Mother May I..

Overnight, I’m becoming my mother...



When my mother was younger she was every bit as fun-loving, vibrant, and sweet as she is today. To know my mother, is to love my mother; and the list of her character traits I wish I possessed fully is an extensive one.

Growing up in one of the small towns Virginia has to offer, my mom was the carefree second child in a rather large family. She was your typical girl, and every morning she rose from the comfy consoles of her bed set to catch the bus to school. As small towns come equipped with even smaller schools, my mother and her fellow classmates were very familiar with one another. This is a feeling I know all too well, right down to the cliques and the social circles embedded in classrooms amongst young students, even then.

Pretty little girl that she was, my mother rarely met with issues of social cruelty, so she coasted along. Not everyone was as lucky.

Meet Polly-or the name we’ll give her; Polly attended the school under the radar of the social circles-or attempted to, I should say. You see, no matter how hard Miss Polly tried to walk the halls of this small Virginia school unnoticed, the “in-crowd” wasn’t having it.

If the theory that Charles M. Schulz created his “Peanuts” characters as true representations of school-age children stands correct, Polly could have been your “Pig Pen.” The kids taunted this girl non-stop; and the more it occurred, and the worse the taunts became, the more buried in herself she became. With the lack of confidence established, the ridicule became even more malicious. While the “in-crowd” sneered and criticized, other students-my mother included- stood by as spectators.

They mocked her clothing, her appearance, and all the harsh bullying comments you could imagine. Finally things took a turn, for what seemed to be for the better, and the “in-crowd” became less hostile-bordering on the friendly side even-towards Polly. This latest acceptance was both remarkable and a little far-fetched, but who doesn’t want to assume people have the best of interests in mind?

This new found companionship between one social scene and their former outcast seemed to be a refreshing alteration in the grand scheme of things, and the spectators were at ease.

Now the “cool kids” had a leader, as most do, and for the sake of this blog we’ll call that particular character: “Paula” (I’m into names that start with “P” at the moment, don’t ask me why), but Paula was your pinnacle for the “in-crowd.” In this small middle school in Virginia Paula was your captain mean girl, with looks to destroy even the eighth grade boys, and all the Polly teasing began and spiraled with her.

The day came that Paula and followers proposed that Polly join them for a sleepover on the softball fields in the neighborhood. Surely thrilled by the invite, Polly gathered up her sleeping bag and pillows and ventured to the field on said evening- only Polly found herself the solo guest at this party. Unaccompanied, and humiliated, she made the trek home in the night-hoping this embarrassing episode would never be revealed.

Yeah, right.

Monday morning the school bus stopped at the top of the neighborhood and all these characters climbed aboard. Polly in the back, sitting alone, face pointed to her feet. If only Paula could have deemed the weekend events satisfaction enough we could put this story to rest, but this wasn’t the case. The tormenting began and the “cool kids” rallied behind. The jabs showed no sign of subsiding, and my mother, sitting a few seats away witnessing this bullying affair, was fuming. Let me paint the picture.

The bus stops outside the school and these classmates form a line in the center row waiting to be released. Polly with her head down, not responding to Paula’s insults, and my mother waiting behind the group in line. The doors open, and each rushes down the stairs. Standing behind Paula on the bus steps, listening and outraged, my mother unraveled. She leaped from the top of the bus step, knocking the “in-crowd” leader from step two straight to the pavement.

So much for being the spectator..

Knocking the breath out of this girl wasn’t enough; my mother pounded this girl until my aunt Monica pulled her off. The morality in my mother couldn’t take the abusive scene anymore and she burst. Polly, as a girl too afraid to defend herself, had been caught in the middle of this injustice for far too long. It was my mother’s first, and last, fight.

Fast-forward to the present. If you know me then you know I’m the most non-confrontational person you will ever meet. My friends give me a hard time because I’m the girl people walk all over. I’ve never been in a fight. I never want to be in a fight, and I’m fairly certain if someone hit me, I’d lie down and wait till it was over. Maybe play dead, who knows. Point is I’m a total pushover.

