I deleted social media off my phone a month ago. I didn’t have much of a reason. Immediately after announcing it, there were some friends who were somewhat shocked — they reached out, commending me for my noble act, claiming I was “stronger” than they were. Honestly, I think it would be unwise to call myself “strong” for deleting the apps, but likewise, it would be arrogant to say that it meant nothing to do so. In reality, I was at home, it was the 31st, and I was eating cereal while watching the Today show — a rare luxury. Hoda must have said something that made the idea pop into my head: do away with all social media applications, but not my accounts. Just take a break from it, no deadlines. And with that, I kept munching on brown sugar Oatmeal Squares.  read more

It’s strange how birthdays change meaning over time. Growing up, your birthday is the best day of the year — presents, cake, everyone’s attention on you. You have a party with all of your friends. You feel special and important.

But isn’t that all true when you’re grown, too? The fanfare is all the same, and yet we feel bad about our birthdays. They fill us with dread. Another year older just means we’re getting further away from our youth and closer to the tough, painful years of elderliness. And I suppose this is true, but why do we turn so pessimistic about our birthdays when we used to be so optimistic?  read more

For several years, my dad rented an office space owned by a man he somewhat affectionately called “Hack Boy.” Hack Boy owned this dated barber shop just a street over from Main in our little town. The barber shop itself was small, only holding a few chairs for haircutting, but the building was a bit bigger, housing two small, rentable office spaces and an upstairs apartment. Those lucky enough to visit the office spaces got to pass through Hack Boy’s hair studio, featuring ghastly taxidermied animals and that classic old person smell. The furniture was all from the eighties, unquestionably. read more

I’ve always been drawn to the sound of a piano. That’s not to say that I can play the piano, however. After watching my siblings both gnash their teeth, throw themselves from the piano bench, and burst into tears countless times, I decided piano lessons weren’t for me. Instead, years later, I’d sit at my father’s piano and study my siblings’ instructions books, essentially self-teaching. When I’d encounter a note or symbol I couldn’t decipher, I’d call over my father, an accomplished pianist from childhood, to clarify. And so, I learned some basic piano, though I never really mastered the building blocks, the scales and keys. read more

The following is going to be a rambling stream of consciousness, and I accepted that before even beginning to write. So here goes.

A couple days ago, I was heading to the dentist. For the first time ever, I was actually looking forward to it — a chance to leave work, get out of the office, feel the air outside. My optimism about the visit quickly dissipated once I arrived. As I started filling out forms that I had sworn I had filled out online days prior, I gritted my teeth (a bad response in this context) and prepared myself for the inevitable. read more

Social life really changes once you graduate from college. One moment, you’re surrounded by people all your own age who share the same interests and a common experience. The next, you’re in a workplace surrounded by people who are decades older than you in a town you don’t know. You lose the ease and accessibility of familiar people — just like that.

I recognize that this is not the situation for all college graduates. Certainly I’m not facing such a severe case; I work with people probably all age 25 to 40, in a college town (not my own), with a few contacts in the area. I’m not completely alone. But still, when you’re used to being always around others, it can feel lonesome confronting such a great increase in alone time. read more

A few weeks ago, I went to see one of my favorite bands of teenager-dom for the fifth time. Yes, the fifth time. No, they didn’t have a new album. No, they weren’t playing with any other acts that I knew. I just wanted to see them again, because after seeing a band repeatedly, I kind of decide that I personally know them.

The funny thing is, I hadn’t actually ever met this band before — usually after seeing a band again and again, I will stay after the show at least once to talk to them. So this time, I was determined. So determined, in fact, that I bought a ticket to the show plus a VIP pass to partake in a Q&A and get my picture with them. Two months in advance. read more

I struggle a lot with ambiguity;. I hate leaving events and tasks up in the air, with no precise date and time for their completion. But the sad truth is: ambiguity is unavoidable. It’s one of those things we’re expected to just accept, though it pains us.

