“Back To The Future” and Breakups

There is something to be said for receiving a curveball of an email from an ex months later, once the smoke has cleared and your fiery temper has cooled to the touch. It causes the subconscious to wander a bit, enticing you to sift through the rubble of a relationship that burned to the ground suddenly and swiftly. Myself? I slide into the role of relationship archaeologist, analyzing the artifacts, piecing a failed romance back together to determine what led to its ruin and putting it to rest once more.

Time travel should be executed by professional mad scientists– not the broken-hearted.

For some, this is an invitation to attempt to rebuild on scorched earth. I regard backsliding such as this as “having ‘Back to the Future’ syndrome.” Unhappy in your sad, single present, your ex’s apology forces you to time travel to the past where you can explore the opportunity to set things straight and change the future. Why the past? Because accepting the apology requires you to deceive yourself into thinking the relationship is starting prior to the treacherous act that led to the breakup– you can no longer hold it against them. You have to be cocky enough to believe that the space/time continuum will bend its inflexible rules to suit your romantic desires, that you are capable of the “forget” part of “forgive and forget.” (Unless you’ve had the heart equivalent of a lobotomy, this is unlikely.)

This doodle is my “In Case of Emergency, Break Glass.” Works every time.

Why do we shove the Ben & Jerry’s back into the freezer and grab the keys to the DeLorean? Because we miss the comfort of a simpler time– one when we felt loved, carefree, and (most important of all) safe. As exciting and passionate as love can be, one of its most appealing attributes is the sense of safety it provides. When you are in a healthy relationship, you feel that you know your place in the world– that spot next to your partner in crime. You want to exist in a time when you lived in a cozy cocoon of blind faith.

Once they have ripped your heart out and fed it to wild dogs while laughing maniacally and mocking your tears (usually to the song that was playing the first time you kissed), executing a “do over” is a bitch. You must trick yourself into thinking you can go to a time when you didn’t question motives, when you didn’t need to consider the duplicity of their feelings. The dilemma, my friends, is that moment in time does not exist. You will never again not know what they have done, who they can be. From a front row seat, you have seen the treachery they are capable of and have learned how deeply they will hurt you without a second thought on what it will reduce you to.

I’ll take Indy’s hat/whip combo over Marty’s shoes/hoverboard combo any day of the week.

After two hilariously bad back-to-back breakups last year, I opted to take a year off from dating to avoid adding even more insanity to the movie script my love life will inevitably result in. (Note to self: Convince Judd Apatow and Nora Ephron to produce a wunderkind together to direct this for you.) Unintentionally and without premeditation, I have mastered the art of bizarre breakup scenes. Standing barefoot in my pajamas in three inches of snow at 7a.m. A heated argument during an episode of The Golden Girls. While the guy in question was en route to a date with a girl he’d met after telling me he was in love with me for the first time the night before. And let us not forget “The Magic: The Gathering” conference incident. (Honestly, when you tell me you’re out of pocket for the weekend because of job training and I later find out you’re somewhere dressed up as a level seven orc…? -100 Integrity, asshole.)

What I have learned from introspection in my time out of the game is this: I would rather be an archaeologist than a time traveler. I am more Indiana Jones than Marty McFly– I prefer to examine my past failures from a coolly academic perspective rather than treat time as my playground. For a woman who is not religious in the slightest, I do believe things happen for a reason. If it was meant to be, it would have been. If it didn’t work out, it’s clearing space in your life for something better. After all, not only does nature not give second chances (Darwinism, anyone?), great civilizations are built on the ruins of those that collapsed.

 

Happiness Is A Greased Pig

Heaven is a beer as dark as the thoughts only your therapist or anonymous LiveJournal account can handle.

About a month ago, a friend asked me to meet up with him for a pint or two on a patio somewhere to talk about life. We had both made some life-altering decisions since the last time we had hung out, and what better way to celebrate than to wax philosophical over a couple cold ones?

Side note: When I moved to Texas and had exactly zero people in my social circle, I learned this was a fantastic way to expand it. It became slightly formulaic: Meet someone. Sense a connection. Invite them for a beer. Browse extensive menu while discussing how you have a weakness for brews infused with apricots, chocolate, or green tea. Drink and let the conversation flow. If both parties find it agreeable, repeat as necessary.