…but not in everything

If you read my more recent blog you read the story of my Neglected Ex who’s “Bruised Ego” landed us in one awkward situation. Typically I’m a fan of the awkward situations, even when they involve me- they are almost always amusing. This instance though, I probably could have done without. I say this solely because in the aftermath, things got a little wild.

For a few days Neglected Ex stayed away, probably needed some time to clear his head- but apparently all that thinking only escalated the negative side of it all. So what does one Neglected Ex do post such an occurrence?

Seek out and threaten roommate of former girlfriend? Of course, I mean that’s what all of you would do, right?

What do I do to these guys?

Now, let it be known that I’ve witnessed plenty of my friends who have lived through the eruption of conflict. I’ve seen altercations face to face, through word of mouth, and these days..I’ve even seen it via text messaging (hilarious), but being the pushover I am I’m the venting partner for my friends. When conflict ensues, I’m the girl they vent too. I never push anyone to fight, because who am I kidding, conflict blows. Plus, have you ever met me? That chick from ICarly could kick my ass- but someone pushes my roommate around, and I’m furious.

Now I’m not going to pull a “mom” move and leap from the top of the bar to take out my Neglected Ex. It’s just not in me, but in the past where I supported and tried to calm down my friends in the heat of the moment, suddenly I’m protective. My mother taught me a lot of valuable life lessons; she’s the wisest woman I’ve ever known. However, the most important message she ever taught me was to stand up for yourself, thanks Mom:)

A push-over I’ll be no more. I don’t have it in me to be confrontational, but we’ve all heard it before “Stand for something, or you’ll fall for anything.” Well, color me a believer.



The Ex Factor, Round 2

So this really funny thing happened to me last night..

My mentor once told me to write the things out that happen, if nothing else it’s therapeutic. Let’s test the waters--

Tuesday was unfolding in the same way it does almost each week. Allow me to walk you through it. I woke-showered-dressed, packed my gypsy bag including, but not limited to: laptop, multiple binders/books for class, work folders and documents, face wash/makeup, and gym clothes.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I change in my car and random bathrooms so much I might as well be a superhero.

I go to work and get a lot of stuff accomplished. I have my first presentation on Friday at the Team meeting of my most recent undertaking, and by the end of the work day yesterday I had almost everything researched, filed away and ready to go- one less thing to worry about.

In between work and class I ventured to my favorite side of Charlotte: Plaza-Midwood, and to my own heaven on earth: the used book store.

Afterwards I settled in at Blu Basil café in a corner booth with a book and relaxed. Later that night, class was interesting, and I turned in the first paper for that particular class. So far, yesterday was a smooth success, but not everything is as it seems—am I right?

So this is the point in my very personal account that I should probably break to inform you of a little background story, general housekeeping and what not.

First things first, I’m a hypocrite. A total hypocrite in every sense of the “I don’t practice what I preach” way. I say it time and time again, and I accept and agree each time I hear it--but no matter how many times I utter the words I can’t seem to comply.

Remaining friends with an ex is unjustifiably, excruciatingly, absolutely and utterly a bad idea.

Yet, I’m notorious for the trial and the error. If you’re thinking it’s a possibility: learn from my very amusing and epic failure. However, true to form I’ve stayed friends with my more recent ex for some time. I wish I could tell you that this relationship of mine ended in good terms, and if you consider a few slammed doors and harsh words-good terms then yeah, sure. All things considered, it could have always been much, much worse. I digress—

What’s more I wish I could tell you that our new found friendship was simple and fun, but this wasn’t always the case. Our relationship was like a train track, one minute we’re trucking along on course and suddenly we need to change direction. There is a switch and the conductor pulls and we abruptly switch gears going along the romantic route to the platonic path; unfortunately for us the platonic track is missing a few bolts and screws.

