To Hike or Not to Hike

I've been out of school for a few weeks now and have had a glorious time doing almost nothing. I primarily read cook books and regular books, watch Korean and British TV, study Chinese and algebra, and put together plans for the future which will most likely never come into fruition.

I'm having the same miny crisis of last summer, wherein I realize that I've never though realistically about what I actually want to do with my life. I don't even know how to think realistically about my future.

So mostly I've thought a lot about my future unrealistically.

For example, I've thought about opening a business in which I'll write the English part of the scripts for Korean TV (because half the time their English scripts don't make sense) and started a foreign exchange program that employs people who actually speak English to play English-speaking parts (because usually those people are Swedish, or Yugoslavian, or something). Because, dude, they have an international audience now, and their English is painful.

Or I've thought about becoming John Green. I'm not entirely sure what that would entail, but I'm positive it would be awesome. Because, A) best-selling author, and B) this:

(title2come on tumblr)

So, that's one plan. Another includes becoming a nun and writing mystery novels. Going on the Ellen show. Becoming a pilot and a spelunker.

I've thought of doing all of these things. Also going to culinary school and being a food writer for a fantastically snobby publication, working for an NGO in China, and being an anthropologist/homeless person.

But let's be honest. I'm probably going to live a very small, very quiet life. And I'm vain enough to tell myself it isn't because I couldn't live big and broad.

But whether I could or not, what I love best is being home. I love spending time with my family, and reading books, and cooking and cleaning, and watching foreign TV.

I don't really want to go change the world, to be honest with  you. I want to want to. I want to be like my dad and see mountains and think, "Man, I want to climb that." But I see mountains and I think, "Man, that's beautiful. Let's have a picnic! I brought apples."

And I'm wondering, is this a better-worse thing? Like, would I be a better person if I were more of a hiker and less of picnic-er?

You don't have to answer that. In fact, I'm not sure I want you to. I like picnics too much.

Mailboxes, For Your Information

Once I directed friends to my house by telling them that I was the second duct-taped mailbox down the street on the left.

This is no longer true. My neighbors replaced their embarrassment with a more sturdy stone model. My mailbox, however, remains, though the tape itself has been replaced several times. The tape is going through a blue period right now. This is impermanent—Dad says that he’s going to buy orange for Halloween and red or green for Christmas.

According to my mom our mailbox has been on its last leg since we moved here, about seventeen years ago. I can’t remember it then, only its present incarnation--a rusty pole upholding a teetering grey box with a rounded top, covered in tape. My first memory of it is when my little sister’s friend scribbled, Come down and play, on the side of it with a rock.

You can still see the remnants of the writing slanting across its increasingly faded exterior.

Mom bought a new shiny red mailbox, but its still sitting in our garage. As residue from her less feminist days, my mom insists that putting up mailboxes (like stringing Christmas lights) is a man's job and Dad has steadfastly refused to put it up. 

We're unable to determine if that is due to his general disinclination to fix/repair/install anything, or the defiant pride he has in our mailbox's similarly defiant ugliness and absolute refusal to fall to time or weather.

Excuse the Bad Grammer, I Didn't Edit Because I Don't Care

I've had a number of blogging freak outs, of various sizes. Perhaps most notably was my first day home sick post. That was a terrible day. I went to class and fought back tears, and then I went home and let them loose. I was so home sick that the sight of 808--the area code from home--made me tear up.

I sat on my bed for a full day, thinking how most of the people who loved weren't even on the same continent as me. And I cried. It has only recently occurred to me how uncomfortable that must have been for the apartment next door. After all, you can hear everything through those walls, and I was sobbing for hours. Part of me feels bad for them. Part of me thinks that they should have knocked on my door and brought me cookies and made sure I was OK.

I haven't been home sick like that for a few months now. I've missed home, but I've been happy. Home sickness became an ache for hugs or a craving for salad, instead of lung crushing sobs.

Until today. Today I went to print off my itinerary and found out that I'm not actually going to be home tonight at 9:30. Nope. At 9:30 I'll still be in Utah. I don't catch my flight home until 3:18 Monday.

A few days ago, when I was desperately studying for astronomy, I looked online and saw that one of my final grades, which was a 99% when I walked out of the testing center, was and 82%. I freaked out. Really. My cousins were unsure how to handle me. I went through every possible scenario, sent an email to my TA and called every friend I had in the class. After about forty-five minutes of panicking a friend explained what had happened and how everything was OK, and I was fine again.

Today was so much worse.

Two days. Forty eight hours. Two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes. That's how much time I no longer get to spend at home. It feels stolen.

It's been about two hours. My face is stiff with salt, the impatient airline lady assured me it was my fault, my head feels pounded and it is time for me to get out of bed and figure out how to be happy again.

The funny thing is, if I'd always known that I was leaving Monday, today would be a great day. I'd hang with cousins and there would only be two days left until I got home! Just two! Days! Not counting down my months anymore--actual days. But now that's two days that I'm not home.

I've read about so many writers who speak about writing as a compulsion. It's something that they have to do. I remember one woman saying that she had to write everything, otherwise it seemed like it never really happened. It's funny how, in a certain way, we can only experience through words. Any shape we give to the world around us comes through consonants and vowels. That's why, when I was done talking to my parents and done crying, I pulled out my laptop and wrote to you.

What good therapy you are.

