Short VDay Solution

-->

Two things that are not synonymous: losing your puppy and being single on Valentine’s Day. Yet all of my coworkers tip-toed around me yesterday like I had just received the worst kind of news from the doctor.

“Hey sweetie, got you some chocolate to enjoy tonight.” Oh, you think 3500 cals worth of sugar is going to fix my so-called problem? I mean, I’d rather have liposuction….or a man who thinks squishy thighs are the cutest thing since the little Asian and his bulldog blew up Tumblr, but no biggie, feel free to put your sympathy treats next to the expense report. I don’t alienate any chocolate, or really anything edible and free. Standards are so passé.

I don’t have the plague, please don’t treat me like I’m one razor blade away from slicing myself just because it’s Valentine’s Day.

This morning when trying to force myself to get out of my bed bright and early (okay, like 8am….it’s Friday aka Stroll Into Work Late Day), I perused my Facebook feed only to be bombarded with angsty lyrics, Woe is Me statuses and a slough of pictures documenting everyone’s loneliness from yesterday.

Hey, Singles, you know what would be way more awesome than sitting at home wallowing in your sorrow and expecting me to care? Doing something fun. Or heck, even taking a shower and pretending like you have a life is a solid choice. Got a kitchen? Cook some dinner. Got a street? Get off your couch and go for a walk.

I’m pretty sure the sunshine and a decent meal with some vitamins and a little iron could do wonders for the pasty complexion brought on by hours of stalking your exes. The exercise certainly never hurt anyone. And—wait for it—you could actually meet someone if you went out in public once a month. Mind boggling, right? That’s why they pay me the big bucks.

After two single girl Valentine’s days, I think I have finally found the perfect equation for a perfect night.

Step 1: Decide what you want to do to celebrate your life.

Step 2: Do it.

Step 3: Invite everyone who could add to the merriment.

Step 4: Sing some Disney karaoke (Come on. Who doesn’t like belting out a duet to A Whole New World?)

Novel concept, this whole making your own happiness happen sort of ish. Here’s the deal: if your happiness is tangled somewhere in the mess of someone else’s actions, your night probably didn’t go as well.

So, fix it.

Cooking for Vikings

Cooking for guys is like building a castle, outfitting it with the finest textiles, then throwing some Vikings in to occupy its glamorous halls. They don’t use window coverings because it balances out the sectional and the large armoire you bought for far too much money from an antique store, they use them to keep out the sun in the summer and the draft in the winter. Practical and pragmatic. That is what my boys are. I, on the other hand, am anything but.

Cook us dinner, said them. No problem, said I. And yet, somehow, we were speaking completely different languages.

Scouring my most recent issue of Bon Appetit, I landed on a menu. Healthy, low in carbs, but still filling. The spicy stuffing in the poblanos offset by the sweet and creamy texture of the sweet potatoes, which would be perfectly complimented by my take on Corn in a Cup, a local favorite. Perfection in menu form.

Wine uncorked, airing on the counter, food prepped and awaiting their arrival home, the guys came strolling in from a business trip looking more like Erik the Red and Ivar, rather than the fine dining dinner mates I had envisioned.

“Oh hey! Smells good,” says Erik.

“Better than that fart you let out in the car,” quipped Ivar.

“Did you wear that to work today?” Erik’s disapproval apparent as he eyed my outfit.

“Yeah, nice cardigan, Mom,” continued Ivar.

Seriously-I just woke up one day and had adult-aged children thrust upon me.

Finally done with their loving greetings to me, (I just assume that ‘you look frumpy’ translates to ‘You look smashing today. Absolutely riveting.’ A necessary lie I tell myself to maintain sanity.) the guys decide that it is time for our jacked-up family to eat. I turn around, wine in hand, to grab a few plates and glasses for us to all enjoy a civilized meal together, and turn back to see them both man-handling my perfectly poached poblanos. No plate, no fork, no semblance of appreciation for the flavor profile I had so lovingly created. My fault, I should’ve never assumed a candle lit dinner at a table. They really are Vikings. Burly, hilarious and lovable Vikings.

The immediate reaction to my hurt pride was scolding, turning into the woman I never want to be, tutting and nagging because things didn’t go my way. When in reality, the only reason I cooked such an audacious meal was to bask in their verbal praise of my domestic ability. I was mad because I was vain.