I’ve spent much of this semester loathing the ambiguity surrounding me, desperate to have some certainty about where I’ll be and what I’ll be doing after graduation. I’m now 9 days away from graduation and still don’t have this certainty. read more

I’ve always found fear fascinating in the way it does not transfer from person to person. While I am terrified of spiders, snakes, and sharks, my friend could have no qualms about them, instead fearing clowns, tight spaces, and drowning. An object, a creature, a situation all have the potential to scare us. Some of these triggers are so strong, they can even paralyze us.

I often try to live by Eleanor Roosevelt’s motto, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” Most frequently, I apply this motto to my rock climbing. Though I’ve been climbing for 13 years, I undoubtedly get scared climbing from time to time. Humans are innately afraid of heights, and I don’t think it strange that I find my heart racing when my arms are fatiguing, the wind is blowing, and I’m struggling to clip a bolt at 50 feet up. Much of climbing — arguably 50% of it — is learning to dispel the fears and negative thoughts that will hinder you while on the wall. Forcing yourself to breathe, acknowledging the places that falling would either be dangerous or fatal, weighing the potential gain and loss of continuing, and then making your decision. Without a strong head game, you simply cannot progress in climbing. read more

My best friend and I both got rejected from some pretty stellar jobs this week. It’s objectively sucky. I, for one, have been rejected by myriad jobs in the last three months, so this was nothing new. I did almost cry, but felt like I lacked the energy to do so. Overall, I think the bummer mostly resided not in the job itself, perhaps, but in the certainty of the job. This was a job I knew I could do really, really well. I would have been able to walk right into it without the blink of an eyelash. I would know exactly what I’d be doing for the next two years, starting in August, and I also would have been able to start arranging plans for where I’d live. My life would finally lack the ambiguity that has been torturing me for months. read more

Two weeks ago, I ran my first marathon ever.

Finishing this marathon was arguably one of my greatest accomplishments. The sense of pride and accomplishment I felt crossing that finish line — and continue to feel — is enormous. In the aftermath, I look back at the months of training: the hours of running and cross-training, braving icy and cold trails alone countless times, the constant self-motivation required, the relief of finishing my long run each week. Yes, I think of it as a rewarding time of self-growth and persistence; but I also think of it, in large part, as a learning experience. read more

It’s nearly the end of the school year.

Graduation is upon us – Oprah is coming – and it seems very clear to me that these last two months are going to fly by. I’ve spent this last semester out of class, job hunting and networking relentlessly, working and saving money, and training for a marathon. And it’s seemed endless. I have felt hopeless and directionless countless times, second-guessed myself and then second-guessed myself again, broke down reasonably and unreasonably. The bottom line: the future is terrifying, and sorting life out, a mess. read more

It’s been nearly a week back at school. Re-adjusting to a busy daily routine has been tiring, but certainly not unmanageable. Really, everything has been same old, same old. Right now, I’m just wondering whether that’s a good or a bad thing.

I recently said goodbye to a friend who was leaving for a month to take a course in Patagonia. I commented that I was glad he’d be back before Spring Break, since I wanted to see him again before I leave for Chile in March. “You’re leaving again?” he asked, incredulous. “Do you hate it here?”

I stopped. I do not hate Colorado College, Colorado Springs, or Colorado in general, at all. Not even an ounce. But he had a point – I am always leaving. More than leave, I run away, escape. It’s not a place I’m escaping, however – it’s routine.

I have lamented on this blog, to my friends and family, in my own head, about how much I hate routine. I can’t stand feeling like I’m stuck in a rut, like I’m being unproductive. Simultaneously (and ironically), I also hate change. Having to adapt to new circumstances is frustrating and unnatural, eliciting an anxiety that only can be relieved by routine. I guess that’s why I need to have both. I need to get stuck in a routine for long enough that it becomes intolerable, then shift gears entirely. When the newness becomes no longer new, I must revert to the old routine.

