My friends have been joking for years about how "awkward" I am. Ha, ha, very funny, guys. It's usually just a joke, but then there are times where I just don't know what to say to people.
About a month ago, I moved home from my first year of college. I started attending my home young adult ward. The first activity I went to, I was lost. I literally couldn't remember how to talk to people. Sounds silly, right? But it's true. The explanation I came up with was this:
For the past school year, I had been living with a bunch of other college freshmen, surrounded by people who were basically experiencing the same thing I was. It's relatively easy to start a conversation with these people, there are pretty standard topics that we can all relate to. But once I was back to being surrounded by people who are different ages, go to different schools, and are mostly in a different stage of life than I am, I couldn't think of anything to say.
While this seemed like a pretty valid explanation for a while, I finally discovered an even better answer. It was at another ward activity earlier this week. I talked to one of my old friends a couple times, and this is what I started with:
"I think I just kind of hit a deer" and "I really want a gazebo".
These are NOT normal conversation starters. No wonder I can't talk to normal people!
I either need to learn how to talk like a normal person, or just accept that I'm going to talk like a weirdo. I think the weirdo thing sounds pretty good, what do you guys think?
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Monday, May 27, 2013
Safety or Happiness?
The Freakonomics guys love to talk about how humans are terrible at assessing risks.
I agree.
Why do we feel safe in the middle of cars moving at lethal speeds and nothing but symbolic paint lines to keep them from plowing into your face?
Why do we use social media so liberally?
Why do we eat basically anything someone else gives to us?
I guess when I think about it, we probably just don't want the stress that paranoia brings. Anything we could gain from being ultra-paranoid is probably outweighed by the happiness lost by living in fear.
We may be terrible at assessing risks, but I think it's better to be good at letting ourselves be happy.
I agree.
Why do we feel safe in the middle of cars moving at lethal speeds and nothing but symbolic paint lines to keep them from plowing into your face?
Why do we use social media so liberally?
Why do we eat basically anything someone else gives to us?
I guess when I think about it, we probably just don't want the stress that paranoia brings. Anything we could gain from being ultra-paranoid is probably outweighed by the happiness lost by living in fear.
We may be terrible at assessing risks, but I think it's better to be good at letting ourselves be happy.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Make Your Dreams A Reality
Good advice?
I know that's not exactly the most horrific dream, but it was unsettling. And I definitely don't want to make it a reality. Please, fortune cookie writers, be a little bit considerate. Some things don't apply to everyone after all.
Once upon a time I went to my favorite super-authentic Chinese restaurant, Panda Express.
When I say "super-authentic" I mean "I'm not really sure what this is but I'm pretty sure it's not Chinese and I'm VERY sure that it is DELICIOUS."
If you've ever been to Panda Express, then you know that with every meal comes a cute little fortune cookie. (and if you haven't been to Panda, seriously what are you doing with your life).
This would be a pretty average, generic, applies-to-anybody kind of feel-good fortune, except for one problem. What if I don't want to make my dreams a reality? I know it probably meant that I should shoot for the great things I want to accomplish in my life, etc. But all I could think about was my dream from the night before. I don't usually remember dreams, so this one really stood out.
I was at Target with my friend's older sister. A super creepy guy who worked there was following us around. He attacked my friend's sister but backed off when the store manager saw him. The manager didn't do anything about it. I tried to say "Hey! This is unacceptable! He should be fired!" but the manager just shrugged and walked away.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
The Clap-Along
You can talk about pet peeves or things you hate or whatever.
You can ask me in a cute little get-to-know-you survey "what is your biggest pet peeve?" and my mind will go completely blank.
I try not to let every little thing bother me because duh then I'd be annoyed all the time.
But there is one thing I forget how much I hate.
Until it happens.
And it happens. A lot.
The clap-along, my friends. It's everywhere.
You're playing your favorite song in the school talent show. You're nervous, but the adrenaline gives you the boost to give it all you've got.
The audience is enjoying it, their enthusiasm gets you even more excited to be on stage.
Then they decide it's their responsibility to keep the beat for you. That one kid, the one who yells at everything, that makes it a goal to draw as much attention to themselves as possible, starts clapping. It spreads like a seething epidemic, infecting the whole crowd. Each member of the audience becomes a mindless zombie, their hands begin moving on their own, clapping to the beat. Ask them why they are putting their hands together, they will have no answer.
But the beat can't stay pure forever. It speeds up, becomes disjointed.
Do you speed up with them? Do you attempt to stay on the original beat? Do you tell the crowd to stop? There is no solution. You must continue the best you can, and wait for the mindless crowd to realize their folly. You may recover eventually, but there will forever be a dark spot on your performance.