In the end, I refilled my wine glass, grabbed some food in a napkin, took off my shoes and slid onto the counter and perched, knees at my chin, as they recounted their days, my giggles more important than table manners.

With these guys, there are no rules other than honesty. Always honesty. And in that honesty, they step on the toes of my ego frequently, sending me into defense mode, ruffling my feathers like I can prove my worth to them. I can’t. I don’t need to. For guys, my worth isn’t a derivative of my skills; they are indifferent. For them, they simply need to know that I care, that I respect them, and that when made fun of, my response is to fight back rather than cry. They hate crying. Gives them the heebie-jeebies.

Learning to drop my pretenses is the most valuable lesson my Vikings have taught me, a close second being my now in-depth knowledge of video games and the proper knife technique for gutting a deer. My edges are rough, not softly rounded like fine granite. Spending my time desperately trying to cover up those edges only snags the cloth as it catches on the imperfections. With them, I can let those imperfections fly high. With them, eating off of paper plates…or no plates at all…is perfectly fine because the meal isn’t about the menu, it’s about getting fed.

We feed each other through our differences, and through what each of us brings to the table (metaphorically, though they make some mean grilled chicken and pasta). Each meal a lesson in humility and grace. Each meal completely different than I planned. Each meal another lesson learned while cooking for guys.

Man Children and Me.

Apparently I woke up one day and was suddenly the mother of two abnormally large toddlers, and by toddlers, I mean two grown man-children who still think tooting on my thigh is just as funny the thirteenth time as it was the first incredibly awkward time it happened.

It’s either that, or reincarnation is a real thing and I was punished for my blatant sarcasm by being sent back to earth as a dude, which probably makes more sense than the mutant-children.

Regardless-in the past 48 hours I have been tooted on not once, not twice, but four times, and also shown three acceptable stances if one ever finds themself in need of dropping a deuce while standing up. Oddly enough, I don’t see that being a thing in my day-to-day life. ‘Excuse me, team. I am really interested in this budget meeting, but that coffee and the 40 grams of fiber brought to you by my morning Kashi are coming back with a vengeance. Please continue while I take a dump in the corner.’

I’m not a heathen, nor a boy, so in my girl-mind, I can not fathom a time short of life and death situations that I would ever poop in the upright standing position.

Spending my days with a combined 350 pounds of solid man has taught me several key lessons that I wish I could remove from my memory. Alas, I cannot and so they sit, emblazed on my feminine psyche, wreaking havoc on my perception of reality.

With girls, your weak moments are met with encouragement and comfort; tears shed commiserating your misery, their heart breaking for your own. With these two, my insecurities are met with brutal honesty, forcing me to reconcile my weakness with a resolute strength that exists simply because it must. Here, there is no coddling, no pats on the back, only the silent expectation to take a minute, recover and move on….followed by a toot joke and a few rounds of FIFA.

Little did I know when I started this journey called being a big kid, that it would so intimately involve strolling around with two of the most ridiculously athletic guys in town trailing somewhere behind me telling me I am prancing rather than walking (it’s not prancing, its my swagger step….it just happens to be quite prancing-esque).  When the three of us roll into a Saturday night hangout, blonde hair glowing in the neon lights, me looking slightly frazzled from the incessant touching/poking/picking/hitting that took place as I tried to caravan us all safely across town, them looking like gleeful children, beckoning the glances of single ladies everywhere, it strikes me just how ridiculous our posse is, the unnaturalness evident to everyone but us, the members of our tightknit gang.

I have always prided myself on my ability to ‘hang with the boys’. From standing in the schoolyard, picking an All Star kickball team with no remorse for the awkward kid left out, to senior prom when I convinced myself that I was going with a friend simply because I intimidated boys, not because no one wanted to deal with me, I dove across the gender line head first, unaware that consequences lie ahead. Yet, as I look back in my mid-twenties at the line so long blurred, it is hard to decipher where laid back ends and the loss of my femininity begins.

At some point in my life, I chose the path of least risk, allowing my vulnerability to recede so far into the corners of my heart, that it now only chooses to surface when those closest to me dig in deep, or when I become the filling of a whitey-tighty sandwich and resort to squeals of resistance to the hordes of man thigh up in my business. It’s actually rather terrifying.

And yet here is where I hit the metaphorical fork in the road, that moment when biblical truth marries real-life problems and creates a really confusing baby.