I’m now back in my “typical” routine, though this routine is always being punctuated by little breaks and changes here and there. It feels comfortable, it feels reasonable, but it also seems boring. But why should it? Why should pursuing my passions – playing drums, editing for the paper, leading outdoor trips, going to concerts, taking courses in psychology, music, and Spanish – be boring? None of what I’m doing is earth-shattering, true, but these activities certainly make me happy and allow me to grow, even in imperceptible ways. Really, all I need to do is accept my routine…yet I still am going to run away to Chile.

Of course, I would never alter my plans to stay on campus this spring, just to show that I can face routine and admit its value. But perhaps I will allow myself to get stuck into these ruts for longer periods of time and to stop running away so frequently. As long as I don’t end up working in a cubicle, hating my life, there’s no shame in a little routine.

I turned 21 a couple months ago.

Was I excited? Sure. But it quickly subsided into a kind of ho-hum feeling, not negative, just indifferent.

Up until that point, I felt perpetually 17. Prior to 17, I think I always felt myself so old, so mature. After 17, I felt enormously incapable of being deemed “an adult.” I was repulsed by any “adult” activity and, upon encountering any such activities (traffic, filling out forms, etc.), would just mutter, “God, I hate being an adult.”

These feelings only grew in size last year when I turned 20, but instead of repulsion, they turned to panic. Two decades of my life, done. Like that. How fast would the next two decades pass? In despair, I remember donning my favorite pair of socks that say “Dang it all to heck,” slipping on my Asics, and tearing out the door on my 20th birthday. I then proceeded to run 5 miles, crying, while listening to Bad Suns’ “20 Years,” among their numerous existential songs. Not a shining moment.

Since that angsty run, I seemed to come to terms with being 20, but I didn’t stop bitching about being an adult and I was encountering irritating adult inconveniences more and more frequently. At some point, someone said to me, with exasperation, “You know, you really need to get over this fear of being an adult.”

I sat in silence. It wasn’t that I was afraid of being an adult. I just found the whole thing tedious. Annoying. That somehow, I didn’t deserve it, that I was still 17, for God’s sake, too young to handle it all.

And now I’m 21, and I feel utterly ageless. I was recently in Cuba, visiting my host family and friends from my study abroad there. My host grandparents, Angelita and Silvino, couldn’t stop remarking how young I was. They kept referring to me as the jovencita, the young little girl. At one point, I decided to get a pedicure in Old Havana. The tiny shop was empty, but for the two young Cuban women running it. We gabbed in Spanish about inane things, and they too couldn’t believe how young I was. At age 28 and 29, they both had done so much more than I had, had endured far more hardships than I could imagine.

It was at that point that I quite possibly felt exactly like my age. Like I was 21 and had seen what a 21 year old has seen, but that I had so much more ahead of me. Then again, I felt like I had no age at all. I realized that I am capable of handling myself, but beyond that, I’m not sure. I don’t feel too young to deal with things, nor do I feel competent to do it all myself.

For now, I’ve decided that age in general just bores me. Beyond 21, numbers are no real concern. So I’ll carry on, and most likely, I’ll continue to mutter that I hate being an adult. But it won’t be out of feeling too young to be an adult; it’ll be out of the fact that being an adult, sometimes, frankly sucks. No matter your age.

There have been many times in the past few months that I’ve wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what – another annoying rant, another existential musing, another complaint. It all seemed like a waste of time, especially yours, if you’re actually reading this right now. But something that keeps ringing true for me lately – and I think could help a great deal of people – is some advice I received this summer, from my housemate and absolute queen, Mira.

I was fretting about something. I don’t remember the exact details, but I was telling Mira how I was afraid some action or words of mine could potentially upset someone in my life. And she responded, “You’re not responsible for other people’s emotions.” At first, I nervously laughed and continued fretting, “But seriously, if I say this…” and rambled on some more. I don’t know if we ever resolved my anxieties, but that statement has constantly returned to me since.