Having just chosen to move back to Kentucky for graduate school, I was in the best mood. The kind where you can’t stop grinning. The kind where everything and everyone is just awesome. I was probably on the verge of high-fiving strangers, skipping down the sidewalk, or forgetting my life was not, in fact, a musical and bursting into song. When I have a plan, when there is a clear goal that I am working toward, I become alive. For about a month or so there, while waiting to hear back from various programs, I was in this disagreeably murky, uncertain place known as “limbo”. Let us all be honest for once– “limbo” is basically Italian for “hell”. No one in the history of mankind has ever been stuck in that particular waiting room, giddily flipping through back issues of Highlights magazine as opposed to staring down a clock wondering if its batteries have been replaced since 1985.

After listening to him walk me through the steps of something he will be tackling soon and offering advice to smooth out some of the rough patches, I outlined the steps necessary to get my stuff from Houston to Louisville by myself in less than three months’ time. I was probably smiling that goofy grin of mine as I navigated Craigslisting furniture I am willing to part with, shopping around for a new bachelorette pad, even manning that big old moving truck once again. Planning and executing something of this scale forces me to push myself which, in turn, makes me absurdly happy. I need to be challenged.

He took a thoughtful sip of his beer, and said, “I’ve only known you a year, but I feel like I have you figured out. Mostly. But what I don’t understand, what I have yet to grasp, is how you do it. The independent thing. How do you do that and stay so fucking cheerful?” His eyes sparkled and his lips curled upward into a playful smile.

A bunker made of bedding can protect you from many blows, but not the truth.

Ah, yes– THAT. Happiness. It’s not an easy thing, is it? Almost as elusive as the snipe at times. But I believe that clever little quote I read on someone’s tumblr (Or was it cross-stitched on a pillow? Maybe printed on a motivational poster in someone’s office?): “Happiness is a decision.” Truth, son. You do not get to choose the outcomes to every scenario you face, but you do get to choose how you respond. Happiness IS a decision– a decision to fight. Things get tough and you want to build a pillow fort and pout as opposed to survey the field and draft a better battle strategy? That’s on you. You are the architect of your own foam-core fortress and emotional demise both.

Now, how I summed this up to him in my tipsy state…? “You know how Charles Schultz said “Happiness is a warm puppy”? I think it’s a greased pig– like in one of those competitions at the county fair. You know– you’re chasing something slippery and damn near impossible to catch. You’re gonna get dirty. Possibly hurt. And there are all these other people trying to keep you from winning. You’ll probably make an utter ass of yourself at least once or twice. But you have to try because they don’t hand out blue ribbons to people eating corn dogs in the stands, now do they?”

When you claim you want something, ask yourself if you're willing to look like this fighting for it.

Perhaps not my best metaphor, but I am a small woman who becomes buzzed rather easily. At my 26th birthday party, a bit too deep into the margaritas, I couldn’t remember the word “novel”, pointed to my comic books, and called them “graphic waffles.” *shrugs* We do the best we can.

You can sit in the stands of your own life and let other people chase ugly pigs to score pretty blue ribbons (and thus happiness!)– or you can take a chance of looking like a total fool to win’ em yourself. Me? I’m the kind of woman who pulls on her pig-chasing overalls (I’m guessing that’s what one wears to such an event, having never participated or even watched– which leaves me wondering how on earth I made that intellectual leap at 1a.m.). If I love you, I will tell you and risk rejection rather than pining away slowly in silence. If I need a change of pace to clear my head, I will move south on a retail job to make it happen. If attending graduate school means packing up all my worldly belongings and heading back to Kentucky, so be it.

Whatever the prize, I’m willing to face the mud and swine to get my hands on it because to the victors belong the spoils– which hopefully include showers and bacon.

 

Speedometers, Stars, and Shakes

My first love.

It’s nearly 1a.m. here in Houston, and I’ve been curled up in this wrought iron chair on my balcony for quite some time, nursing a Shiner Wild Hare and enjoying the reprieve from the heat and humidity the day brought. A clear night, I can kind of, sort of, maybe make out some stars– though I confess they are probably rooted in my imagination rather than the cosmos. This is the kind of night that, when I was sixteen and had just scored my driver’s license and the keys to an ’85 Jeep Cherokee, I would slip out of the house quietly for a drive to clear my head by filling it with impossibly loud (and equally bad) music. Sometimes I would end up at Steak ‘n Shake for a Cookies ‘n Cream shake; sometimes I didn’t need a destination.

Driving– it’s on my top five list of things I love most about being alive. The rest of that list being (in no particular order and not including people because it would be longer than a “thank you” speech at the Grammys) : bookstores, sex, writing, and pumpkin pie.

And they say happiness isn't quantifiable...

