Don't Panic.

There's always that one day after daylight saving's time that reminds me why that wicked, wicked ritual of losing an hour is so worth it.

 

The sun shines. I go outside. I realize the birds are back. Crocuses smile from the flower bed beside my house.

And I finally let go of my pent-up, sleep-deprived anger at Father Time.

Contrary to living in a place where winter is key for both economical reasons and local entertainment, I'm just not cut out for snow. So when that sun is back, I could practically do an Aztec-esque worship dance.

Minus the human sacrifices. And the dancing. Because my ankle is still incapacitated. 

But regardless. I've been waiting for today for a few months now, and I took full advantage.

By which I mean I read a book. Because running through fields of clover on crutches is about as dangerous as it sounds.

But reading is an excellent way to spend time. And thus, I name my next sanity-saver:

 Reading.

And what better day to celebrate the joys of reading than on the 61st birthday of a genius by the name of Douglas Adams. Otherwise known as the author of the incredible series: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I will admit. I watched the (very well made and impressively accurate) movie remake of this book before I bought the entire series for a dollar by an incredible stroke of luck at a high school fundraiser. But I loved it nonetheless.

The story tells of Arthur Dent, a rather homely man who, by amazing fortune and his unwitting friendship with an intergalactic hitchhiker, manages to escape the destruction of the Earth and set out on a splendid set of adventures riddled with beings beyond his wildest imagination and a strong sense of British satire. This read, ladies and gents, is definitely worth your time.

But prepare yourselves and remember your towel, because this series is a total trip.

So, there's my second time-waster for you folks. And once you've finished reading the series, I deeply suggest watching the movie, which stars Martin Freeman (Hobbit, anyone?) as Arthur Dent and Zooey Deschanel as the beautiful Trillian. 

But before you do any of that, I advise going out and enjoying your weather, if it's nice. Because days like this are few and far between right now.

But don't panic, because Summer is surely on its way.

Love,

Chloe

One Shoe

Maybe I've watched too much Desperate Housewives.

But it seems to me as though boredom can drive seemingly rational people to commit acts they never thought possible. So, I've decided to come up with some sanity savers, if you will.

In my case, boredom results from immobilization.

On the celebration of my 21st birthday, I took a bit of a spill. Whether this was the fault of the six-inch heels, the icy crosswalk, or the shots is still under investigation. Regardless of who's to blame (definitely me) the result was the same, a very twisted ankle.

I thought.

After a week and a half of walking, running, and dancing on said ankle, I decided (with the STRONG encouragement of those who love and know more than me) that the ankle might need a professional consultation.

An x-ray later, I had my diagnosis... cracked ankle. With a nice fissure gapping the bone like an adorable, maniacal bolt of lightening.

And so, I am officially: an incredible boss with a pain tolerance I didn't know I possessed... and in a cast for the next four weeks. 

I demanded it be hot-pink.

As a result, I've decided to attempt to name off a new time occupier (besides television) for each blog I write. First one: poetry.

Now, I am no Walt Whitman, no Robert Frost, no T.S. Eliot, but there's something about writing a poem that gives me the feeling that I can say things I wouldn't be able to articulate in any other form of writing. There are situations that just can't be done justice by being spoken out loud, and even if you're being perfectly honest.

Here's an interesting one I wrote for my poetry class this past semester:

----------------------

Allow Me to Explain

I know it must seem arbitrary

to pull you aside here and now

of all the places and times

I could have chosen,

but where better to become lonely

then at such a lovely party,

and one with an open bar?

I’m sorry. But if you knew me better

you would agree, that of all the bad things

to be bad at,

I am the best at being terrible

at this.

No, I can’t deny it.

It was a perfect fit, that hand.

Not too tense or loose

like a fish on land

gasping for air.

It was a perfect fit, wasn’t it?

How it clicked like too many teeth

after an orthodontist has had his way

with them, don’t you think it’s a sad, lonely

world where they can charge such an awful

amount for that much headache and pain,

when you can get the same for free from me?