More and more often, people (mostly my therapist, but still) have told me that I’m too invested in others. On surface level, how can being invested in others’ lives be detrimental? We all want to be loyal, dependable, loving, and helpful to our loved ones. At the same time, I’ve realized that I sometimes try to be that perfect companion too much. I stress myself out thinking: “I should’ve texted that person and checked in. I need to write a letter to so-and-so. If I say this in front of that person, they may feel jealous or excluded.” I weigh myself down with guilt and don’t allow myself to live freely, for fear of stepping on others’ toes or falling short as a friend.

I’ve recognized that yes, it is valid to be tactful and empathetic towards other people with regard to your own actions, but you also have to be you. You have to live your life. At the end of the day, you’re not responsible for other people’s emotions. You can’t go on worrying that everything you say or do will affect others’ perceptions of you or jeopardize your relationship. Otherwise, the relationship isn’t healthy – why did you even become friends in the first place, if they already liked you for who you are? I will never say that the happiness of your loved ones is a trivial thing; but your own happiness is just as, if not more, important. Take responsibility for your emotions first.

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about my definition of “home” lately. To be honest, I still haven’t really figured it out. But I’ve just been so torn between where I am right now and where I think I’d like to be – literally and figuratively – that I’m trying to determine where home is.

Home is familiar. It’s where you feel safe and comfortable and understood. It’s where you feel loved. Moreover, I think it’s where you can fully express your love back. It doesn’t have to be a physical space; it can be a person, an activity, maybe some ridiculous idea you have. It’s something you can rely on when you’re distressed. This much I can put together.

I think what I’m really battling is the realization that the feeling of home can change. As I have said previously, there’s little you can always depend on in this life. And home is one of those things that is never constant. Because though a home may never change, you change. What once was comfortable, familiar, safe, and welcoming can turn strained, unpleasant, disorientating, and stressful. You can feel disillusioned, distraught. However, I find solace in the belief that there’s always a home to reside in. There’s always a person, a place, a memory – whatever it may be – where you can calm yourself and forget some of the things you’re dealing with.

My idea of home is by no means complete or even correct, but it’s what gets me by right now.

I’ve had three pretty weighty epiphanies in the past week. The trouble with big thoughts such as epiphanies is that you can’t get them off your mind; they keep gnawing at you, ringing more and more true. Before long, you might even accept them as fact.

And facts are inescapable.

This sounds dark, but it doesn’t have to be taken as such. True, I could make this post really long, going into the shadowy depths of each epiphany and what they may or may not mean, but that’d be unhealthy for all of us. I’ll just focus on the main one, to spare us all: Music is the only thing you – or perhaps just I – can depend on.

People, even the most well-meaning, kind-hearted, genuine people, will let you down at some point. Situations don’t go the way you expect them to. Life lets you down. YOU let yourself down. Heck, bands even let you down when they break up or become sell-outs. But their music will always survive. The lyrics, sound, energy, vibe of music can always speak to you, in innumerable ways, at any point in your life. You can find solace there, empathy.

I can’t think of any other person, place, or thing that consistent, that reliable.

I’ve been told about a thousand times that I set too high expectations – for situations, for others, for myself. That I crumble when things don’t go as I want them to. Perhaps that reproach is another thing I can depend on.

I’d like to argue that I’ve been cultivating my “inner chill,” trying to go with the flow more, and stressing less about things that are just not. That. Important. Though I’m improving, I’ve got a ways to go. I can say however, with confidence, that this epiphany will be guiding me from now on.

I’m no longer going to assume that I can depend on anyone, anything. I can’t even assume I can depend on myself. But music will be there for me when shit hits the fan, and that’s all I really need to depend on.

I can’t stand people who have nothing to say for themselves. You know – those people who are just so vanilla, so mild, so unwilling to contradict you, and so annoyingly pleasant all of the time. There’s nothing inherently wrong with these people. They’re nice. But it’s impossible for me to have a real conversation with them; it’s always small talk about the weather and finals coming up.

