Packing Woes

Sitting on my floor in the midst of boxes waiting to be packed, the only thing I can think of is how in the world I managed to accumulate this much junk. My closet, for one, looks like it's been the recent victim of a bomb. I've unearthed clothes, shoes, and purses from its murky depths that I don't remember purchasing or ever wearing for that matter. I have never once considered myself a pack rat of any sort; however, I am finding t-shirts that boast dates like 1997 and 2000. I definitely do not wear the same size clothing I wore as a hyper active six year old nor do I recall what the event advertised on the shirt is. Thus, the piece of clothing holds no sentimental value, but it has lived in the bottom of my drawer folded in a perfect rectangle for fourteen years. Now, this is strange because in those fourteen years, I've moved twice, not including moving to and from college twice a year for the last two years. As the painful thought of moving into a new apartment in the 100 degree Texas heat dilutes my sanity, I have convinced myself that my clothing multiplies exponentially. (My mother would argue that I have a mild addiction to t-shirts. My best friend would second this argument as she unpacked all my shirts moving into my apartment last year.) 

While I'm harping about clothing... 

I'm an only child. Over the course of 20 years, I've been the sole subject of my parents' photographing skills (or lack thereof). We have album after album of vacations to this place or that. Somehow, a great number of these albums seem to have their way onto my desk. As I've mentioned before I possess an avid talent for procrastination, so logically, I sat down and looked through all of them instead of packing my life into boxes. This is what I noticed. 

1) Toddlers rarely make attractive faces. I think I mastered every face in the book that makes me seem mentally unstable. Heaven forbid, I smile like a normal child. 

2) The rare times I did, in fact, smile like a normal child and not like a sugar-induced maniac, my clothing choices took all the attention away from my smiling face. This is through no one's fault but my own. I've always been an independent, opinionated person. After all, I am my mother's daughter. I wore what I wanted, and my mother gave me the freedom to dress myself. 20 years later looking back on the photos, I wonder how she had the patience or pure courage to take me out in public. A series of pictures that look to be taken over the course of a week or two have me in red cowboy boots, hot pink biker shorts straight from the 80s (a decade I didn't even live in, mind you), a multi-colored, printed swimsuit, and a tutu. This fashion-forward look, of course, came right after the Barney phase, in which I would only wear clothing depicting the affable, purple dinosaur. 

See, I eventually brought the post back around to the clothing topic I started with, only to go off in a completely different direction. 

Why is it so unbelievably difficult to find the edge of clear packing tape? Also, why, once you find it, is it impossible to pull a decent piece the first time? I've gone through about a yard and a half of clear packing tape picking helplessly at the corners. 

Alice is lucky she never had to pack. She had the good sense to fall into a hole instead. I'm debating going to find a hole like that, but apparently, we have a neighborhood bobcat that lives behind our house. I'm not a "nature" person, so I'll have to find an indoor hole somewhere. Anyway, that's what they never told you. That's the real reason Alice decided to chase a time-obsessed rabbit in a coat. She was avoiding packing. I'm not entirely concerned with how realistic that sounds. In fact, Lewis Carroll encourages thinking of six impossible things before breakfast. It's breakfast somewhere, and cereal sounds really good right about now. 

A Blog Neglected

You could say I pulled an Alice falling into a hole. In my case, however, instead of falling into a hole, I dove head first into another country for two months.

Lesson number one I learned while abroad: we rely on technology way too much in this country. It actually physically hurts me to admit that because I'm an MIS major. I love all things tech-y. In Scotland, people actually converse with one another. When they sit down for a meal, or even just coffee, they focus solely on their company. Phones don't add awkward lighting to already pale faces nor are they constant table decoration. When people take "wee walks" along the street, they don't haphazardly collide with one another because they are looking at where they are going as opposed to staring into a phone or iPod. Also, the term "wifi" might as well be Hebrew. Free wifi is even more of an absurdity. The first couple of days, my lack of technology was overwhelming. It felt like I had a phantom limb. My phone had been violently amputated from my body, and I physically ached to have it in my hands. I wanted nothing more than to pick up my cell phone and tweet photos of the sheep lining the road, update my status about the constant rain, or text a story about an interesting local. Slowly but surely, I got used to being phone-less (and most of the time, internet-less). Then, something miraculous happened. Almost as strange as a rabbit in an overcoat with a pocket watch, I got used to be in a quasi-tech-free environment. As I walked around this new city, I was able to absorb so much more simply because I was paying attention. There was nothing competing for my focus. My phone was vibrating with news feed updates, tweets, or texts. My iPod was contently sleeping at the bottom of my purse. My computer rendered useless by the lack of internet lay dormant on my desk. It made me wonder how much of my surroundings in Austin I've missed because I've been too involved with my tech toys.

