A field guide to growing up without growing apart
Guys- my mom likes Donald Trump. I don’t mean that she is crazy about him or thinks he is the best thing since sliced bread, but she likes him, respects him, and would vote for him for president. To me, Donald Trump appears obtuse and […]
Ah, adulthood. Aren’t our 20s just chock-full of coming-of-age experiences? After all, that’s what this blog is about. Well, this December I reached another milestone of adulthood: I hosted Christmas for the first time. My in-laws were making their first (and hopefully not last) big […]
This summer I took a 3 week trip to the U.S., much of which was spent staying with my family or my husband’s family. It was fun. It was a memorable trip. It was just swell.
But…
I think I’m finding it increasingly difficult to stay with family members for extended periods of time. On the one hand, I absolutely love it. You really can’t beat free lodging and free food—it makes traveling much easier. And I love both of our families, and I hate that most of the year we can only see each other via Skype.
But…
If I had to spend one more day in my in-laws house, I think I would have burst. It’s little things that I hardly notice at first, but that start to get on my nerves as the days and weeks pass. Things like that fact that their house stinks. Like, it noticeably smells. This has worsened in the past few months, and they’ve been trying to identify the source, but I think it’s just the inevitable decay of an old house that hasn’t been kept up well over the years. A house that happens to get partially flooded every year or two. So yeah, it smells musty and dank and occasionally you get a whiff of something worse, like burnt popcorn meets poopy diaper. Mmmmm…
Now, the smell issue is not my in-laws’ fault, per se. But there are other lifestyle choices I find pretty off-putting, such as their propensity for hoarding. Here, sit back and relax while you enjoy a mental tour of their home: You walk in the door and inhale the stinky stank. You are in a mudroom mostly filled with shelves, all full of canned food or cleaning supplies. To your left is a garage, pretty much full to the brim with who-the-hell-knows-because-you-can’t-really-get-in-the-door. Probably tools and stuff. You walk in further and take a right, passing through the dining room. Aside from the expected dining room table, you notice a countertop, a desk, and a card table. On none of these is there any space to set your purse. This trend continues as you go through the rest of the house. Closets full to bursting, horizontal surfaces inevitably occupied with crap, and a desk in the office that is home to a 2+ foot mountain of papers. It’s this room, the office, which threatens to send me over the edge. Not a foot from this disgraceful paper mountain is a paper shredder absolutely begging for some action. Sometimes I actually fantasize about shredding all those papers, or just setting fire to the whole stack.
It’s actually kind of odd that I care so much, because my own parents aren’t much better. I grew up in a house that was too-often cluttered, with a garage that was never empty enough to hold a car. I’m also not all that organized myself. My room in high school and college was always a disaster zone, and I never color-code or actually file anything in filing cabinets. So, who am I to judge? Furthermore, in the case of both my parents’ and my in-laws’ messy houses, I am part of the problem. My husband and I have at least a closet and a half worth of childhood mementos, wedding gifts, clothing, and other assorted stuff at each house! And I appreciate that our family is willing to help us out with storage while we live abroad. But part of me also wouldn’t mind too much if they told us we had to go through it, get it out of their house, and start paying for a storage unit. Because that would mean they (and we) would be minimizing.
I like to hold on to things for sentimental reasons as much as the next girl, but more and more I’ve become enamored with the idea of minimalizing. While we were home this summer I went through two boxes at my parents’ house and a big bin full of shoes at my husband’s parents’ house. Not a huge accomplishment, but it felt so good to know a bag of stuff was on its way to Goodwill and there would be a little less of my clutter in this world. In my own house, we have recently run out of hangers for our clothes. One option would be to buy more hangers, but instead I just have the overwhelming urge to purge, to throw away or give away the clothes my husband and I rarely wear anymore.
While we were in the process of packing up for our flight back, my mother-in-law discovered that I had thrown away a cheap eye-mask provided by one of the airlines on our previous flights. She went into the kitchen and dug it out of the trash, to tuck away who-knows-where in her cluttery, nutty house.
I kind of wanted to punch her. Or just shout, “I already have six of those things in a drawer at home!” Which I do, sadly.
Maybe I am a bit too wasteful, too cavalier about throwing things away (especially when they aren’t actually mine) but I think I’ve become this way because I really, really don’t want to hoard things as much as my parents and in-laws do. I never want to own a storage unit. I want my home to have open spaces and horizontal surfaces that you can actually see once and a while. I don’t want my kids to have more toys than they can play with. I just want…simplicity. A house and a life that functions well. And I can’t have that if I’m weighed down by so. much. stuff.