So post-break up we’re rolling on for the most part pretty on course, until I get a little busier. Now as my boyfriend the ex had a lot of my attention, but in the aftermath -a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do. When the smoke cleared, I had a new internship, two new research assignments, school and work to boot. The more I did, the less time I could sacrifice, and my ex/new friend felt neglected.

In the midst of it all, we have a new story which I can’t divulge too many details. It’s the timeless story of guy meets girl. Myself being the girl, the guy..well that’s for me to know;) Yet we live in the modern-day era where advancement kills the above tale. You see, my guy meets girl story also included: other girl.

I don’t get it, this is my story right? Who is casting all these characters? I’ll never know, but as it happens, other girl has strong crush on guy and other girl dislikes girl (or me). Man I’m confusing myself. Ultimately my romantic “guy meets girl” fairy tale is more like a short story, and life as I know it returns to all business. Not a bad thing, until you consider other girl. Henceforth we’ll call her, “Bruised Ego.”

Meanwhile my Neglected Ex was undertaking his own new projects. Sometimes life is messy, we all get it, but when this guy of mine began to feel the world’s pressure he caved, and landed himself in the crosshairs of an intoxicated dilemma.

I don’t have to divulge much to tell you my concern, and things in my life started taking a back seat. My writing, for one; add school to the list. No matter what I did or said, there was no getting through to this one. It’s the re-occurring theme in my own story: I never know when to let go.

Enough background, back to Tuesday, after class I was gym bound and I started getting texts from friends. Turns out my mess of an ex believes the weekend starts on Tuesday. With others worried, I debated. What does one do? Let the ex wallow in self-destruction, self-pity? Or intervene?

I get in my car and turn down that once familiar street.

I knock, no answer, but since we share custody of a dog that I let out and feed often, along with the house sitting I do for this friend of mine, in I go. I half expected this drunken mess of mine to be passed out on the couch. In my mind I’m thinking of this serious intervention we’re about to have based on a very troubling conversation we had not 24 hours prior. The TV was blaring, but this Neglected Ex of mine wasn’t interested.

We’ll call it Neglected Ex meets Bruised Ego. Oh the irony

Talk about walking into the fire. Fire of passion that is, and awkwardly I stepped over Bruised Ego’s bra and clothing which was strung over my poor pup’s crate straight to the garage, Neglected Ex right on my toes sans anything but underwear.

Standing in the garage at midnight on a Tuesday night donning my gym clothes, hair in a ponytail, ankle brace, and holding only my car keys-looking up at my highly intoxicated mess of an ex, stripped bare (literally) of all dignity—and I couldn’t help it. I laughed, hysterically.

As I write this, I’m still laughing. Poor guy looked as shaken up as any I’ve seen. Meanwhile Bruised Ego sits awkwardly upstairs, waiting. First and last time I’m ever the uninvited guest.

What’s more, what if I killed it for the two of them? Let us all hope that my surprise arrival didn’t completely throw them off.

So Tuesday, any old day: get up, go to work, eat a few meals, go to class, and gym trip followed by surprise intervention gone horribly wrong. There is a lesson in all this, who am I kidding there are a few..

Call first.
Friends with an ex: bad call
Karma, it’s for real.

The Score:

Jordan: 1

Bruised Ego: 1

Neglected Ex: -2

What Drives You?

“Expression and the right to express is vital, anyone can be artistic.”

-Kurt Cobain



It was during the application stages of grad school that I was obligated to draw up my own personal teaching philosophy to accompany my application into the hands of the admissions committee. Bear in mind that my idea of teaching requires University level classrooms-only; even still my philosophy was anything but conventional, and the quote above: my opening line.

I’m sure when the admissions committee read my ten page declaration of my teaching strategies, all streaming from the words of the Grunge Era’s casualty, they didn’t know what to make of it—or me. I can imagine they were utterly perplexed, but probably not as shocked as they were the day they called me in for an interview. They seemed to expect a “rebel without a cause” fully equipped with torn blue jeans, grungy hair, leather jacket, maybe some chains--instead that got me: one twenty something donning a pink seersucker dress accompanied with Jack Rogers and pearls; but I had a point to make. A method to my madness, so to speak, but I won’t bore you with the details.