Apologies. My mind, it’s like that train,

you know, the one that always gets away

from the tracks, no matter how much

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

I won’t and I can’t.

Not with your steady eyes

like glassy ceilings of sky

holding me back.

And I can’t stay here, and

no, it’s not the food,

it’s not the atmosphere

it’s lovely in here

but there’s this sea I’ve been dying

to visit. I hear there are plenty of fish,

in it, or something like that.

And I’m not ready to be reeled

in, even with a perfect hand,

made into a cookie cutter

salmon colored

lady who’ll stand quietly and

be very good at baking.

It smells delightful over here

by the dessert table, sickly sweet

like birthdays, or weddings.

Don’t you think?

Or do guilty lungs just work better

than heartbroken ones?

Look at the time, I can’t stay.

Do you remember where I left

that coat that you helped me

take off? I guess I’ll get that

by myself, anyway.

Thank you again, for stopping by

to meet me here, at that place between

hello and goodbye, but mostly

goodbye.

Truly, it was delightful to know you.

And really, it’s sad that

if you knew me better

you would agree

that of all the bad things

to be bad at,

I am the best

at being terrible

at this.

-----------------------

Bit heavy, but it occupies the time

So la-dee-da, and here's wearing out all of my left shoes and to coming up with other time-wasters to keep me sane. I keep ya posted.

Love,

Chloe

Life Leases

Happy is the most overused and misused word I possess in my vocabulary. I'm happy about it. I'm happy for you. I'm happy it happened. I'm happy it's over. 

I'm happy it's Friday. I'm happy it's Spring. I'm happy we're friends. I'm happy it's on it's way. 

  I'm happy. Happy. So stinkin' happy.

It's like one of those words you write over and over again until it doesn't look like a real English word anymore.

But I think happy gets thrown around like a can of primer sometimes. Pretty basic, nice clean coat, but intended to cover up a base of colorful, or ugly things that we're sick of seeing and thinking about.

In my opinion, there are three types of happiness.

Number one: borrowed happiness. This version seems to come around when life punches us in the face and we don't want anyone to see our black eye because we're embarrassed. So, we hang out with large groups of people at every opportunity. We laugh our heads off at everything. Everything. But we do not talk about ourselves, not for one second. If the subject comes up, we're doing great. We're doing fine. Now hand me another drink, because I don't want to be sober when reality walks in here.

Number two: rented happiness. This guy comes in handy best when we're lonely or bored or feeling numb from the punch to the face. So, we buy things. We buy food, we buy clothes, some of us go as far to buy a Maserati or a new pool. But we buy until the money is spent, because that ten second thrill at a checkout counter is better than the other option of nothing. And when the money is gone, we can sit in our treasure pile and count our belongings until we realize: you can't take it with you. And did having it actually ever fix a thing?

So I've been a bit dreary up to this point, but honesty is not always eating rainbows and pooping butterflies: but you're in luck. Because there is a third option.

Owning your happiness. 

Owning your happiness is hard. There are ups, and there are downs. Sometimes the market sucks. Sometimes you need to do repairs. Sometimes you need to 'hire' (aka: marry) a partner because the job is too hard to do on your own. But it is yours. No one can take it from you. But you have to be honest about it, this owned happiness. Because the lifetime guarantee comes with a stipulation: no masks allowed. So when you're down, be down. And when you're happy, be happy.

But be the real kind. Because the people who truly love you- they want to hold you in your good and in your bad. But they want to hold YOU. The real you.

So be happy. But own it. Don't fake it for a second, because life is too messy to pretend it's perfect, but it's also too short to not be ourselves.

Love,

Chloe

Twenty-One

Yesterday was my twenty-first birthday. And I got my hair dyed blonde ombre on Saturday. Hello, change. I'm starting to feel like I've moved from life's preliminary rounds and on to the semi-finals.

I've also discovered that I have the world's most loving and generous family (alrighty, I've known this a while, but every once in a while they truly spoil me!) and hundreds of amazing friends. Facebook page be blowin' up yesterday! Thank you to each and every one of you well-wishers!