I suppose I’m opinionated enough myself (considering I unashamedly rant on the internet like this somewhat regularly). However, I intentionally try to surround myself with people who are even more opinionated – people who have something to say about the most random things, and passionately. Whether I agree with their opinions or not is no concern. The fact that they are unapologetically themselves, that their personality is constantly reflected by their words, and that they are unafraid to express themselves is so refreshing. But above all, they’re just really fun to rile up. I swear, nothing is more fun for me than spurring a heated spiel in someone. Hey, I’ve gotta break the monotony somehow.

I’ve struggled for some time now over my perception of routine. Every time I start getting stuck into a fixed schedule, I find myself growing resentful of it and wishing I were doing something more flexible. Then I’ll break the routine even for a short period and find myself craving consistency once more. It happened just in the past week. 

After two months of being back at school, I found myself itching. Monday and Tuesday meant shifts at the climbing gym; Wednesday, a drum lesson; Thursday, layout for the school paper all afternoon and evening; Friday, a newspaper section meeting and going to the downtown climbing gym. Even weekends, supposedly free, were structured – one day for work, the other for outdoor activity. And then of course irritating meetings, errands, and other obligations would overlay that basic routine. I became exhausted, running myself into the ground as I walked the same paths week after week.  read more

Anyone who’s met me knows I’m cynical to a fault. Yet I will never apologize for being cynical – someone’s got to do it. I just hate it when people confuse my cynicism for pessimism. I don’t ever intend to be negative when I assess things; rather, I’m trying to view things as they objectively are. However, more often nowadays, I’m trying to abandon my cynicism altogether. I’ve been striving to be friendlier, more honest, and generally optimistic. I’ve got a new mantra, and as cheesy as it sounds, it has helped me every day.

When I was in Cuba, I learned that the reality for most Cubans is lacking resources. Life is hard. You may have to share space with three generations of people. The government may limit how much money you can earn or what you can say. School curriculum is tightly controlled. And sometimes you might not have as much food on the table as you’d like. This last point hit me particularly hard – that Cubans never go out to “comprar comida,” or buy food, but rather they go out to “buscar comida,” or search for food. Finding the foods you want or need is never guaranteed. So as much as I may complain about that paper I have to write, the number of meetings I have during the day, or the slowness of the school wifi, at least I don’t have to buscar comida.

So that’s what I tell myself, whenever I start getting negative or cynical: At least I don’t have to buscar comida. I know it sounds silly, the mix of Spanish and English, and that it’s not incredibly profound. But it really does put things in perspective, and it quite honestly keeps me in check throughout the day. I may think I have it tough, but the reality is, I really, really don’t.

So if y’all haven’t ever considered adopting a mantra, I highly recommend it. You’d be amazed how comforting it is in times of stress, and it allows you to view situations in a whole new light. And it keeps you from getting too cynical.

My family does not have great vision. Nearly everyone in my extended family wears glasses or contacts, and everyone in my immediate family has both. My parents, naturally, are the most blind out of the five of us, my sister, the least. I don’t know how my brother and I compare. What I do know is that with bad vision in my left eye coupled with pretty bad vision and astigmatism in my right eye, my overall vision is weak. I am very grateful to have proper contacts and glasses to correct for this weakness, but it’s impossible to avoid instances in which I’m wearing neither. And I can’t stand those instances.

When I’m not wearing contacts or glasses, I’m not kidding when I say that the world seems genuinely “dumber.” Things are blurry and indistinct enough that I feel like I’m in a far more primitive place, maybe the time of the Flintstones. Of course, I can still see everything, but I stumble around a ton and things morph into one another. The lack of contrast drives me insane. These times only last a few minutes, normally just when I wake up and go to sleep. I guess I get really pissed off only when I wake up at 3am – which is often – needing to pee. I barely find my way to the bathroom without my glasses, and when I do, I think I really have gone blind because the fluorescent lights are so aggressive. I apologize to anyone who has had to see me in one of these unfortunate times.