In a nut shell, I think Cobain had it exactly right. He gave rise to the notion that art has this ability to live in a variety of forms. Every single one of us is artistic; it’s all in how you utilize it. You just gotta find your niche.

So this brings me to today, I’m sitting in Mcalister’s Deli at UNCC half-working, half-tweeting. On a side note, Twitter is such a profound concept, and I’m speaking on the “I used to be a hater” front. Turns out I was totally wrong. Twitter is fascinating, and as I sat here and received status update after status update I began thinking about my life; and more specifically, the people in it.

There is something inside me that is drawn to productive people. Call it oldest child-syndrome, call it mega-bitch, call it what you will- but I can’t fathom living life with no goal or ambition. I have absolutely no patience for people just coasting through. So naturally, I surround myself with the other type of people: the go-getters.

My friends are creative, unique, innovative--  my friends are inspired.

I get a glimpse of this every single day. Not always do I acknowledge it, but the people in my life are the push I need, and it’s ironic to me that it isn’t the words of encouragement they offer necessarily, but more their actions become motivation. Is productivity contagious?

I relished in this today while I began formulating questions to ask a co-worker of mine, Sarah, about the interior design work she does when she’s not bartending at two of Charlotte’s well-known spots. I’m testing the waters of Nightlife Profile write-ups for Creative Loafing. So naturally Sarah’s bartending will come up, but what I really want to dig into is her passion on the side. I first mentioned the idea of the profile to Sarah and she seemed pretty excited and open to talk about her fervor for design. She began describing a piece of furniture she was working on at the moment.

She elaborated on the type of fabric she had found, and how she knew right away how perfect a fit it was. Being the farthest thing from guru of interior design (my roommate can vouch), I can’t say I share Sarah’s passion for fabrics and décor. Yet, I did take mental note of the way her face lit up when illustrating her ideas. She had this very animated glow to her when recounting how she executed those ideas. It was a breath of fresh air. Look for Sarah’s profile to follow soon.

Then as I was leaving my office I got a call from my roommate, Jared. On his day off he had ventured to the NC Music Factory to look into new venues for his summer calendar. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Jared’s music- you should be. He is one of the more passionate people I’ve ever known. Eight years ago Jared taught himself how to play the guitar, and eight years later he’s added the harmonica and piano to his music. I can’t say I know of many people more dedicated and motivated than Jared. Although I currently reside in a recording studio, leaping over speakers, microphones, guitars, etc. etc. on my way out the door every morning: it’s the most worthwhile thing to come home to at the end of a long day.

Jared and I have two very different projects we want to accomplish in life, and yet, in a weird way we are one in the same. While I’m writing shorts and stories, he’s writing music; and inside all that we’re both working on bigger plans. Like most roommates at night we relay the events of the day to each other. We vent, we brag, we feed ideas off of each other. It is the perfect set-up for two people vying for our place in this great big world.

These are just two examples of what I’m talking about. When I lay out the foremost people in my life I see a variety of individuals with distinctive traits, and yet they are connected by one prevailing characteristic: drive.

Think about it- you only live once, right? Our friends are very much mirror images of ourselves, so look next to you. What do you see? My own mentor, Brittney Cason, is in the final stages of her first book. See what I’m saying? She had a goal, and she stuck to it allowing nothing to get in her way. It is unbelievably inspiring. Surround yourself with people that make you want more, with people who make you so enthusiastic you could burst.

The world is yours for the taking. Ask yourself, what pushes you?

A Little Coffee Shop Therapy..

Sometimes, a girl just needs to vent.