Much like my body, which is on a brief hiatus from the world, awaiting the arrival of my husband, kept secure under cardigans and appropriately lengthed skirts, why am I required to produce my heart for the world, airing my emotional laundry like it is meant for public viewing? My purity doesn’t revolve around keeping it my pants, but expands and infiltrates my entire being, weaving its way around my heart as I fight to block and tackle the constant barrage of war being waged around us.

The problem is evident, though, as I find myself closer associated by my guy friends to the dudes they swap stories with in the locker room than the alluring women they beg me to help them snag during our nights out. It is clear: I have become one of the bros in a big sort of way.

In a society that is trying to break gender rules and forge new norms under the guise of equality, it strikes me how backwards it can so easily get. Teetering on the edge, the modernist in me screams to take control and swallow my emotions, need no man and no bra and probably no razor….because that sounds like something those no-good men would create to make out lives miserable, but the soft voice of Christ gently nudges me off the ledge and back into the constructs of our Creator.

I made you, sweet one, He whispers as He heals the cracked pieces. I made you to laugh too loudly at inopportune times, to fight for victory even when no one is keeping score, and to write like no one is reading. I made you. It is that simple. It is that neat. It is that right. 

I am created in His image. When I can remember nothing else, that is what I cling to. The other questions and doubts I allow to sneak past my defenses are obsolete because when it is all said and done and the curtains close, I look like God, my perfect and holy salvation.

Restraining Order for One

It’s no secret that girls are CreepCity, Population: 1.  To mitigate my creep potential, I have a fool-proof system built out to vet whether my actions will be seen as assertive and modern, or straight up stalker with a side of a restraining order. What is that lovely system you might ask? My friends. Only problem…they are just as weird as I am.

The problem with being a seasoned marketing professional like myself is this: I’m scary good at stalking the interwebs. Add a dash of single to the mix and it’s like sticking a recovering alcoholic in the middle of Specs with one of those sweet XL pimp cups. I wish I could say that I am able to resist temptation, but it’s like that giant goblet is whispering to me saying ‘fill me and my bedazzled self up with that trash…you know you want it’. I do, Pimp Cup, I do want to give in and google every guy who could possibly be the future father of my overly-athletic children. With the help of my enterprise-grade social networking tools, that temptation is only a few clicks away. A hop, skip and a jump and I find myself fighting Kathy Bates for the starring role in Misery.

As a young professional in the dating world, I spend my evenings chatting it up with fine fellows about our respective careers. When your life revolves around spreadsheets and revenue model meetings, it’s easy to fall into comfortable conversations, relying on camaraderie built on the foundation of banality, rather than take that first step out onto the thin ice of truly getting to know someone. It’s basically either that or sports. Whichever comes first. Lord knows I’m not going to roll up into a bar discussing my incessant need to document every epic relationship failure by way of this blog. “Hey there. Don’t bother telling me your name, HottyToddy, because I’m just going to refer to you by aforementioned relatively applicable nickname in my wildly read (by 32 people) dating blog”. My night would be spent hacking up the dust left by his rapid exit.

Instead of doing what any normal human being would do, I engage in friendly conversation, ignore any hints of interest and freak out and bolt when he is about to ask for my number (because that’s the healthy option), leaving me to text my friends real-life questions like the following:

Me- “Yo, dude. One a scale of 1-Restraining Order, how creepy is it to LinkedIn a guy when you only knew his name and company to begin with?”

Her-“How many clicks did it take?”

Me-“2”

Her-“I mean it’s definitely not worse than that one time you jumped on a bike with someone in Ireland and that turned out fine…..so I’m all for it.”

Me-“I don’t know if that makes you the most awesome or most awful,friend I have.”

Her-“Awesome. Honesty is the best policy. You’ve got to go after what you want…and all that jazz.”

*Connect Button Clicked*

Her-“….but I’m typically creepy.”

Welp, what’s another restraining order, right? After about five I hear they lose count anyways…

We live in the mixed-up world where the rules our parents lived by are obsolete. A world where face-to-face conversations are no longer the primary way of obtaining information, whether it is related to a business or to your love life. Our world, and our dating, have gone online, but where is the line drawn?

The temptation to forego the tough conversations and conventional methods of asking, accepting and pursuing the opposite sex is a tantalizing enemy because one side is sticky and uncomfortable, while the other allows you the safety of your sweat pants and anonymity.