Considering how angry I get when the world is less crisp and clear, it absolutely boggles my mind that some people choose not to wear glasses or contacts when they have imperfect vision. Why on earth would you choose to NOT see clearly when you can? Don’t you want to see the world in all of its crisp, discernible glory? And to the people who “forget” to wear their glasses (I’m talking real glasses, not just reading glasses): did you also “forget” that you can’t properly drive or do just about ANYTHING without your glasses? I know people are allowed to make their own decisions and live the way they want to live, but I’m sorry. If you don’t wear your contacts or glasses, then you’re wrong and I’m mad at you.

I heard on the radio earlier that today is supposedly the most depressing day of the year – not January 16th, specifically, or MLK Day, specifically (that would be a HUGE “Yikes”). Rather, it is most depressing because it’s a Monday, and it’s January, so it’s historically very cold. It’s far enough into the new year that you’ve probably tried and failed to accomplish your resolution, and among other things, the holidays are definitively over.

I had a splendid day despite the odds working against me, particularly in regards to the holidays being over. See, in my house, the Christmas tree will remain standing proud and tall until one too-aggressive sneeze is able to knock off all its needles in one blow. I’m not exaggerating when I say that it will stay up until early to mid February. Maybe we leave it up because we’re lazy; maybe we do it because we can’t bear to let Christmas go. Maybe we even do it to feel superior to the people dumping their Christmas tree carcasses on the corners of New York City. Whatever it may be, I’d like to think it’s because we’re just trying to beat the real most depressing day of the year: the day the tree comes down.

French fries are irresistible. No matter how much you try to avoid them, they always present themselves to you, and you aren’t ever going to refuse. Maybe that’s just me. I’ve found that even when I don’t order them at a restaurant, I still fall victim as my friends and family offer up their fries. It’s gotten to a point that whenever anyone has fries, I think I have license to take some. Therefore, if I’m eating with someone I’ve never even met before and they have fries, I will get an urge to take some even though I know it would be totally rude and odd. The same thing happens in the dining hall at school – I see someone I don’t know carrying a plate with french fries, and suddenly, I’m nearly plucking off a handful. I catch myself every time, but one day I think I’ll trip up.

Perhaps I never truly adopted the “universal fry code” that was explained to me by a classmate from middle school. One afternoon after summer camp, we were at an ice cream shop. Our friend had ordered some fries, and this classmate proceeded to take fries from him without even asking. At first our friend was irritated, but my classmate swiftly and suavely defended himself through explaining the “universal fry code.”  According to him, the code dictates that if you’re best friends with someone, you have a right to take their fries without asking. If you’re simply friends, you must ask for a fry, but it’s customary for the fry-holder to say yes. However, if you’re only acquaintances (or less), you must ask for a fry, and it is up to the fry-holder to determine your worthiness. This seemed a little complex for french fries, but since he talked about it so easily and naturally on the spot, it seemed like he had figured this out a while back. It would do me good to try to uphold this “universal fry code”; otherwise sooner or later, you’ll hear about me making an egregious social error as I take a handful of fries from an unsuspecting stranger.

I’ve complained about this to enough people before, so I’ll keep this one brief.

I’m a generally cold person – figuratively at times, yes, but I mostly mean literally. I grew up in New York and went to boarding school in Connecticut for high school, so I’ve definitely had exposure to frigid winters. Therefore, one would imagine I’d be well adjusted to cold and be able to endure it.

Perhaps I did have this endurance in years past. Yet no one told me that by attending college in Colorado, I’d lose it. There, the weather fluctuates ridiculously. For instance, last year, there was a weekend in the dead of January that I was wearing shorts. The following weekend, we had a blizzard. Take a couple days from last month, even. Friday, 10:00 am: 61 degrees Fahrenheit. Saturday, 10:00 am: 1 degree Fahrenheit. A 60 DEGREE CHANGE IN 24 HOURS. Thus, it is basically impossible for me to acclimatize to any sort of weather anymore. 40 degrees may have felt balmy to me in Connecticut on a day in February, but in Colorado, it can feel absolutely miserable, given that the previous day may have been 65.