Lesson number two I learned while abroad: a "wee" walk is about 3 miles while a "wee" hike is climbing a mountain. This lesson was learned the hard way, numerous times. No one in Scotland drives. The bus system is fantastic. The train system is great. The weather has a tendency to suck, but people still love to walk. And walk they do. Everywhere, no matter what the weather, no matter what the time of day. You. Walk. Everywhere. We got used to this concept fairly quickly that was until 30 of us were standing at the base of the supposed hill on which the Old Man of Storr resided. We were on a three day "Wild and Sexy Highlands Tour," so named because the tour company insists that attracts Americans to their tours. Anyway, Kyle, our guide, insisted it was a "wee hike" to the ancient, geological rock formations. When in Scotland, do what the Scots do. So we started climbing. He lied. That "hill" was a mountain- a steep, muddy mountain. After that three day trip was finally over, I'm pretty sure every one of us wanted nothing more than a shower and a bed.

Lesson number three I learned while abroad: dropping your camera off the side of a 4-story crumbling castle wall induces widespread panic and a sprinting tornado of flailing limbs. The Mock Turtle said, "What is the use of repeating all that stuff, if you don't explain it as you go on? It's by far the most confusing thing I ever heard!" While he makes a valid argument, he never suffered from jet lag. Then, I believe he would alter his statement ever so slightly. So the explanation behind lesson three for another time when exhaustion isn't seeping into my bones. 

Adapting Means of Procrastination

I was talking to my mom the other day how my biggest downfall is my procrastination. While I'm organized (some say obsessively) and I have everything planned out, I'm always scrambling at the last minute to get everything together. Apparently, I've always been this way. I would like to say that I work better under pressure, and this and that other excuses procrastinators tell themselves to feed the denial. Either way, I finally rid myself of my bad procrastinating habit. I was on top of everything, and unbelievably, I was getting sleep consistently and daily. Both are rarities in college and life (really). Then what happened, you ask? Two words: Spring. Break. You've probably heard of it, maybe experienced it. It's that week long tease of a vacation smack dab in the middle of the spring. You're far enough in to be pulling out your hair due to building amounts of stress, but not far enough to actually start counting down until summer. This break took my productivity and ran away like a bandit. Now, I'm left with this useless shell of what used to be and have reverted back to my old, die-hard personality, which puts procrastination above all else. The proof is in the post. As opposed to using my valuable and rare free time studying or doing busy work x, assignment y, and essay z, I'm writing a post about my intense levels of procrastination. Fitting, no?

So it seems my mother was right all along. (She will be shocked to see I actually admitted this fact and cemented it into blog world.) My biggest downfall is my procrastination as my productivity comes in little bursts of energy. After the little burst is dissipated, procrastination returns like the arrival of a long-awaited king coming home to his kingdom. If the metaphor is a little over the top, I remind you that I warned you of my tendency for the overdramatic. As much as I enjoy the reign of procrastination, I would love to channel those little bursts of energy into a week-long event where I could just knock out the rest of the semester in one fowl sleepless swoop. Unlikely, but a girl can wish, right?

With that, I leave you with a quote from Lewis Carroll, "If you don't know where you're going, any road will get you there." Off to accounting... I don't think there's a specific road for that...

Going Through the Paces

I'm pretty sure I've mastered the art of time travel. 

I opened my eyes Sunday morning to an annoying frat boy clamoring down the hallway outside. (I'm positive a herd of elephants makes less noise.) I blinked. It's now Wednesday. What? Where did my week go? And how did the days mesh into one in my brain? It's official. I'm never blinking again. Headed to dinner with one of my best friends, I realized we ate together three nights in a row, and neither of us noticed that our evening patterns were repeating themselves. Stumble home from class, down time, more down time that leads into procrastination (all the while texting rapidly), dinner, Target (because who wants to studying for the impending doom that is Accounting 312), back to my apartment. Rocking out in my car with the windows down and Panic! At the Disco's new album, Vices and Virtues, blasting through my speakers, we found it oddly pathetic that neither of us could positively confirm the events of the previous days. It seems when I blinked I took everyone in my vicinity with me. Megan, too, had transported from Sunday to Wednesday. That giant jump knocked four days off our study time for the always-daunting, ominous accounting. Let the stress studying begin. 