Where once we had to wait on the dreaded phone call, three days after a successful date, now ladies spend their time analyzing the number of exclamation marks and emoticons used in a string of text messages. What we thought was instant gratification has morphed into instant investigation, each female following the 48 hour rule. Don’t let the trail go stale, or you’ll find youself in 47 cat hell, wallowing in a housecoat, DVR set to a constant slough of Lifetime movies.

It’s exhausting.

This cat and mouse world is evidenced by the multimillion (maybe billion. Don’t fact check me, bro) dollar business of the RomCom. Each heroine following some zany advice of a delightfully off-kilter friend that leads to a love interest, heartache and misery, but always results in a reconciliation of epic proportions. Girls want to know what to do. They want to know that pursuit exists, that the rules they so strictly follow will result in the life Disney always promised them. They want the ends to justify the painfully repeated means.

But ya know what, ladies? They don’t. There is no prescription to this thing we call love. There are no rules to dating. Four days, three days, two hours. It is all a relative timeline in an unchartered world. We kill ourselves over the idea of fate and serendipity, but fail to realize the beauty in the unrepeatable, in the glitches and moments that skirt around the tracks.

We look so hard for the recipe of love, but fail to put the box aside and throw in a few secret ingredients, unafraid of the tasteless failure of a concoction it might produce. If everyday of your life is a beautiful unplanned mess, maybe we should also accept that our love lives may be found somewhere in the chaos.

My future is as bright as my sequin dress.

As the holiday season comes to a close, and couples everywhere go into hibernation to prepare for their pièce de résistance (known to the general public as Valentine’s Day), us poor single chumps are banding together for our one shot at remedying the past month of lonely strolls filled with Christmas lights and chilly mitten-clad hands, left unheld and neglected. Fear not, my single friends. New Year’s Eve is upon us. A night of mayhem, midnight kisses and magic.

Always the best night of the year, filled with epic stories and beautiful people. The perfect capstone to rest the hope and dreams of another year…

….oh wait. It’s New Years Eve. None of that happens. You only wish it did.

I sat at work in anticipation, thinking about how my night would go. Clearly, I would have the perfect hair day, despite the rain and the 7am shower that would have to last through the night, my makeup would be radiant, and my outfit the perfect compliment to the witty banter I would surely be spitting. If I could just get this right, start my 2013 off with a bang, then I’d hit the motherload. The pinnacle of what my awesome single twenties are supposed to look like. They do it in the movies, dude. I can pull it off.

This was my year. After ringing in the last 5 years by shooting stuff in the country, I thought I would dawn my sequined attire and see what midnight looks like when accompanied by champagne, some super sweet hats and an outfit that can be seen from space. Oh I’m sorry….is my dress blinding you? No, that isn’t the sun. It is the soft glow of 10000 sequins shimmering with anticipation at how many compliments I will get because I look so fly. Easy, my sparkly friends, your time will come. At midnight. When that poor unsuspecting bloke gets lured into my clutches (errrr embrace) because his retinas are momentarily rendered useless. We would enter into a coy chat peppered with obscure pop culture references and clever metaphors, he impressed with my breadth of knowledge and wicked cool shoes, I, with his poise and ability to do the Dougie, while still looking like a Kennedy. It would be perfect. Obviously…it’s NYE.

Though imagination has its place, mine seems to kick into overdrive, setting absurd expectations to moments that have not yet come and will more than likely never come to be. Planning conversations, dates, outfits, meals, and interactions, quite possibly months before they are set to take place, I become a controlling crazy person, trying to stack the odds in my favor. My unwarranted expectations are the cause of majority of the tear-filled nights that dot my past. And no night holds more excited expectation than New Year’s Eve. You don’t just dawn sequins for nothing. They are fancy pants….literally.

Since single women tend to be on the eternal relationship advice panel with their not-so-single friends, I hear the stories of repeated disappointment in Girl World. ‘He didn’t tell me I looked pretty when I got dressed up.’ ‘He didn’t propose when I thought he would.’ ‘It’s our anniversary and all I got was dinner at the burger place instead of at the new bistro I’ve been hinting at for months.’ ‘When he commented on my new haircut he said it looks good….not great. I wanted him to say great. He knows that. He hates it. And me.’

So many unfulfilled expectations. Set by us. Covering our hurt hearts with a cloud of repellant that leaves us broken and incapable of the unanticipated adventure that could be lingering just out of our reach. We create our own prisons on a daily basis, walled in by a false reality that does no one any good.