Unfortunately, I’ve been having the same trouble at home recently as well. I just got back from a brief trip to Florida a few days ago, and between the weather reports obsessing over the cold in New York and my spoiled, sunkissed skin, I refused to go outside the past couple days. Finally I resolved myself to run today, in 23 degrees. I had to repeatedly remind myself that I had run with my friends in 11 degree weather last month multiple times and that I actually liked running in the cold, if I could just remember. It was really not that bad…but I’ll still complain and be a wimp about it.

I met up with some old friends from grade school today for some good old fashioned hiking, reminiscing, and movie watching. We try to get together a few times a year during breaks to fill each other in on our lives, and it’s always a comical time hearing about each other’s adventures. The last time we really saw each other was back in summer – I had had them over to my house for a barbecue and they left pretty late that night. Somehow we got to talking about speeding tickets, and one of my friends admitted that he had actually gotten a ticket that night, driving home from my house.

The whole thing sounded absurd. He explained that he was driving along when he saw a red light up ahead. He proceeded to slow down, not paying much attention, coming to a full stop at the line. There was a car behind him. Eventually he looked up and saw that the light had changed and made to quickly drive on. Then he was pulled over. Apparently the light had turned green while he was slowing down, so he had actually stopped at a green light, not a red one. This supposedly warranted a ticket, maybe in part due to there being a car behind him. In any event, my other friends and I were incredulous and laughing, asking him if he was really mad about it. He simply responded, “I don’t know, I looked it up and it’s a thing.” We kept pushing him, but he really didn’t seem that disgruntled. I guess “it’s a thing” was satisfactory enough for him to believe he deserved the ticket, though I know most people, including myself, would not feel the same.

Then again, he also later did say that he’s always been “a beacon of indifference.”

A brief tyrade: NO ONE KNOCKS ANYMORE.

It is simply common courtesy to knock on a single bathroom door to see if it’s occupied. I shouldn’t have to even lock the door if people obeyed this little rule. But I do, as there have been literally countless times that I’ve heard someone try to burst into the bathroom while I’m using it.

Don’t assume that I’ve locked the door. What if I forgot? Then you’re legitimately walking in on me. Awkward for me, sure, but even more awkward for you. JUST KNOCK.

A week ago I was at my home climbing gym in Upper Saddle River, The Gravity Vault. I didn’t have much time to climb that day, as I had to cover for a girl at work in the afternoon, but I was making the most of it. I bouldered hard for a little over an hour and was going to pack up when my former coach, Ferdie, approached me.

Ferdie sets routes for the gym every few weeks. He doesn’t set as much in the Upper Saddle River location, but you can see his signature on the start of many routes there regardless. He asked me what I thought of the setting at the gym, having had the opportunity during the school year to climb in gyms in Colorado, a major climbing state.

I answered honestly, saying that I enjoyed the routes here in Jersey and that they still challenged me. I offered a few suggestions about making stronger delineations between route levels and changing the routes more often, but it was a pretty positive review. I did mention, additionally, that I had been working on V6s and V7s (boulder problems of high level), and would especially love more that had a lot of quirky moves that involve strong balance and had lots of crimps (tiny handholds). I said this with a grin, as those types of problems are my specialty and I always relish in them.

I went on my way shortly after Ferdie thanked me for the input and headed back to his setting. I didn’t think much more of it. Today, a week later, I arrived at the Gravity Vault to climb for an hour and a half. To my delight, there was a small new section of boulder problems. On closer inspection, I discovered that Ferdie had set them all. What’s more, amongst the problems was a V6 exactly as I had described–almost all crimps, except for one sloper-jug that made for a dynamic, balance-y move. With even a closer look, I saw that he had set them all the day after talking to me.

