I’ve had a lot of thoughts stewing in my head lately, starting with the word “stewing” itself. When and why did I start using stewing as a substitute for something approximating “ruminating”? Stewing also has a negative connotation (or seems to), when in fact, I love stew. I love simmering a big pot of something and eating leftovers for an entire week. I suppose I think stewing as negative because I use it to describe problems I have — stressors, anxieties — that are simmering on a back burner. I know they’re there, that they’re slow cooking, but I refuse to check on them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stewing was a phase (or perhaps an ebbing and flowing wave, like a sinusoidal curve) of quarantine. I think we’ve all had our own quarantine phases. For me, initially it was training for a marathon. When that became a routine, it was finding the perfect <\/em>bops on Spotify and exchanging them with friends. This still continues, but to a far lesser degree. There was a reading phase, a coloring phase, a Netflix (though poorly executed) phase. Now that I’m back in Colorado, I’ve transitioned into three new phases: trail running, taking photos of funky Colorado Springs houses, and going for evening bike rides. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The trail running was unexpected. I’ve never had the will power for it before, because, well, trail running is hard<\/em>. Running uphill on a trail is hard<\/em>. For a long time, I could only commit to hiking up a trail then running down it. A poor man’s trail runner. But I went for a trail run with my two roommates and our dog my first week back, and I was just so freaking mind-blown from the beauty of the trail, the exhilaration of my heart pounding in my chest, that I became addicted. I now wake up multiple times a week at 6:00 so that I can run as the sun rises, and I’ve never felt more goddamn ALIVE. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Taking photos of houses was probably an inevitable pastime for me. I’m told constantly how I’m an old person (I’ve been through this before — I go to bed at 10, I hate violent or fast-paced movies, I hang out with people my parents’ age on a regular basis) and I think this is another manifestation of that. Because as much as I love my roommates and the college houses I’ve lived in, I cannot wait for the day that I’m living in my own space, possibly shared with a single roommate\/significant other and a dog. So I take photos of these dreamy, colorful houses in the hope that one day I’ll be living in one of them. It’s still a long shot right now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Photographing these houses, I’ve learned a few things. The first is that life is too short not to have at least a colorful door — I’m talking a peach, turquoise, or yellow door, minimum. And heck, why not have your whole house be colorful? What do you want to come home to: a drab grey house or a popping purple one? The answer is obvious in my opinion. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I’ve also learned that there are tasteful ways to have a rock\/fairy garden outside your house, and there are ways to make your front lawn look like a veritable junk yard. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Houses get extra points in my book if they are in a southwestern adobe style, have some impressive ivy vines splayed across them, or have a beat-up, classic car parked outside them. Houses that refuse to be defined, stylistically, earn my respect; “modern” houses in these old neighborhoods lose it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I capture these houses on walks and on bike rides, the third new phase. You can ask anyone — I hate biking, normally. I use my bike to get from A to B and that’s it. But lately, I’ve loved just blasting music out of my ears as I cruise around neighborhoods taking house photos. You can just see so much more than if you’re walking, and during the early evening, the weather and lighting is just magnificent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The only irritation — or perhaps begrudging feeling — I have when I ride now is that everyone is so friendly to me. Everyone seems to be waving and smiling at me as I bike by, and I can’t help but think: “You people don’t even ACKNOWLEDGE me when I run <\/em>by, but on a bike I’m suddenly endearing?” I’ve decided it must have to do with my helmet covered in flowers and butterflies, my bike being too small for me, and my decision a couple times now to sport pigtails. I must just look like a pathetic teenager who refused to grow up, a female Peter Pan. Like Kimmy Schmidt or Jessica Day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wonder what the next three phases will be. My guess is cross-stitching, wood working, and belligerently yelling from my porch. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I’ve had a lot of thoughts stewing in my head lately, starting with the word “stewing” itself. When and why did I start using stewing as a substitute for something approximating “ruminating”? 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