Whenever accounting tests roll around, you walk into the business school to hoards of sophomores with frazzled hair, bloodshot eyes, and rumpled clothing. It's similar to facing an apocalypse every two or three weeks. The best is when accounting tests collide painfully with recruiting. Then add to the mix disgruntled kids decked from head-to-toe in business professional, which according to McCombs, is code for ridiculously uncomfortable. Let's also add that these tests last three hours long. THREE HOURS. Focusing on accounting for any given period of time longer than about 15 minutes is as painful as getting a route canal. Very honestly, I might actually prefer the route canal. I'm an MIS major; give me a computer and something to code, and I am the happiest girl in the world. On the other hand, give me a T-account and ask me to use present value and future value to determine the actual amount of an investment, and I will probably just turn around and walk quickly way. Either way, I have no choice, but to cram my skull full of knowledge I will hopefully forget immediately after the final. This, however, doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. Even the accounting majors dread these exams. We all suffer as one. Misery loves its company. As Alice once said, "It would be nice if things made sense for a change."Good luck to you all, and hopefully, it won't be off with our heads. 

Hello Blog World

As kids, most of us kept a journal buried in a drawer of socks or under a corner of the mattress. That small book kept our most intimate secrets. At the ripe age of 13 that usually was about the latest boy to catch my eye. Now, you all may have had better secrets to keep tucked away in the journal's crumpled pages. Because my real life didn't interest me nearly as much as my imagination, the pages of my journals were filled with endless stories about foreign lands, make-believe species, and a knight in shining armor (that often looked remarkably like my latest crush). When princesses and princes weren't involved, stories about large, crazy families formulated, spurred on by blockbuster hits like Cheaper by the Dozen or Yours, Mine, and Ours. As I grew older, writing stories became a part of my past, like the secrets that collected scattered amongst crumpled pages of forgotten journals. Free time became spare time, and then, spare time became no time. School took over my life. I had no idea the meaning of the phrase until I came to college. Granted, I attended an all-girls, Catholic, college preparatory school, so I'm no stranger to late nights turned early mornings, strict teachers, or endless assignments. College is a completely different matter. Here, I have free time, and I have no idea what to do with it. I spent a majority of my freshman year dancing around commitments, reveling in the newfound concepts of freedom and avoiding the necessary ones of time management and organization. And boy, did that hit me like a speeding truck. After multiple rounds of consecutive all-nighters, I quickly decided procrastination just wasn't working for me like it did in high school. (Quite honestly, I'm not sure it worked for me then either.) In any case, two years into my college education, I've got it down to a science. I have found a balance, and that precarious position is rocked on a daily basis. Somedays, the scales tilt towards insanity, and it seems that I'm barreling towards a cliff with no signs of slowing down. Other days, I'm on my a-game, and life seems to be a walk in the park. I never know what kind of day it's going to turn out to be. Like the bipolar Texas weather, it's possible to leave my apartment as Queen of the World with the sun shining brightly and walk back 75 minutes later in a torrential downpour hanging onto the edges of sanity with my fingernails.  As I'm sure you've noticed this far into the post, I have a talent for the overdramatic. It oozes from my being, usually with a dose of brutal honesty and a jigger of sarcasm. But hey, it makes life a touch more entertaining. Not that I need the entertainment, but my friends supply a more-than-healthy helping of crazy. I wouldn't have it any other way. People keep telling me that these are the best days of my life. I wouldn't want to look back and only see the inside of a library. I want to see days speckled with insanity and companionship like I do when I look back at that tattered journal hiding beneath the mattress of my bed at home. I want to look back and see my imagination caught for a moment in time as a post (this time around) as opposed to a rambling story about a princess in a large family traipsing through the country looking for her prince. I still don't have many juicy secrets to share, but I'm more than willing to provide stories of my crazy encounters as I try and balance life. As the Cheshire Cat said, "We're all crazy here."