Shake It Off

A whole month of neglect ladies and gents.

If this blog were a cat it would be dead.

Apologies for taking so long, but writer's block can come like a hard punch to the mouth. Especially when you have a month like I just did.

To recap:

Glee, Glee, Glee, Glee, Glee.

Self-pity, Self-pity, Self-pity, Self-pity.

And a dash of cabin fever.

And by dash I mean it's probably a good thing I put the blog away, because any post would have had the Department of Public Health and Human Services on me in seconds.

But we're back. I've got two shoes on and I'm ready to kick things again.

Like myself into gear.

Somewhere in between when Kurt and Blaine fall in love and when Quinn gets hit by a truck while texting (obviously, this has been my life folks) I realized that I wasn't ready to stop living.

Maybe it was the fact that I had been eating frozen fruit by the bagful or that my conversations with my parents and friends consisted of Glee quotes and rants about cast fungus... whatever the reason, I realized I wanted to keep moving.

And as of now, I'm headed back to the University of Idaho and the illustrious city of Moscow, ID in the Fall. With an entirely different game-plan.

I scrapped everything and starting from scratch: Clothing, Textiles, and Design with and emphasis in Fashion Merchandising. Because I've got this thing for clothes, you know. And a huge thing for sewing. I feel like it's time to major in something that I actually spend day to day life enjoying. 

It's easy enough to get bogged down by self-pity. It's heavy like seaweed and can make a person stay in their pajamas until three in the afternoon and give up makeup altogether.

But it's when you decide to shake it off that you realize the self-pity was keeping you from worlds full of things that are loud and beautiful and glorious. Like the people who love you and hold your hand, even when you are a bumbling, whining, crippled mess.

I feel a little dusty and a little shaky.

But I'm definitely not done.

Love,

Chloe

PS: In honor of my decision to go to school for Clothing and Textile Design, I made the dress I wore in this post out of an extra-large men's polo. Le stitch!

Bugs 'n Dirt

When I was eight, I ate some bugs. 

And unfortunately, I don't mean fried exotically or dipped in chocolate. I mean straight off the tree from the field down the street.

 

 

Partially because it was a dare, and partially because I believe eating bugs was a task on my bucket-list as a shorter, less informed person.

They aren't as great without the chocolate, ladies and gents. 

It's the little things, though. By little things, I don't exactly mean insects, but I mean going out of your comfort zone for small things. Or by noticing those small things.

Doesn't have to be bungee jumping, but it could be taking a different walk home. Making something else for lunch. Drinking your coffee by the window instead of in front of the television.

It might help to see the things one might usually miss, too. The little things. And appreciate them that much more.

I got to see the little things today. After much cajoling, my parents finally got me out of the house and down to the bike trail for a short walk. Or crutch, if you will. And folks, I feel like a sweater that used to smell like cats that got aired out.

 

Definitely not my best comparison, but I'm definitely wearing a sweater with a cat in my lap as I write this, so cut me a break. I'm working with the materials I've got.

Sadness can sneak up on you as easy and as silently as a shadow sometimes. I know all too well that sitting in place and worrying can lead to great cases of cabin-fever. So get out. Enjoy variety. 

I hear it's the spice of life.

But don't eat bugs off a tree. There are limits.

Love,

Chloe

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