There is something to be said for the feeling of your hands gripping a steering wheel, the sound of gravel crunching under your tires, the subtle roar of tires over asphalt. And the surge of speed as you gently press down on the gas pedal? My God, it is addictive. The hum of the cars that you pass, the carefree way you sing along to the music you crank as you zip down the freeway?  Great stuff. The daughter of a mechanic and a girl who gets a little claustrophobic in her own mind sometimes, I learned early on that driving feels like what going to church would if I were religious or therapy would if I admitted the degree to which I am crazy. It’s a sort of spiritual experience that soothes the wrinkles in my conscience and answers the questions that plague me. Being on the open road allows me a chance to sort through my thoughts and make peace. When you grow up in a house as full and loud as mine was, you appreciate treks down red dirt roads in the middle of nowhere at a time of night when good girls are supposed to be in bed.

Also awesome? Night skies that are clear enough to see the clouds.

That I am writing this (as I do most posts) in the wee small hours of the night is typical of me. As the rest of the world is crawling underneath covers and letting their minds drift off, my brain comes alive. I am hopelessly in love with the quiet of the apartment and the pitch black of the night sky (In theory, that is. In Houston, there is no such thing as an inky night sky pierced with white hot stars. I miss clear, starry skies something fierce, y’all.)

When you tell me you hate driving (and it’s inevitable, really, as so many people do), I am amused and a little sad. Driving takes me to places I’ve never been, to people I love dearly. It opens up my world. Dare I say it, if given the choice between driving or flying, and time were not an issue, I would choose driving.

When you're surrounded by concrete most of the time, how can you not fall in love with rural Texas in the spring?

Admittedly, the stop-and-go nature of the inner city (with speed limits of 35mph) leaves me lusting for open roads. I dated a guy from Austin for maybe three months last spring, and I suppose 40% of that relationship was my loving the route between our two cities. He was an adorable distraction with his hazel eyes and a need to show me what “real” Texas BBQ was, but it was doomed from the start.  No regrets, though, given all the quaint general stores, fields covered in bluebonnets, the roadside vegetable stands, and the time I saw a real armadillo crossing the road.

Moving to Texas completely alone was one of the most liberating– albeit terrifying– things I have done so far in life. Being a thousand miles from the people that know you best and starting over is more than a bit intimidating– especially when you spent your childhood in a tiny town that reminds you of Mayberry and now live in one of the largest cities in the nation. Driving the 16 foot Budget rental truck loaded with all my worldly possessions through rush hour traffic to the epicenter of Houston was a harrowing experience that should have earned me the adult equivalent of some Girl Scout badge. Then again, those first few days, I hid out in the condo during the daytime. We can sugarcoat it and say it was to unpack, but mostly, I was terrified of trying to navigate the freeways. Going from two lane highways in Louisville to five- and six-lane freeways here became a crash course (thank God, not literally!) in defensive driving. Not one to cower in the face of something daunting for too long, I’d grab my keys at night, pop my GPS into place, and just drive until the fear began to dissipate.

Just another day in H-Town.

Now, I won’t pretend I’m brilliant with figuring out where I am geographically some eighteen months later (you’d see right through me). I can get lost within blocks of my own apartment– I have before. Every time I get into the driver’s seat, it’s my own personal dizzy bat game– I know where I want to go, but struggle getting there without a little help. The goal was to get over the crippling fear of dense traffic– not attempt the impossible.

Twelve years and three vehicles later, the late night driving (and the occasional resulting milkshake) has yet to lose its appeal. It’s as if the clock strikes midnight, and I turn into my sixteen year old self again. My desire to be behind the wheel manifests itself into an almost physical need. I try to suppress it, but before long, I’m shoving my feet into sneakers and reaching for my bag.

Let’s be real here: the late shift at Whataburger practically knows me by name now– and that I always want a small chocolate malted.

God DID bless Texas-- with Whataburger.

 

I Miss Your Voice– Not Your Font

If it could access Facebook, it would get more action.

It is with the deepest of regrets that I must inform you that the art of conversation is dying. Among the myriad of contributing causes is the abandonment of face-to-face interaction in favor of texting. Busy “pinning” images to online bulletin boards and playing the latest version of Final Fantasy, society has deemed spending time with those who matter to be less of a priority. The virtual world is far more interesting than that childhood best friend. It’s as if they say, “Hey, is that the new season of Breaking Bad on Netflix? Oh, come on. After all, I texted the party in question twenty minutes ago, you know. Just waiting on a response.”