Adjectives, Expectations, and Frozen Yogurt

WARNING: I'm thinking of starting all of my posts with warnings. Anyway, this is extremely long. I hadn't realized how long until I posted it. I could go edit and cut it down... but I've been editing an essay all week, so that's not happening. I would recommend skimming. Or you could just pretend you read it and move on.

Some of you might remember my epiphany in the dandelions that came last year about how all adjectives are relative. (i've since discovered that all words are relative, but this disturbers me less.) You may remember how very annoyed I was to discover that the only way I could define myself was in comparison to other people.... which totally stinks because in comparison it is mandated that someone is the loser. And, of course, that someone is me more than I'd like it to be.

Every time I tell someone I grew up in Hawaii they say, "Why didn't you go to college there?" And I say something like, "I just thought I'd never grow up if I stayed at home." Which is totally true. Like, if I hadn't gone away to college I still wouldn't know how to use a laundromat, I still wouldn't own a wallet, and I wouldn't know how much milk costs.

(ok, we'll be honest. i still don't know how much milk costs. i haven't bought it yet. i don't drink it that much. but i know i'm a grown up because i have a wallet and keys.)

What takes more time to explain is that, cliched as it sounds, I'm curious about me.

I mean, I've been living with me for eighteen years, I kind of want to get to know me a little better. You know how you'll know someone for years, at school maybe, and then when you see them somewhere else they're totally different? I thought I'd pull myself out of the context of my life and see what I was like without it. Silly of course. I haven't left behind my context at all. I find myself giving it no matter who I'm talking to. "Back home..." "In Hawaii..." "Where I grew up..."

I thought I was escaping the labels and expectations of everyone who knew me since I was six. Everyone who sat in sunday school with me and said, "she's haole," or "smart," or "weird." I thought once I was away from all of that something would blossom in my stomach and vola! Look! So that's who I was all along. Who knew?

Actually, even thousands of miles away from my context, I'm terrified of setting it down. Because who am I without it? I'm self-imposing all those expectations on myself now and I don't even have my sunday-school mates to blame for it.

This is not where I was planning on this post going. I wasn't going to really delve into identity. (though i do have a question: is there a healthy thing to base your identity on? honestly? if i think of myself as smart and then i am disillusioned out of this and just crushed, or if it stops me from doing things i'm bad at because that makes me seem less smart, then that isn't healthy. but isn't that true about basing your identity on anything and making any judgments about yourself? now i'm just confused...) I was actually going to note a few things that I've figure out about me. 

Of course they're comparative. You see, you thought I'd entirely forgot that I'd opened with my adjective thing didn't you? Nope, see, I was going somewhere for once. I know. Weird. So, from living with people who aren't my family I've come to some (comparative) conclusions about me. Nothing real earth-shaking.

I'm actually pretty clean. I don't take any responsibility for this. I think it's my mom's handy work and is probably a bit over the top right now as I try to prove to myself that where I am living is actually my home. But still. I have compulsions to do the dishes, clean the bathroom, etc. These are compulsions that my roommates do not have and do not understand. I'm mostly cool with that, but I wish they'd let me do it. I don't need them to do their dishes, I just need their dishes done. I'm good with cleaning them, but for some reason they haven't really borded that train of thought.

I go sleep early. Really. I'm going to sleep later than I used to and I still go to bed early. Yesterday was eleven thirty-ish because I had a paper due today. It felt late then and this morning it really felt late. But try complaining about a eleven-thirty bedtime to college students. See if you get away without a social stoning. I haven't really decided what I think this says about me... but I thought I'd share it. So if you happen to be my floor mate who keeps playing the ukulele at obscene hours of the morning, take pity on the poor socially awkward girl who lives across from you and stop. Or at least learn a different song.

I am socially awkward. Which does seem sort of fundamentally unfair. I shouldn't have to be physically and socially awkward. I really must have been at the back of the line when the stars were passing out skills. Because I'm a self-justifying person, though, I have come up with a perfectly plausible reason for why I'm socially awkward. The meeting new people part is because I've lived in a tiny town my whole life, so even people I didn't know knew me. Now I'm in a place where no one knows me... and I don't know what to do. Do I just walk up to people and say, "Hey. I'm Marissa. I'm a socially awkward Asian Studies major, looking for a job and craving sugar?"

Not really, right? There is some secret to this whole meeting people thing that I am just yet to discover. Right? Like a secret password.

... Hey, guys. Now would be a great time to let me in on the secret. Just saying.

I actually have a lot to tell you. Like I bought bubbles because I decided that I couldn't live without them. And I was walking back from blowing them on Sunday and got invited in by people I'd met that day ("hey. i'm marissa....") to eat a muffin. Which was fun. I felt intimidated though, because they were talking about politics. And I know nothing about politics. I do, however, know a lot about China, and I got into a heated discussion with a Pakistani in my ward about it. I met him, told him what I studies ("i'm a socially awkward asian studies major..."), and he leaned forward said, "Do you think Mao was a good leader?" We argued about it for twenty minutes, until he had to go talk to the Bishop.

My father has mandated that my entire family will eat sugar only once a week (with the exception of holidays recognized by hallmark) and it works well. Most of the time. Everyone once in a while I just really.... need... ICECREAM. ("looking for a job and craving sugar...") Tomorrow will be my once a week, though. I'm going to go get frozen yogurt. As a treat for me doing a whole half of the things I was supposed to this week. Because I'm responsible like that.

Over.