Then there's the clap-along to recorded music at basketball games. Equally heinous.
It's awkward. It's unattractive. It ruins good people and turns them into mindless robots that conform to the will of the mob.
Let's end this madness.
Okay, okay, okay. It's not THAT bad. It's acceptable, even, but ONLY if the performer themselves starts it.
But other than that, seriously guys, can we just not?
Kthanksbye.
You can ask me in a cute little get-to-know-you survey "what is your biggest pet peeve?" and my mind will go completely blank.
I try not to let every little thing bother me because duh then I'd be annoyed all the time.
But there is one thing I forget how much I hate.
Until it happens.
And it happens. A lot.
The clap-along, my friends. It's everywhere.
You're playing your favorite song in the school talent show. You're nervous, but the adrenaline gives you the boost to give it all you've got.
The audience is enjoying it, their enthusiasm gets you even more excited to be on stage.
Then they decide it's their responsibility to keep the beat for you. That one kid, the one who yells at everything, that makes it a goal to draw as much attention to themselves as possible, starts clapping. It spreads like a seething epidemic, infecting the whole crowd. Each member of the audience becomes a mindless zombie, their hands begin moving on their own, clapping to the beat. Ask them why they are putting their hands together, they will have no answer.
But the beat can't stay pure forever. It speeds up, becomes disjointed.
Do you speed up with them? Do you attempt to stay on the original beat? Do you tell the crowd to stop? There is no solution. You must continue the best you can, and wait for the mindless crowd to realize their folly. You may recover eventually, but there will forever be a dark spot on your performance.
Then there's the clap-along to recorded music at basketball games. Equally heinous.
It's awkward. It's unattractive. It ruins good people and turns them into mindless robots that conform to the will of the mob.
Let's end this madness.
Okay, okay, okay. It's not THAT bad. It's acceptable, even, but ONLY if the performer themselves starts it.
But other than that, seriously guys, can we just not?
Kthanksbye.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Reflections on a College Testing Center
one student's epic poetic musings on the acutely stressful situation of taking two tests in one day, both of which she is desperately unprepared for, due to her own negligence.
It always starts with denial.
"Hooommmeeworrrrrk?" says my brain.
Every day the wall goes up.
The wall that points to other, more enjoyable activities that won't make me fall asleep.
Sleep? Oh. Ha.
This time I am determined to sleep long enough.
Determined to be alert for my 2-test day.
They say 8 hours is enough.
But you can't trust the system
Because I did what they said
And 8 hours later, there I was.
In the testing center.
White paper.
Red bubble sheet.
Red, the blood of martyred students.
Martyred by their own apathy for the institution they pay to attend.
Orange pencil. Mocks me with its cheery hue.
Cookies N Cream milk promises sugar rush and sweet, sweet reassurance.
Too sugary.
500 calories in all. Not comforting.
Woeful glances at the clock.
No real time limit
But limited by sanity-meter
Drained by the second
"DID YOU KNOW THIS SEEMINGLY INNOCENT PLASTIC BOTTLE CONTAINS WAY TOO MUCH SUGAR? AND I JUST DRANK THE WHOLE THING!!!"
I only shout in my brain.
I'd rather wallow in my own insanity
Than allow strangers to be in on the secret.
Sleep finds me now. It seems 8 hours can never be enough.
20 minutes? 30 minutes? You don't sense time when your head's against the wall.
When you're far away from that dingy curtain and ice-cold vent by your feet.
I wake up and fill in the bubbles.
In 3rd grade, filling in the bubbles was a courageous task.
The risk of wrong answer was outweighed
By the risk of stray marks outside the lines.
Now I need to know which lines. Which. Bubble. Which bubble.
Test finished. Practically sprinting.
Drop it on the grading desk like a venomous snake.
Out of my hand, ye fiendish stapled stack.
73%.
It's what I deserve.
Study. Attempt to study. Another test awaits.
Library.
A friend. We quiz each other. We don't know what lies ahead.
We only prepare the best we know how.
It's too late for listening better in class
For reading the whole textbook
For taking better notes
It's here and now, the final countdown.
I feel better
Good
Ready?
Not ready. Never ever ever ever ready.
Always just "as ready as I can be"
But this time I'm confident.
Too confident, perhaps, for we all must be humbled.
The Great Assembly Maximilian Robespierre Japanese Imperialism Charles Fourier Catherine the Great
CATHERINE THE GREAT
I thought I knew you, Catherine,
But none of these answers look familiar
CATHERIIINNNNNNNNE!