Texting. If ever there was a more carcinogenic medium of communication, it has escaped my attention. I’m not talking about the “Pick up milk” or “Be there in 5″ type, but the ones that supplant rich storytelling, verbal volleys, and the Q&A sessions we have over coffee. Texts are the conversational equivalent of Cliffs Notes for real life: entire paragraphs of action and analysis are whittled down to mere syllables for “convenience”. But is the time gained worth it…?

The next time you text someone who matters in lieu of dialing and having a meaningful talk in real-time, note how long it takes you to type the message. (It took me less than five seconds to type that sentence– and most texts are much shorter.) Five seconds here, ten seconds there– exchange a handful of texts and you might get a few minutes’ worth of dialogue. This leaves us with a false sense of connection because we are frequently receiving short messages– often spread out over several hours. The constant injection of tiny doses of attention let us delude ourselves into thinking these chats have depth, resolve issues, and enhance the quality of our relationships.

This is for everyone who has misinterpreted a text or an email by assuming the author had used a certain tone, only to learn they had not.

I whole-heartedly disagree. There is something so cold and unnatural about relying on screens to build and maintain our relationships. After all, we are animals, and thus rely on gestures and other nonverbal clues when communicating. Don’t you want to hear your boyfriend laugh? Wouldn’t it help to know you are making someone uncomfortable by the way they avoid your eyes and play with the hem of their shirt sleeve? As humans, we have tools like computers and cell phones that enable us to accomplish things with greater speed and accuracy than we could have the old fashioned way– thus freeing us up to spend time on things that matter. The problem? We apply this multitasking mentality to conversations, too, and therefore rob others of our undivided attention and genuine commentary.

Granted, I am a self-professed iPhone junkie– it makes me feel like I have my entire social network in my pocket. No matter how alone I may be, I may never have to be lonely. And yet, in past romantic relationships, I learned that was not the case. That it became acceptable to rely solely on texting and occasionally “liking” a Facebook status update to supplement actual dates frustrates me. Last spring, I broke up with a guy who loathed the phone and told me (I will paraphrase heavily here as I am sort of a lady) that my texts being typed in sentence format pissed him off. In person, he was a charming, clever guy I could spend hours talking to. But once the date was over, he was reduced to the digital age equivalent of a caveman. Not sexy.

Note the joy on Zack Morris's face as he hears Kelly's voice.

I am done with letting this kind of interaction with people whose company I enjoy persist. We are worth more than a few hastily typed syllables while one of us is watching a basketball game or browsing the toilet paper section in Target. Let us agree that social media is making us decidedly less social, and unplug more often. Whenever possible, our games of Words With Friends should happen old skool style– in coffee shops with dictionaries at hand. Hell, someone flipping the board over in rage alone is worth $4 for whatever liquid candy baristas are peddling these days.

The art of conversation is on life support, people, and it makes me bitchy. Why? I am friends with fascinating people: A music major with an intense passion for black history. An advertising director who runs marathons and goes to more concerts in a month than I do in any given calendar year. A friend who is building his first home from the ground up– by himself. The things these folks expose me to matter deeply as life is too short for me to do it all myself– and it’s impossible to share that kind of experience a few characters here, an emoticon there. Doing so devalues their worth to me and diminishes our relationships.

I have learned this the hard way, mind you. In college, I was initially baffled to hear that my grade could be negatively affected by my not making it to class. If I grasp the material and blow the exams and papers out of the water, what does an empty seat hurt? As if he read my mind, a professor summed it up perfectly: “Academia is a community. By contributing to classroom discussions, you are challenging your classmates’ thoughts just as much as they’re shaping yours. Memorizing material isn’t enough. Discourse is crucial.” Texting allows conversation to become the distraction. When you’re not invested in the conversation, you’re less intellectually present– and no one wins.

Maybe it’s that I will be back in school in a few months and getting older with my friends spread all over the country is making me nostalgic, but you know what I miss? Those deep, slightly pretentious, definitely drunken conversations my friends and I would have in college– the kind where we piled onto ratty old couches or laid across a bed. No television on, maybe some music if turned down low. We were just some kids from different backgrounds, exchanging ideas. Correct me if I am wrong, but that is the best version of Words With Friends on the market.

Furthermore, living across the hall from your best friend? Best thing ever.

 

Intimidating.

Given UT’s Advertising program is consistently ranked in the top three advertising programs in the nation and was named number one by the Journal of Advertising Education in 2010, receiving an admission offer Wednesday blew my mind. I don’t know that I’m on that level, and that they’re willing to give me a chance has me a little freaked out.

I confess that I’ve refreshed the application status page a few times since, worrying my brain played some sort of cruel trick on me. And also that I might have taken a screenshot to eliminate the need to log in *again*.