The winding road of life is overflowing with ambiguity, and along the way one may meet the occasional speed bump. These interruptions, no matter how minor, tend to eat away until the inevitable happens: an explosion; but who better to tackle the role of listener than a friend?

My thoughts exactly, but while we’re listening to the grievances of others, is not our first instinct to offer advice? On Monday, upon the recommendation of Kim at Creative Loafing, I ventured to Jackson’s Java mid-day for a break. I was in between work and a study session and wanted a place to go to do a little reading for pleasure. Since these days those moments are rare, I picked a quiet couch in the back and descended into some Stieg Larson. Unfortunately, a few tables over were two delightful young ladies who weren’t having it.

From what I could gather, the two were good, and possibly old, friends. The conversation bordered on the more hostile side with voices raised much higher than the standard “coffee shop” volume, and no matter how hard I tried to get some reading done, I couldn’t help overhearing their very loud and overbearing conversation.

One was doing a substantial amount of the talking, while the other acting as the listener; yet, it was evident that these were not the original functions of each. Bear with me, I do not condone the act of eavesdropping, but in this rather tyrannical exchange, there was no way around it. Of course the situation itself, or the background, was completely foreign to me, but from what I gathered the young lady listening seemed to be carrying some sort of burden and the imperious voice of reason took the form of the friend directly across the table.

What I heard next wasn’t pleasant. The unruly voice delivered her friend a one-two punch disguised as indulgent advice. With raised voice she expressed how childish the other was acting and how imperative it was that she get over whatever it was that was ailing her. When she evoked tears she began aggressively questioning“what good comes from crying?”

Then my favorite: “I know what you’re going through.”

The “I’ve been there” line: final attempt to console someone, or bragging rights?

I don’t know, you tell me. What I do know is that whatever awful thing was going on in this distressed woman’s world, rest assured her present company of a friend had already met, battled, and defeated it; living to tell it as a saving grace to her friend and all eleven of us spectators in one coffee shop.

As this tirade went on I couldn’t help but look around me at the other people with their laptops, books, and binders spread out in front of them. One guy looked utterly annoyed, another disgusted; and then there were the few hiding their smirks behind books. I joined the latter group, unable to conceal my amusement.

The scene this dedicated friend was making was interesting in more than one way. Despite the muffled snorting and giggling, one couldn’t help but watch the troubled young lady, and it was painful. Her face painted with a mix of vulnerability and deficiency. In a very public and humiliating way her friend had exposed her as the injured party. When she sought advice was tough love the expected result?

Naturally I began privately considering conversations my friends and I have regarding our own personal complaints. Advice is one thing, but there seems to be a proper place for it, so why is it that we feel the need to step in and solve anyone and everyone else’s problems?

Sometimes a girl just needs to vent. Personally, when I vent I’m not looking for the necessary answer, at times I just want it out in the system somehow-someway. Yet, when the roles are reversed I’m very susceptible to playing the “therapist” card, and as I watched this particular confrontation escalate between friends I became slightly uncomfortable.

I thought, “is that the way I treat the problems of my friends?” So I do it in a not so vocal way , but doing it less harsh doesn’t make it any healthier. Perhaps the highway of life does need to detour onto a one-way street every now and then; maybe the scenery is better?

So when do we do ourselves and friends the favor of just shutting-up and listening to the words instead of waiting for our turn to interject? Despite the fact I practice it from time to time, the tough love mentality is lethal. Maybe it's time we buried it.

On a final note, Jackson’s Java was wonderful. I can’t believe I had never heard of it! Thanks to Kim for allowing me to uncover this hidden gem.

A Stranger Insight

People are always telling me things I don’t want to hear.

“It doesn’t get easier.”
“You never make time for me.”
“As a grad student, school should be your only priority.”
“You’re spreading yourself too thin.”
“If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”

..just to name a few.

So my life is chaotic, who’s isn’t? It’s been a crazy couple of weeks, and it is going to be even wilder in the next few. I am: an intern, a babysitter, a bookkeeper, a server, a runner in training (again), and a full time grad student.