I throw my desk to the ground
Spring up with a rebel yell
Scream at the top of my lungs
Raise my fists in the air
"CATHERINE THE GREAT KILLED HER HUSBAND BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE"
I yell as I wave the flag of the impoverished university students
I am the standard bearer of the downtrodden
I run through the halls, a hero
No
No
I don't. I sit.
I want that daydream to be real. But instead I must complete the task in front of me.
I must fill in bubbles and engrave words into a blank essay response page.
The essay embraces me, and we are friends together.
I stride with dignity to the grading desk for the second time.
I watch dreams crumble.
Very, very bad score.
Very very bad.
Very bad.
iPod, give me some comfort.
Oh you prophetic device. Feist speaks through you.
The song is "Past in Present."
The words that play immediately into my eardrums are
"It's okay you know
It's okay you know
It's okay you know
It's okay you know"
And it is. It really is.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Well, it COULD Have Been a Great Story . . .
Sometimes I think of doing something that would make a great story.
And then I get too scared and don't do it.
But then I realize it would have made a great story and I want to tell it anyway.
This is one of those times.
A regular day in the library. I'm studying at a table. I soon realize that I can hear faint music. It's coming from the headphones of the guy about 4 tables away from me.
Why, why, why. Why did I choose this spot.
It would be weird to leave now, I just unpacked all my stuff.
I can tell exactly what song he's listening to. It's "I Knew You Were Trouble" by Taylor Swift.
Oh, whoah, he starts dancing. Not really dancing, just moving a little bit. Nodding his head. Mouthing the words. I am so close to writing a note that says "I knew you were trouble . . . when I heard your music from 4 tables away" and leaving it in front of him while dramatically relocating to a different section of the library.
But I don't. I just sit there trying to study.
And he leaves the area before I do. And it's all over.
That story would have been about 29 hundred million times better if I had actually written that note. But I didn't.
This is a minute example, but the point is important. Don't let opportunities slip by. Yeah, you've heard that a billion times. I know. Me too. But apparently it never really sunk in. Here's to taking advantage of our opportunities to do funny things that will make great stories. Or do other valuable things, too, I guess.
And then I get too scared and don't do it.
But then I realize it would have made a great story and I want to tell it anyway.
This is one of those times.
A regular day in the library. I'm studying at a table. I soon realize that I can hear faint music. It's coming from the headphones of the guy about 4 tables away from me.
Why, why, why. Why did I choose this spot.
It would be weird to leave now, I just unpacked all my stuff.
I can tell exactly what song he's listening to. It's "I Knew You Were Trouble" by Taylor Swift.
Oh, whoah, he starts dancing. Not really dancing, just moving a little bit. Nodding his head. Mouthing the words. I am so close to writing a note that says "I knew you were trouble . . . when I heard your music from 4 tables away" and leaving it in front of him while dramatically relocating to a different section of the library.
But I don't. I just sit there trying to study.
And he leaves the area before I do. And it's all over.
That story would have been about 29 hundred million times better if I had actually written that note. But I didn't.
This is a minute example, but the point is important. Don't let opportunities slip by. Yeah, you've heard that a billion times. I know. Me too. But apparently it never really sunk in. Here's to taking advantage of our opportunities to do funny things that will make great stories. Or do other valuable things, too, I guess.
Irony Is:
when your dad always takes a 2-inch stack of napkins from every fast food restaurant he visits to stock in his car, but when a Vanilla Coke explodes, there are no napkins to be found.
when you turn right and switch to the left lane, and the left turner turns and switches into the right lane.
when you remember something as soon as it doesn't matter anymore.
when Walmart doesn't have the one thing you need.
when you only need to sneeze when you're trying not to wake someone up.
when you buy something and it goes on sale the next day.
when you forget your sunglasses on a sunny day, but remember to bring them on a cloudy day.
when you pick up your 3-handled laundry basket by the one side without a handle.
when it takes you 5 tries to type the word "attempt".
Irony is everywhere, seriously. And the great thing is, even when something ridiculously stupid happens in life, usually I can at least find some amusement by saying "how ironic is that?"
when you turn right and switch to the left lane, and the left turner turns and switches into the right lane.
when you remember something as soon as it doesn't matter anymore.
when Walmart doesn't have the one thing you need.
when you only need to sneeze when you're trying not to wake someone up.
when you buy something and it goes on sale the next day.
when you forget your sunglasses on a sunny day, but remember to bring them on a cloudy day.
when you pick up your 3-handled laundry basket by the one side without a handle.
when it takes you 5 tries to type the word "attempt".
Irony is everywhere, seriously. And the great thing is, even when something ridiculously stupid happens in life, usually I can at least find some amusement by saying "how ironic is that?"
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