. I was overly friendly, super smiley, and tried to sneak in as many "bless you"s and "excuse me"s as I could. Outside of meeting his coworkers, when I waited in lines at the bathroom, I attempted to start conversations with the women standing next to me. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. At other times, I walked aggressively past others on the city streets, grazing shoulders or bumping handbags without an apology. I didn't smile or nod to children or the elderly that shuffled on by, attempting to blend in.
When I previously traveled to France and Ireland, I desperately tried to appear European. I wore darker colors, didn't carry a map, and turned my insides while trying to keep my face calm and neutral while walking through an exciting, beautiful new place. I didn't want to stick out. However, in Philly, I found that it was easier to be cheerful than to blend in. Of course, I should clarify that Philadelphians are not rude, horrible, or unfriendly. I met wonderful people who were helpful and enjoyable to be around, but the difference in culture between the midwest and the east coast is notable. Nevertheless, in Philly, in America, I no longer wished to mesh with what was around me. I wanted everyone to know that I was from Columbus, Ohio, where we sell cow novelty items and John Deere hats in our airports. Let Orey's coworkers know that I love imitation Mexican Food, and that I have never seen the Liberty Bell in my life but dreamed of the moment when I would lay my eyes upon its cracked glory.
So, I wore a hot air balloon patterned dress and ran to the top of the Philadelphia Museum of Art Steps..AKA, THE ROCKY STAIRS!
I repeatedly asked "What is the difference between a Water Ice and Italian Ice? I don't get it?"
I cried during a 3D informational film at Orey's work that was narrated by a Benjamin Franklin impersonator.
And then again at Al Calpone's cell at Eastern State Penitentiary.
And when I saw Independence Hall.
And finally when we found a cute baby bird on a porch in Society Hill.
By the end of the weekend, I loved it. The history, the architecture, but mostly experiencing how another sect of America lives and functions in the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection. Plus, it was way cool to experience the Fourth of July in the city where the Declaration of Independence was signed. I also got to wait for an Uber by the real Benjamin Franklin's grave.
We had an awesome time.
Bless you, Philadelphia,Jordan
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