I really hope guys don’t do this….because some day, one of us is going to have to be sane…and we all know it’s not going to be this girl.

As I drove to Austin, stressing about the 43 minute delay when the only place I had to be was the hotel, I realized that my expectations will be the undoing of my yet-to-start perfect NYE. Instead of doing something with the outcome at the forefront of my mind, I vowed to fly by the seat of my pants, going wherever the night took me, my only goal, enjoying my evening. And guess what? It worked.

Facebook is littered with resolutions, each haunted by the ghost of an unmet expectation. Rather than resolve what TO DO this year, I am giving up my own expectations. Giving up my plans for the future, in order to truly experience my now, my current, my life. Losing the weight of a constant need for control and gaining the unexpected surprises that God wants to bless us all with.

“My soul, wait thou only upon God; for my expectation is from him.” Psalm 62:5

In the end, my expecation-less escapade turned out just fine. Best night of my life? Probably not. One for the books? Sure. I was merely one in a sea of sequins, a Richard Simmons-worthy gang, carefully scampering down the streets in shoes as equally awesome as mine. I met some people. Hugged some necks. Laughed a lot. Danced a jig or two. And gained some memories I can be proud of.

When I drop the baggage of trying to create the perfect moment and give up the reins for once in my life, its incredible where you can end up. In a bar with old friends, the American Legion with new friends, or sitting in the back of a cab being a friend to a driver who’s having a less than perfect evening. Our own creations are so small compared to the path God has laid out for us. My resolution is to get out of His way.

Seasons

On more than one occasion in the past month, coworkers have seemed baffled by my outfits at work. I know what you’re thinking, Mom. No, it’s not because I look like a hobo, which has happened more frequently than I would care to mention. It’s because it’s fall. And that means that I have hit my stride. Lookin' fly in my many-an autumn inspired outfit.

As the evenings get longer, the nights colder and the drinks warmer, I always find myself nestling into the comfort of the season. Cardigans? Yes, please. Boot socks? All day. Flannel on men? Lord willing. It’s when girls stop dressing like floosies and dudes start dressing like lumberjacks. Essentially, it’s my paradise. 

Preparing for the season, much like Doomsdayers for the apocalypse, we hit the malls buying our body weight in riding boots and tights, corduroy jackets and even the occasional knit hat. Girls stalked Pinterest picking the right outfits to brave the cold (okay, 60 degree) weather that would soon hit Texas. I stocked my pantry with wassail, soup and my crisper with butternut squash and greens.  

Seasons are unpredictable here in the Lone Star State. You may be greeted with sunny skies and 70 degree weather on Tuesday morning, but in your sweat pants battling 30 degree skies by Wednesday night. To make it here, you have to get your meteorological bob and weave on. 

Many a well-meaning older woman occupying the pew next to me on a Sunday morning has given me wisdom about my ‘season of singlehood’, like it’s some pre-menopausal limbo erring on the side of a chronic illness that is quickly going terminal. 

“Bless your heart, honey, this is going to pass. It won’t always be bad,” she says, patting my thigh in that maternal fashion that only Baptist women know how, as if this moment in my life is for the worst, a wart on my twenty-something timeline. 

Though some seasons are cold, and others are warm, every season is needed to sew seeds into a harvest. 

The sweetest strawberries ripen after a frost has shocked their vines. Stress causing the juice to sweeten, the berry to turn a vibrant red. A season of rain, flooding the fields reaps a harvest full of rice, or if you are a redneck like me, possibly the fattest crawfish you’ve ever seen. What is typically seen as a catastrophic event, is a necessary moment for the harvests that feed our lives.

So why do we see our seasons as this cloud looming over our heads? Why do we shudder at the thought of a season without rain or a season where the rain never seems to cease? 

You may not be single. You may not be happy. Or you may be in the most joy-filled year you have ever seen. Regardless of where you are at, you are in a season. One that is meant to make your fields rich for the harvest, whether shocking or gentle, your fields are not your own, but land bought at a price, paid for by a King. 

Mediocrity is the result of sameness. Lack-luster crops are grown in seasons that see no change. Fields can't grow if they have constant rain. They don't produce a harvest if the sun always shines on them. Seasons are necessary for growth, sowing and reaping a harvest. Don’t shy away from them.