I’ve been working on a Master’s in Teaching for the past 18 months, and the end is in sight. The last thing I need to do to accomplish this goal is complete 16 weeks of student teaching, and that pursuit has led me halfway around […]
It’s everyone’s favorite time of the month again. Since we just started a new year, the princesses decided to do a bit of reflection. Being in your twenties is the awkward time when you don’t really feel like an adult but you don’t think you’re […]
So this one time I spent 21 days with 10 other people river rafting the Grand Canyon and it was epic.
Long story shortish: Due to the 17 day government shutdown all the National Parks were closed and all hikers, visitor center people, bikers and river rafters were not allowed to enter. Those with permits that were already in by 12:01 am on October 1, 2013 got to stay in but day or weekend hikers and campers and hotel stayers were all rounded up and kicked out. The state of Arizona stepped in on October 13th and paid to reopen parts of the park but river trips were not included, leaving over 21 groups of 15 or so people with $20,000+ of wasted money and 5 times as much time spent preparing for nothing.
Our boats were in the water on September 30th so we were the LAST group on the river for the 17 days the canyon was closed. This is unheard of in one of the most sought after rivers in the world, especially since we were warned that battling other groups for the best campsites would dominate our trip. We had beautiful waterfalls and pristine stream hikes all to ourselves and we didn’t see a soul other than our group members (and two illegal backpackers) for the last 9 days of the trip. Two days we didn’t even get on our boats at all, choosing to lounge at our campsite and go on a long hike just because there was no rush. It was absolute bliss, and it is crazy to think that a mere matter of hours separated us from the ultimate adventure experience and not having one at all.
I don’t know how to talk about it really. How do you explain a trip that you feel so guilty for being allowed to take but still so grateful for anyway? How do you talk about something that was so incredible and also just another part of your daily life? How do I really want to remember it?
The days got shorter as we went, leaving us with 7am mornings followed by 8pm bed times. We’d get up and mill around the stove sipping coffee until 8 or so and then pack up the tents and kitchen onto our boats. The hours spent on the river varied from large foreboding rapids to lazy floats in the sunshine, often worrying more about tan lines than throw ropes.
Around noon we’d stop for lunch at an appealing beach or overhang, rolling out the table and emptying the dry box and cooler of the planned meal, milling about like birds because taking the chairs off the boats was too much work for a lunch stop. Some days we’d pull over for a waterfall hike or to explore a slot canyon for a few hours, returning to our boats to float another few miles before settling on a camp that looked good.
We usually arrived around 4pm, pulling our 4 boats up next to each other and beginning the process of unloading the boats and setting up the kitchen. By 5pm we usually had cocktails in our hands, facilitating conversation and making the wait for dinner pass quickly. Each trip member was in charge of two nights of dinners and we all rotated with dishes, though inevitably certain people were more proactive than others. Some nights we’d sing songs around the guitar and other nights we’d just watch the stars come out, repeating serene exclamations of wow and holy shit to each other as we drifted off to our tents or cots.
It was a wonderful trip, full of adventure and relaxation, hard work and easy laughter. Our group got along well (mostly – there were about 18 days in the middle where I avoided one guy. Some people just don’t click) and we were lucky not to have any major boat flips or injuries. We couldn’t have asked for a better trip or imagined a more wonderful outcome.
Yesterday, talking to my dad about the adventure, I mentioned that I wasn’t sure I’d want to say yes if I ever got the chance to take this trip again. These circumstances were so unique and perfect and amazing that I wasn’t sure anything would ever compare. It would suck to attempt to recreate an experience and have no chance of coming close.
Instead of answering he told me about his brother’s trip a few years ago and how it had rained so much in the days leading up to it that the water level was twice as high as usual, making rapids that we didn’t even stop to look at much, much more dangerous and exciting. With that story I was reminded that every experience is different and worthwhile; we never seek to recreate the past, only use those moments of familiarity to heighten the present.
This trip was once in a life time for a hundred reasons, but the things I choose to do in the future will be even more unique and wonderful in a hundred other ways. At least I hope so.
Sorry that you haven’t heard from me for a while. I’ve been pretty busy. First I had to move out of my house in Oxford (sayonara roommate problems!). I am just moving across town– I’ll tell you more about my new place after I move […]
Hello again! So as you know from reading my last post, I spent last week visiting my high school friends in California. It had its ups and downs like any vacation, and I’m really, really glad I went, but while spending the first weekend in […]
So I Went To California.
Oh man. Where to start? A list of course!
want that, a field I love, a place I know I’ll enjoy no matter the level of experience I’m in. How do people choose that? How do you decide to be happy in one area and not be afraid to take the time you need to work up to the position you want? I want it all, and I’m afraid I’m going to end up with nothing.This rarely happens on planes so I smiled to myself at the opportunity, fully planning to squander it by shyly absorbing myself in my book(which I hadn’t found a spare second to read all week) but as luck would have it this male peer was less apathetic than myself and put it upon himself to speak to me. Like many people, I tend to make jokes when I get nervous, so what could have been a short. “Hey, how are you. You’re nice for switching seats,” conversation turned into a full on flirt fest. (Also, who decided that feeling uncomfortable should be a sign of attraction anyway?).
