{comfortable, lived in, & well-worn}

Despite having my desktop set up in my room as a “work space,” I often find myself slacking off while sitting there, projects that would have taken an hour eating up more and more time as I chat, surf, and start going through the stacks of tea cups and Diet Coke bottles that litter the “empty” half. There are some interesting things down there, including Important Papers, and then I’m distracted by them and work kind of….flitters away. 

If you’ve been following me since my move in October, you’ve heard me talk about The Cafe That I Go To. As a former Starbucks barista, I’d been conditioned to go there, or any other chain coffee house, but then I found this one, and wow, does it feel comfortable. For one, none of the chairs really match. There are little pillows on them (and my feet are up on the table’s other chair, the pillow comfy under my bare, clean feet). 

This is where people come to read a book or work on schoolwork. Being so close to Arizona State University at Tempe, there are always students leaning over tables highlighting photocopies or discussing group projects. But you’ll also find the professors in here with heaping stacks of essays to grade (or perhaps that’s just the TA?). There will be moms and children or just friends chatting. Yes, there are more MacBooks than anything else (and I feel like I’ve just been given a seat at the Big Kid’s Table with my “new” one). 

The thing is, no one is really here for a quick cup of coffee. I don’t think most people even get coffee — tea is the norm. No, here, everyone is camped out, their tables littered with all they need, books to reference, empty cups from the last time they got a refill, newspapers, cell phones, notebooks. We’re here for the Long Haul, ensconced at our tables and connected to the very walls with power cords snaking to expanded outlets. There are board games and random old books you can borrow, decks of cards, even a dictionary.

Everything is lived in, comfortable and worn away at the edges, a place where you become a regular after your first visit. 

I know the baristas here, as well as the woman who owns the place. And her sons. And grandson. And husband. It is one of those places were we’re all here to get things done, to belong and enjoy. Fridays, a jazz band plays. Saturdays, it’s game night. 

And for some reason, whenever I come here and unload my bag, put my notebook and markers and tape on the table, open my laptop, get out my cell phone, plug in my headphones to listen to classic rock, I melt into the chair and everything becomes so open and easy, I may simply give up on living in my apartment and just stay here. 

It is so rare, these days, to find a place that just flows with zen. There aren’t many ads. There’s art everywhere. No corporation breathing down your neck, just a family and a bunch of kids who are smart and kind and good at their jobs.  

Makes me wonder why the rest of the world can’t be like this. 

------

A few post-entry notes: 

1. I have added a drop-down link up in the navigation bar to the entries posted to the newsletter. I figured it would be nice to have a little archive of the essays I write (mostly) weekly and send out, as I may soon expand it to being more often (an opt-in option, rest-assured). 

2. I am currently Re-Aligning my website and have decided to do this in real-time. Which means you get to experience the changes as I make them. It may be fun. It may be difficult. But it's something I knew I was ready for (more on this tomorrow). 

{capturing a glimpse of the ideal you}

This all began with a photograph.

I have never truly considered myself beautiful. Pretty, maybe, but not beautiful. My face has scars from an acne-filled adolescence (and 20’s, to be honest, as I’ve never been completely blemish-free). My eyes slope a bit. I have glasses. My top lip curves my mouth into a frown, caused by my younger self playing under a table on vacation and hitting it on the naked metal edge when I came back up to the surface, severing the muscle that holds it down. I haven’t been hugely popular with the guys, and never really had any aspirations to be a beauty queen.

Aging happens gradually when we’re there every day. I still, at times, feel like a college student -- all those freedoms and growing responsibilities -- instead of a woman in her late 20’s.

(And oh, does it hurt to admit that!)

I’ve always felt like a kid pretending to be an adult. There are circumstances in my life that have kept me from some rights of passage, such as getting my own apartment (lasted a few months), having a steady job (part-time only, and only with poor health as a result), going out with friends my age (most of my friends are older than me!). And so, I’ve always felt like an impostor in an older body. I’m blessed with that sought-after You-Look-Younger-Than-You-Are appearance, and I don’t know if that’s genetics or an outward projection of internal feelings.

I spoke last week about striving to be an Ideal You, and when I saw this photograph, I had to stop and look. 

How can that woman possibly be me?

She has the beauty I’ve always wanted. The age and experience in hazel-green eyes. Her hair actually looks good. Brilliant, even. Make-up is just perfect -- not too much, but just enough.

Even a week after finding it, I still find myself looking at the photograph, trying to find some trace of myself in the image. In all honesty, it isn’t a photograph -- it is a still from a video I filmed a few weeks ago, just a random spot I paused on to run from the room for a reason I can no longer remember. But I remember walking back into the room, catching the preview window in the corner of my eye, and feeling my breath catch. 

Now, when I’m ‘faking it ‘till I make it,’ I know that I’ve already made it, and on those days when I feel silly-young or out of my depth, I can just glace over and know reaching my Ideal You isn’t a level you reach and maintain, but one you hit, on your amazing days, and strive for on your lowest ones. 

{digging to figure things out}

This is part one of a series of posts I’ll be sharing over the next two weeks or so on the ideas around who we are, what makes us ourselves, and truly digging to figure things out.

I think all of us have this idea of the Ideal You. This person you’re striving to become, an image you hold in your mind as you go about your day, trying to adjust things, shift a bit here and there, sliding through what comes naturally and what is forced, in order to align yourself with what you want to be.

We all do this. Think of the advice, “Fake it ‘till you make it.” It’s something I think on, often, when caught in circumstances outside my control, when I want to wail and complain instead of doing something about it.

(Which is important. I re-learned that recently, and will write about that in another blog post.)

So I pretend I know what I’m doing. Pretend there aren’t roadblocks in my way, that everything will work out, that there’s nothing to the fear griping my heart. It makes taking risks easier, but can also block out those trickier aspects of life that need honest, heartfelt attention.

Sometimes, it can be difficult to find a balance. And often, we lose ourselves completely while we think we’re making great strides in the right direction. It’s a gradual process, a shedding of skin as we walk forward in the sunshine, trying to reach for stars that only appear at night. But I think, as we do this, we lose much more than the negatives we’re trying to walk away from. That, in taking a self-inventory, we mistake strength or ability for something too abrasive for our new Ideal Self and thus, shed it with everything else.

It is amazing that in finding ourselves, we lose ourselves as well.

My friend said to me this week, “What happened to that girl I knew in high school? You were on the ball, and even intimidated me sometimes.”

Which is a good question, and one I didn’t have an answer to.

In high school, I was sharp, witty, and sarcastic. I didn’t take shit from anyone, and I was often the loudest voice in the room. When a teacher told me I’d never get higher than a C in English class, having been absent for a month to recover from a bad fall, I told her to shut it and finished the year with a B+. I laughed and took charge and stung people with my sarcasm. Yes, I had problems, was going through my own issues, but wow, was I a spitfire.

So who was this girl, sitting at the table, shy and quiet and just taking all the shit?

And I realized that, somewhere over the past two years, I’d folded. Threw in my cards and decided to not even play the game. I was willing to take insults and yelling; I was willing to give up my voice to avoid confrontation. To be honest, I’m sick of it. Tired. Done. And that is the mistake I made. 

In wanting to avoid confrontation, I’d silenced myself.