I am: crazy.

Hey it happens. My schedule stays in overhaul mode most days, and although I love that, who doesn’t have days when everything goes to hell? Some days you just want to crawl back in bed and sleep it off. Maybe wake and start over? Truth is, despite my every attempt, life can’t be planned or scheduled. It just happens, and you roll with it; but this morning I encountered the voice of reason at last. It occurred mid-sprint to my office, late for work. Who or what was this voice?

It came in the form of a middle-aged woman I’ve only seen in passing. I have noted that she’s a very charismatic and boisterous woman who works one floor below me. We aren’t very familiar with one another, aside from what small things I’ve perceived. For example she’s very outspoken but friendly, erratic yet diligent. Once we had a slight exchange by the vending machines, and upon walking by her desk I once noticed photographs of her family. However, this is as far as we go as co-worker acquaintances. I couldn’t even tell you her name.

We have a running joke at work regarding the elevators; most trips riding up require a three to five minute waiting period. I would like to note that while this is a very serious issue, it is not quite serious enough that any of us are giving in and climbing the stairs either. When I got to the ground level and pushed the up button on the elevator I had time to dig my phone out of my purse, respond to a text message and re-fill my water bottle before the double doors opened up.

I heard her bounding down the hallway, long before she was in sight, and with one arm out I held the elevator door open for my fellow belated co-worker. On stepped this woman practically sucking for air post run. After she caught her breath, she thanked me for holding the elevator, to which I replied “yeah, anytime.”

The awkwardness of a small elevator plus two people equals small talk. So naturally we launched into complaining employees over the slow and loud elevators we ride each day. When her floor was reached she thanked me again for letting her catch my ride up this morning, otherwise she would have most likely waited another five minutes making her even later than we already were, and I wished her a good day, but just as she stepped off she said:

“You’ve got to acknowledge when things go right, or else you’d never make it through the day.”

The doors closed, and I rode one more floor up considering the thought. Once at my desk with my computer booted up I opened Microsoft Word and typed the words of this unknown woman onto the blank screen. Then I sat there reading them again and again, contemplating the profound idea they conveyed. I caught myself drumming my fingers on my desk to the beat of the flashing cursor at the end of the sentence. I’ve always been a fan of the flashing cursor; it seems to say “keep going.”

So I did. I felt compelled to do so; I started typing the things that had gone right already this morning. I had woken up incredibly late and rushed to work, this much was true. Yet, traffic this morning was nonexistent and I managed to score a key parking spot. Not to mention, fresh off the elevator and my boss had just brewed a new pot of coffee—hazelnut (my favorite).

Then I went beyond just today, thinking about what small things have gone right that I’m clearly overlooking. As it turns out, I’m blind. How quick I am to dismiss the things that work out in life. In fact, more things turn out beautifully right than the other way around. I spend my days on a rampage over the many things I have to do, complaining constantly that there truly isn’t enough time in the day. Meanwhile, this woman I know nothing about catches a quick ride on an elevator sans waiting period and she embraces it for what it really is: a break.

So as it happens, life does give you a break every once in a while. You just have to acknowledge it. Instead of listening to the negative, it is time I heard the good. Life is busy, you get the picture, but it is those pessimistic thoughts and comments I truly have no time for. My undivided attention seems to go in the direction of the more disparaging remarks, its time they took a back seat to more elevating expressions. Goodbye cynicism, hello enthusiasm!

One of the Guys

On Sunday the best friend and I ventured to the gym. While he’s more into the weightlifting and the “meathead” stuff I give him a lot of hell for, I’m more into running and cardio. The cool thing about us though, when I’m finished running and he’s finished lifting we meet in the middle and he helps me work out my abs (weakest part of my body). Afterwards we launched ourselves into “Trader Joes Mode” since we both have quite the addiction to organic food. Lots of well-spent money later, we were watching football games; cheering, of course, for opposing teams over a beer or two: a favorite pastime for us both.