Did I mention he was attractive? Nothing as perfect as the bus guy, but still and he was outgoing enough to make me bold. Before long we were really talking; he’d only flown once before and is the middle child of 5 boys, likes dirt bike racing and is on his way to becoming an EMT. I told him about my trip and my current lack of direction, why I fly on planes so much and what I miss about Seattle. It was nice and he was interesting; it had been a while since I’d held eye contact a few seconds too long. But as the flight continued and we got to know each other it became apparent that even if we lived close enough to date, I wasn’t interested.
He told me his family never vacationed together, that they’d never had the time or money to spend on things like that. He hadn’t gone to college and just quit his job of managing a Subway restaurant to join a year long church program that would eventually place him as an intern in his home church. He said he’d never really connected with his brothers. He said he knew exactly how his life would look from here on out. I liked him, I really did, but I travel all the time with my well –off family. I’m close with my brother and expect my children to get college degrees. I’m not religious and I have no idea what my future will bring. I found myself shocked as I realized these things mattered, even though they seem so secondary.
It’s terrible really, that a few external things can make such a difference, but as I’ve gotten older the more value I place on background and outlook in my relationships.
So why is it that a person’s background is such a turn on or off? Is it biological in that my ovaries aren’t willing to take the risk that he might turn out like his drunken brothers? Is it emotional in that I I’ll never be able to fully understand him? Or is it more about my privilege, wanting to find someone similar so I don’t have to feel guilty for being born into a happy home?When it comes to friendships, I feel like I gravitate toward people different than me; I crave adventure and new experiences. But I hold the people I date to a different standard, one that may well be impossible to meet. I want to be challenged, but apparently not by someone with less wealthy, outdoorsy and educated parents than myself. I want to choose my favorite passions, but I don’t want to fall in love with someone who thinks he has it figured out. I want to have children with a person who believes in magic, but not to raise them in a church.
I don’t know what it is, and part of me still hopes I’ll meet someone worth ‘overcoming’ our initial differences, but when I look at every happy couple in my life, they have most of those fundamental things in common. I used to believe opposites attract, but lately I feel more like the saying is opposites don’t attach.
We talked the rest of the flight, learning about each other and discussing philosophy and emotions. I got him to admit to feeling lonely and left out by his brothers and he got me to talk about what I want in the future. I learned a lot and had a wonderful time. I even got to debate religion with him. But I stopped worrying what he thought. We were different, and no matter what else we found in common, we’d always be platonic.
So my parents came to visit. Normally this would not be a momentous occasion, but since I moved out of the country just after my wedding, I never had a chance to set up house somewhere and invite my parents over, until now. Snow Whore […]
What’s life without a little give and take? Part of being a twenty-something is having to exchange some of the perks of childhood for the rewards of adult life. So here’s what the Naughty Princesses have to say about what they’ve lost, what they’ve gained, […]
So I’ve faced mortality this week. A whole boatload of it. And to be honest I’m not sure what I’ve learned. Or how I feel. Hopefully we’ll figure something out together.
It began with putting our family dog down on Saturday. Rhoda is (was) our 15 year old yellow lab who may quite possibly have been happiness incarnate. She’s the only pet we’ve ever had and has been a greater part of our lives than most of our relatives. I can trace almost every childhood, pre-teen, teen and 20-something memory I have back to her and the things she’s taught me. Everything just feels wrong without her here, and while I’m glad she had a full and outstanding life with us, I still have cried more in the last two weeks than I did when my grandpa died in October.
She’d been in pain for a while. We knew she had bone cancer in her hip and about three months ago she stopped being able to get up on her own. But we got a system down; she’d bark and we’d come running to help her up, and once she was done exploring she find one of us and flop back down by our side like nothing was wrong.
It was hard on all of us to see our independent, fearless, adorable best friend go from leading the pack of hikers to waking us up three times a night to go outside. And while all of us would have rather she just died peacefully in her sleep like her sister (my friend and I got puppies from the same litter) we all knew she was too strong and stubborn for that. She’d never dream of tagging herself out of the game.
So when my parents decided it was time, it was hard for me to come to terms with it; I was torn between feeling terrible for selfishly wanting to keep her around and feeling guilty for looking forward to sleeping through the night. Nothing seemed to be the right choice and it was only when I stopped thinking about how it would affect me that I accepted it was the best thing for her.