I also am getting my own ukulele after weeks of coveting my dad's. Holla!

I'm mostly glad that I have many people who will support me now that I've entered old age.

Alright, maybe I'm not as old as I feel, but when I think of where I was when I started college at eighteen, I know I've changed. A lot.


Some of it for the better, some not. But I'd be delusional to think that growing up would be easy.

I was told that I looked like a 'sweet eighties chic' yesterday. I'll take it.

Finding myself has been a merry chase. And I don't think there will be any definite 'final product'. 

How lame would that be? 

'You have reached the final stage of development creatively, spiritually, and mentally. Please wait here until you die.'

No thanks. I think I'll stay ephemeral, if you don't mind.

In other news, I have found the newest addition to my time-waste program: The Harlem Shake. Here's one of my faves from the University of Georgia Men's Swim and Dive Team:

Can't get enough of it. And the number of videos goes on forever! Farewell, productivity. It was good while it lasted.

I like to think that birthdays give you a fresh start. A chance to resolve some of the issues you may have had in your past year. At least, that's the stance I'm taking.

So here's to twenty-one, to friends, to family, to ukulele music that can lift a mood instantaneously!

And to buying wine just because the label is cool.

Love,

Chloe

Solitary Refinement

Oh hello, February the fifteenth. Here we sit, in all our day-after-Valentine's-day fallout. The good, the bad, and the meh.

How yesterday was spent depended on your state of mind or our Facebook relationship status, depending on your persuasion. Some received dozens of flowers while still others delivered dozens of complaints about the holiday itself.

I for one, celebrated in solitary refinement.

And did a self photo-shoot with all the lights off and a very bright flash. Which, while both entertaining and liberating, is probably very bad for your eyes. So wear sunglasses and pretend that it helps.

I didn't have a boyfriend this Valentine's Day, nor did I require one. I went on a ladies date with my best friend, which involved Shari's (in other words: PIE) and the movie Warm Bodies. Which, by the way, is completely delightful and laugh-out-loud funny.

It's quite good.

I am slowly trying to refine the art of separating the ideas of 'being alone' and 'being lonely'. All too often, I think girls get hung up on the idea that they have no identity without a man to call their own.

This theory is preposterous, dear chicas.

Of course, this is not to say that one never needs a man. Men are lovely and strong and completely essential for the Earth and stuff. 

But one should not require a man to discover out who oneself is.

The way I see it, and with RuPaul's reinforcement, if you can't love yourself, how in the heck are you gonna love anybody else?

So go out, find yourself, do that crazy thing that makes you feel like you're a superstar. Just don't stop for a second if somebody else tells you you're doing it wrong. 

The right one will join right in.

Love,

Chloe

Pink and Fresh Start Orange

Moving home is the greatest flashback of all. Not a bad one, by any means. But a flashback nonetheless.

Take my room for example...

Sixteen-year old me spent days painting these walls fushia and construction-zone orange while listening to the Hairspray soundtrack over, and over, and over.

Turned out pretty exciting. I think the Tracy Turnblad in me really came through...

Although my decor tastes may have somewhat shifted in the last five years, my dizzily bright room leads me to an important topic: staying yourself.

Don't be afraid of what others will think of you or say about you. 

At sixteen, I was by no means aloof, but I definitely didn't care what people thought. I wore what made me feel beautiful and acted the way I wanted, no matter how 'eccentric' it was considered.

Something changed a couple years ago, and I lost that inner edge. That 'honey badger' attitude, if you will. I started to worry about what was 'pretty', what was 'acceptable'. The media told me how to be, and I started to listen.

But now I want it back.

I want that free feeling, that spice for life. I want to wake up and not worry about how thin I am.

Take it from a girl who has spent a surprisingly stupid amount of energy worrying about what others think.

Life is far too short to lose yourself in the shuffle. And if moving home and starting fresh is what it takes to break out of that, I'm down.

I've got a lot of things to sort out, and it's gonna be an adventure finding out exactly where I'll end up. On MY terms.

Plus, I've got a room to repaint.

Stay gold.

Love,

Chloe