Maybe he was already planning to set some new boulder problems. Maybe that V6 was just made organically, with my request completely out of mind. But it’s nice to think that Ferdie set it all for me. It’s nice when people listen.

As it is Father’s Day, I feel it’s only right that I talk a bit about dads and their invaluable contributions to family, society, and well, the universe. They play a subtle role that very few could begin to master – and they do it without really trying. Here are some, but not all, things that only dads are good for:

Allowing you to shamelessly eat pizza for breakfast or chocolate cake for dinner. 
In this scenario, it must be noted that Mom ISN’T present. Not only is Dad cunning enough to keep this a secret from Mom (until you spill the beans of course – “MOM! GUESS WHAT DAD LET US DO!”), he also is able to paint the situation as something that you all deserve and would be wrong to refuse to do. 

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Let’s face it, Dad is always good at sports. He played 3 years of little league baseball back in the day, ya know. He’ll get you up to speed at throwing and catching a football,  using a mitt, and taking a nice hit with a wiffle ball bat. Beyond that, what more do you really need? You’re practically a professional athlete now. 

Keepin’ it real. 
Today, it seems like we’ve all gotten a little too melodramatic. Everything is chaos, or a disaster, or simply too much to handle. That’s where dads come in. Dads have this inexplicable power of being unconcerned by most things and can remain calm when it seems all hell has broken loose. As an example, I remember once describing to my dad in a stressed tone how I was struggling to get all of my college forms in, pack for school, see my friends, and earn money. His response: “Shit happens.” And he handed me his beer. Boom. 

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As my dad always says, “Night grilling deserves a quiet night.” Dads enter this zen mode when they approach the grill, much the way Buddhist Monks meditate. They craft their burgers and dogs to perfection, and although we think that it’s us that’s being treated, the dads are really the ones benefitting from the experience. 

Holding the house together – literally. 
We’re humans. We ravage things unintentionally. As time goes on, we wear down door hinges, paint peels, grass grows too long, etc. That’s where Dads come in. The toilet’s clogged? Dad will fall on the sword and fix it. The lawn looks disgusting? Dad will attack it with utter determination. Dad will fill holes in the wall, repaint porches, pump up bike tires, balance the pH in the pool. Whatever needs maintenance, he’s there. And thank god, because we’re unable to do any of this ourselves. 

Happy Father’s Day, to my Faj and yours!

 

As this is the ECC, failing to mention the power of cereal would be a terrible shame. Whenever you’re having a breakdown, cereal is there for you. Through thick or thin, 2% or soy milk, whole grain or chock full of sugar, it really never fails to cheer you up. Not only that, it has sparked inspiration within me recently – inspiration to co-mingle.

I’ve always liked to mix cereals. Most commonly, I’ll mix a plain cereal with a sugary one: Rice Chex with Lucky Charms, Cheerios with Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Corn Flakes with Frosted Flakes, etc. However, of late, I’ve gone a little crazy. Now in my bowl of cereal, you can find Pecan Great Grains, Banana Great Grains, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, 2 types of Granola, and Wheat Chex. I’d add more types of cereal if there were more in the house. I guess I’ve just decided that there is no limit to the number of textures and flavors I can and should add. If they’re all good, why not add them all?

This logic translates. I’m a slave to my panini press, and consequently, my paninis have gotten more and more absurd. But I swear they’re still 100% delicious. I figure, if I like all of these toppings, why not include them all in the sandwich? Sriracha? Pesto? Hummus? All three can go together. Load as many veggies on that pita, while I’m at it. Look at that, we have 5 types of cheese in the house. I can pick at least two to go on this. How about some peanuts to add a crunch? It’s honestly endless. A week ago, I made some paninis for friends with mac and cheese on them.

I say dare to be bold with your combinations. Dare to co-mingle.