Life sucks sometimes and one of my bosses asked me to come in on Friday, so I worked instead of spend that last day with her. But as hard as I sobbed for our lack of time, it actually gave me a little bit of closure because I had to face my goodbye earlier. On Saturday my parents and brother were a mess, they couldn’t function much less get her to the car or say goodbye. I had already had a private moment with her a day earlier so I was able to hold it together for the rest of them, taking the lead on the whole process and reminding them of the positive when their anger or despair got too intense.
Once we got her to the vet the scene got even worse; my mom’s friend pulled up next to us with her sick 9 year-old black lab in tow. Her husband died about 7 years ago and her children were all out of town so she was on her own to deal with her pet’s unexpected sickness. We carried our dogs in together and when neither of them came back out it made everything harder and easier all at once.
I was grateful that our whole family had been able to be there together and that we’d had time to say our goodbyes, but it was also unbearable to see another friend going through a similar thing, with no real way of helping. I didn’t really understand what being a widow meant until I saw her there crying into my mother’s arms. She’s alone, with everything, and it’s so much harder. We weren’t keen on getting back home quickly so we stopped by her house to let out her other dog and get a few things while she filled out some more paperwork, and it was heartbreaking to see the broken garage door, the leaky sink, the table full of bills, all the things that her husband should have been there to help her with. Losing someone is so much more than the initial pain of missing them, it’s the rest of your life that you don’t get to share with them.
The next day I stopped by my childhood friend’s house on the way to Disney on Ice (which was super epic btdubs. Rapunzel and her man did flying acrobatic tricks on skates without wires. I have never been more sure performers would slip and fall to their deaths) and while she was gathering her things I picked up a self assessment journal of hers and started skimming. It was out on the front table so I was shocked when I read that the lowest point in her life were the times she’d attempted suicide. Our parents are friends so I’ve physically known her my entire life and I’ve never known that. I knew she’d had some trouble in high school with bullies and an even worse time at college with some less than supportive roommates, but I’d never considered that it had gotten that bad. She’s always been shy and socially conscious but it really checked my reality to realize that someone so close to me had considered ending their life early without my knowledge. I closed the book and she didn’t see me reading, but the words couldn’t be unread. I’ll always worry about her now.
On Sunday my brother announced he was taking a solo spring break road trip this week to hike through southern Utah. He’s always been sensitive, so we weren’t surprised when he took the loss of Rhoda really hard. And while my mother would have preferred he take a friend to avoid a 127 Hours type scenario, I know he needed the space to come to terms with his friend being gone. But I also know that it’s been almost ten years since he told me he was thinking about suicide and I still worry every time I see him cry. Rhoda was one of the things that helped him get through it then, so when he left with tears in his eyes this week, I honestly wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again. Will I ever stop worrying about him? Or my friend? Will they ever stop worrying?
For my mother, the loss of our dog has inevitably drawn parallels with her father’s death in October. I’ve watched as she’s beaten herself up for feeling relieved the moments she’s dreaded are over. I know she wants to move forward but every time she comes close, she feels guilty for trying to do so. It’s a terrible thing to move on from, but if there is one thing I know about my unique and wonderful grandpa it is that he wouldn’t want any of us to hold ourselves back on account of him.
Then there is my dad’s dad, who is currently 99 years-old and going strong. This week my dad has been on the phone constantly with his siblings, working out the details for his dad’s future. He told me my grandpa now carries a Do Not Resuscitate order in his wallet that prevents any attempt to save his life should anything happen. As impossible as it is for me to understand, I know he’s lived an astounding, beautiful, full life and must have found some sort of way to come to terms with his inevitable end. I’m going to miss him, but what more can I ask for? What more could he ask for?
Yesterday my brother called to tell us his trip was going great and that he’d made plans to skydive on the way home. On any other given week I would have been all for it, a little adventure is worth the risk, I like to think. But hearing him tell me he’d set a time and would call me the second he landed I lost my cool. I know he’s wanted to do this for a while, I know he’s turning 21 in a month, I know it will clear his head. But he is not Rhoda or my grandparents. He hasn’t lived his life yet. A loss like that isn’t something I can process.
And as if all that wasn’t enough I just found out one of my coworkers lost his wife yesterday. She’s had cancer for about a year but it was in remission until a weird flare up a week ago. He’s got 5 kids all under the age of 16 and is only about 40 himself. The whole office is in shock. How would you handle that? How do we even begin to help him?
My brother just called, his jump went well. Marvelously, in fact. But I still don’t know what is up with this week. Maybe it’s just been a series of random occurrences that my brain has decided to put together, and maybe it’s the magical universe teaching me some lessons I really needed to see for myself. I don’t know.
But I do know that it makes me more grateful for everything I have. And makes me want to go after all the things I don’t. All we can do is try to live full, happy, beautiful lives, because death sucks no matter what. At least if we live fully we’ll have some solid ground underfoot when we have to face it.