Being the farthest thing from a “girly-girl,” the majority of my friends are male. While I have a select few close girl friends, all of which a far cry from dainty themselves, I’ve found in my lifetime there is a very good reason why guys stay friends for so long. Ever notice guys never have scheduling issues when making plans? They make friendship seem so effortless, just pick up the phone and pitch the idea of grabbing a beer or getting in a work-out session at the gym. Why do guys have such long lasting friendships, as opposed to their counter gender?

Simple, guys form friendships minus the drama-minus the bullshit. I’ve found guys have straight-forward conversations with one another. They say what’s on their mind with no concern for the reaction or the result. Guys, like life, are messy; but while they may not always be totally honest with their female counterpart, with each other they simply are …themselves. When was the last time you saw a guy pull some vindictive crap with one of their guy friends? Exactly, doesn’t happen. Guys aren’t down with the vicious name-calling or the taking of sides. So naturally over the years I’ve found it much easier to be friends with a group of guys, and my best friend is no exception.

You see, in my old age, I’m becoming “one of the guys” more and more, but I kind of dig it. He’s my best friend and we like the same foods, movies, music, activities, etc. etc. Like all friends we have several differences, for instance his love for non-fiction baffles the fiction guru inside me; but while we have a hard time sharing books, we are both avid readers. And at some point in the midst of our lazy Sunday hang out session, I had an epiphany.

While we are constantly in search of the key to strong and lasting relationships, it is the guys of the world who are on to something. In the midst of their more vulgar and less than avant-garde conversations, it is the men who have found the key to being part of a healthy and enduring couple. What is this “key” men have discovered?

Togetherness, hang-outs, mutual interests and hobbies…need I say more? What seems like such an outdated and obvious concept turns out to ring true. Consider this, my best guy friend and I have a number of things we like to do together. We like the same grocery stores, we are hopelessly addicted to all the shows on Showtime and HBO, and we are health-conscious. We share a love for all things baseball and we are full on-full out nerds. Bottom line: we do things we enjoy, together; and all of this in mind, it occurred to me the very reason my relationships have failed in the past. I have boyfriends, but have I ever had boy-friends?

Considering my former relationships, each guy was my boyfriend, and of him I expected your standard “boyfriend” responsibilities. Dates fully equipped with movies and dinners, and something miraculous every February 14. From these guys I expected love letters/notes/flowers/candy etc. etc. Meanwhile from my guy friends I expected pressure-less dialogue, sporting events, a quick beer after work, and the list continues…

At the age of twenty-three I have realized that I treat the term “boyfriend,” like a job title. Like most girls, there are qualifications and standards I have set for a boyfriend, but when it comes to my friends I simply choose to hang with the people I like hanging out with, the people with which I have the most fun. Maybe instead of perusing through my own version of a guy’s resume before forgoing a possible relationship with him, I should consider the obvious. Guy’s friendships work because they hang out with who they want to hang out with, guys do not worry themselves about the company they keep. They are comfortable in their own skin when hanging with friends. So what are we doing girls?

Maybe it’s time I erased the concept of “boyfriend,” from my mind and concentrated on the very apparent thing I’ve been missing. Maybe it’s time I stop treating my “relationships” like a career, and just embrace the friend?

A good guy friend of mine once reported back to me after a date he had, with a very compelling girl, a thought she had. This twenty something girl told my good friend that at the end of the day all she really wanted was someone to watch her shows with; and inside this simple and yet profound thought, lies a truth I’ve been missing. This girl really has something here! Maybe it’s not just the guys who have this thing figured out.

A Sweet Escape

Six years ago Frank Warren, founder of the PostSecret web project, launched a concept that opened the eyes of humanity. The project invites people from all over to write their own private secrets in the form of a homemade post card. The cards are anonymous, making them each unique and incredibly captivating; but these confidential comments can be found in other places besides the worldwide web.