As I face the inevitable hills of my twenties, braving the valleys and the mountaintops, summiting on my weakest days, crumbling by my own stubborn desire to ‘do it alone’, upheld only by the grace of a salvation I don’t deserve, I find that the newness and freshness of each day brings me the most joy.

Could I live a life filled with consistency, my own personal Groundhog Day? Would I rather face the world scarless, no battle wounds to reflect the strength I gained during the hardest winters? Or can I bundle up for the cold, strip down and enjoy the cool waters when the heat turns up, and bask in the crisp autumn airs of my seasons?

You are always in a season, Dear One. That is what my God says to me. You are worth so much more than a common-place life. You are too important to be left where you are.

Backpacking Brazil

You know what always sounds like a good idea? Packing a backpack with a few tanktops and bikinis and heading to a foreign country with one of your best friends. My concept of a ‘good idea’ and everyone elses’ are apparently at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Do you even speak Portuguese? No, but I brushed up on my pointing and obscure hand motions before boarding the plane, so I’m feeling pretty solid.

Isn’t Brazil dangerous?  Have you even read my naked hobo story? Pretty sure I can handle it. 

Have you seen Taken? Fact: If there is anything scary movies have taught us, its ‘don’t be a tramp’. I’ve got that trash on lockdown

Besides one brief moment of panic in streets dealing with yet another barely dressed hobo (they dig me), Brazil made most vacations look like chump change. Spending my days jumping off stuff, meeting incredible people and getting 3^rd degree burns on my precious pale Gringa skin, the ten days melted into one another, forming an amalgamation of memories and life lessons that the states will never contain. 

Sleeping and sharing a bathroom with 12 strangers is a life lesson in and of itself. It’s what Real World would look like if it weren’t so scripted. You know what doesn’t happen in coed bathrooms? Anything cool. You know what does? A ton of pooping. Look, after eating several meals at a buffet that, though delicious, looks like it was cooked in a trailer park, things get real in the ol’ hostel lavatory. Add to the mix several large and drunk Argentinean men and you’ve got yourself one really rank party.

Brazil is not known for its modesty. Me being the incredibly awkward person that I am, would giggle every time a guy walked by in a speedo and blush for the women in thongs. Ma’am, I’m not sure you are aware of this, but your hiney is out in public. So consider me embarrassed when the Polish dude in front of us decided that he was so over the sunbathing and would like to do a quick change into his jorts. Who knew I was getting a tan and a peep show? Sir, sir, sir! You just dropped your drawers in front of ladies! Your man parts are you business, not mine. And now I feel like I owe you at least $2 Reals for the show.

I knew I would get funny stories and adventures while abroad, but what I didn’t expect was to meet people that would teach me more about myself than years of self-help books ever can. From the Argentinean hostel owners who gave us safety and comfort when all we asked for was a bed, to the Brit who taught us the ‘Queen’s English’, each person we encountered gave us a piece of their story. Each story, unique, broken, bruised and beautiful, was a glimpse into the world we tend to forget exists. Outside of our borders is a whole world that functions, thrives and loves, sometimes, I think, in ways we can’t begin to understand.  

Unplugging for ten days put me in a minor panic mode. No emails, no texts, no way to know if my work world was up in flames (as if I’m so important that my absence would cause even a ripple). Others were traveling for months at a time, a career not even on the radar until they finished accomplishing the things they wanted to. We live out opposite lives, basing our accomplishments on our careers and not on the experiences we have. Others view jobs as a means to an end.

When asked my priorities, I have to be honest with myself. I spend majority of my time in the office and the gym, coming home only to eat and sleep. In essence, this girl prides herself on success and vanity. Awesome. I committed the first five years of my post-graduate life to my career, putting other things on the back burner unless they just happen to stumble across my lap. What am I missing in those five years? Brazil, I did not miss. Though it was a ruthless lover, eating away my health and pushing me to my limits, it was a relationship I would not trade in for a casual 3 month fling with an all-inclusive resort filled with mindless entertainment. 

Every day I get faced with a choice: take the same path, or forge a new one. Meeting new people, hearing new stories, learning new lessons. It doesn’t take a 12 hour plane ride and a communal bathroom to find moments worth reliving, and stories worth retelling, and yet that is what I required to be reminded of the delight that can be found around the corner. Maybe, you and I should take the time to peek around the corner and see what adventures lie ahead?