Anyone acquainted with me personally is most likely aware of how large a “nerd” I truly am; even in shops like the Red Door I’ve been known to make a bee-line to the store’s literature (that’s a true story, my friends can vouch). Truth is, the content isn’t what makes or breaks a book for me. Instead I’m a sucker for an author’s diction or creative layout. So when I first discovered the PostSecret project in book form at the Urban Outfitters in Charlotte, I was sold.

As I perused through the book reading the secrets of people I had never known I found myself shocked, mortified, immensely saddened, elated, and impressed. There is a touch of intimacy involved when reading such private thoughts from even the most unfamiliar. The concept of anonymity is brilliant in a very soothing way, as I reveled in each secret I considered how genius it was for Warren to embrace such a new idea. The notion of people revealing intense parts of their lives under unknown personas is a very creative market for literature. I wondered why no one else had tapped into it, and then once again Urban Outfitters delivered and I found Bill Shapiro.

Similar to Warren, Shapiro captures some of the more passionate moments in the lives of real people. However, unlike Warren, Shapiro focuses on one particular bursting emotion: love.

Shapiro’s web project and book is titled: “Other People’s Love Letters,” and is filled with the private letters of affection only meant for the eyes of one. When I came across this book at the store I knew instantly I had to own it, and from the moment I picked it up I couldn’t put it down. I literally read this book from cover to cover, which is plausible considering even the covers are plastered with love letters. The letters are authentically pieced together in the book in their original form from post-it notes and coffee napkins to e-mails and cards allowing the book to hit even closer to home. It felt almost forbidden to read them, and yet it evoked some rather intuitive emotions.

All these letters from all these people got me thinking, and I found myself breaking out my own former love letters. I sorted through letters from high school and letters from college. I sorted through letters written for me, and letters written by me. With each letter I was bombarded with assorted feelings. I could literally remember how it felt to write them, and in turn, how it felt to read them. I became nostalgic for some of those old feelings, while simultaneously horrified by a few. A couple stirred laughter, some brought tears; but all in all, it was a nice hiatus. I wondered, what do old love letters do for you?

Shapiro’s book is proof that I’m not the only hopeless romantic using letters as a refuge from the real world. Who hasn’t written a love letter or two in their day? They are a window into a very fervent time in one’s life, and reading them can stir a multitude of emotions.

Looking through letters written by former love interests proved to be insightful. Each individual had a very distinct way of speaking, in this case writing, their thoughts and feelings. I became fascinated with the various wording each individual used. Consider our ability to say one thing in many different ways. With each letter I discovered similar themes, whether they were of heartbreak, an expression of love, rejection, or confusion the differences in these letters were the way each message was conveyed. I wondered, do we fully comprehend the magnitude of our words?

For example, some words sting more than others. Some words have the ability to make us melt; others make us want to punch something. The way one chooses to present something in words says a lot about them. Deciding the proper wording in order to describe, explain, or state something can alter the way one perceives that particular message. Maybe it is just the aspiring writer in me who puts such emphasis on words, but it is something to think about.

Once a boy referred to me as “magic,” we were in the beginning stages of something that had the potential to be extraordinary; and to this day all other descriptive words pale in comparison. That’s the funny thing about words, the right ones just sort of stick with us. 

Re-reading my own former love letters and those in Shapiro’s book was a sweet escape into the romance I’ve been missing in my own life, but it was so much more than that. The anonymous concept of the book allowed me the opportunity to take a deeper look into other’s more intricate emotions. I find the people who contributed to the book or Shapiro’s online blog to be very bold, while their identities are never divulged it takes a lot of courage to put that sort of passion out in the open.

I wonder if we refrain from the art of writing love letters because we fear putting ourselves out there for another. We could learn a little something from those who provided their own letters for the world to see. When was the last time you wrote someone a love letter/e-mail/note? In the age of text-messaging and tweets have we forgotten what it felt like to receive a real dose of someone else’s emotions on paper?