Dear Readers,
I'd like to thank you for reading my blog since I started it a few months ago. It's encouraging to know that my writing is being enjoyed! But I would love to see some comments or "likes" on my blog posts. Having those small bits of encouragement directly on my blog really motivates me to keep going. Also, if you would "follow" my blog (you don't even need your own account!), that would be awesome too, just so I can know how many of you are reading it.
Thanks so much for all the support! You guys are great, and I would love to be able to go back to past blog posts to see who liked them and what I can keep writing about!
Enjoy your Thanksgiving, and keep reading!
Love,
Ingrid
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Sisters Are A Girl's Best Friend
When we were little, my sisters and I would parade around the house with a newly-finished cardboard toilet paper roll, holding hands and singing our made-up song: “Toilet Paper! Toilet Paper! Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo! Toilet Paper! Toilet Paper! Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo!” until we were completely exhausted.
We have a home video documenting a particular episode in which Kristina, my older sister, actively took the lead in the parade. I was in the middle, happily following along but not really paying much attention and Laura, the youngest (about one year old and still with no speaking abilities—I must say, she has made up for that by now), struggling to keep up on her stubby little baby legs. Laura had a peculiar habit of breaking away from my grasp to step on an old book—I believe it was Anne of Avonlea—that was lying on the floor of the blue-and-black tiled foyer (my parents have since replaced that unpleasing tile with a black and white checkered floor, a feat that took almost an entire year to complete). She would make sure to get both feet on the book, raptly staring at it, and then run off to find her older sisters again. At one point in the festivities, I nonchalantly swung Laura around the corner of the living room (luckily covered in a cushiony, light blue carpet) a bit too quickly, causing her to lose balance and fall over. It wasn’t until she cried out that I even realized it, and Kristina—ever the big sister—commanded, “You go first. I’ll hold Little’s hand,” becoming the new middleman between Laura and me.
The video ends there—I’m sure my dad could only take so much—but that five-minute clip is one of the earliest documentations of not just the relationship, but of the individual personalities of the Krecko sisters, which remain in full effect to this day.
We’ll start with Kristina. As the oldest sister, she takes the lead. She is the one who keeps Laura and me going around and around the house, never ceasing. When I came to college, Kristina was already a junior. She lead me in college life—helping me study, be motivated, and not be so alarmed when my exam scores weren’t as good as in high school. We went to the library together, ate together in the dining hall, and she let me stay over when I was having roommate problems. Her senior year, she cooked dinner for me (a generous gesture, considering she had to buy her own food AND actually cook it—something a college student rarely likes to do), let me hang out with her friends, helped me find research labs, and was constantly sending me emails and Facebook messages about different studies, labs, academic opportunities, and grad school information. Kristina guided me through college life, and without her, my grades and study habits wouldn’t be nearly as good.
Laura is two years my junior. She and I have a goofier relationship than I do with Kristina (Laura and I used to skip down the aisles of the grocery store near our Michigan summer house chanting “Beefaroni, Beefaroni shh!...Beefaroni Beefaroni shh!”—and this was at an embarrassingly old age). Now, I have replaced Kristina as the older sister in college, and Laura has taken my shoes as the wide-eyed freshman who has no clue what to do.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Her slightly obsessive need to step on the abandoned book in the middle of the floor foreshadowed her current desire to succeed—in everything. Like Kristina, Laura is an intense undergraduate who seems to be born with the ability to study ad nauseam. So when she came to college, my little sister did not need my advice on how to study (I needed hers!); she needed my guidance for how to have fun. I take her to parties, make sure she gets on the lists at frats, convince her that it is okay to go out despite an exam on Monday. Just how I bridged the gap between Kristina and Laura in our toilet paper extravaganza, I still come in between them to balance out the intensity. And I know that if there’s something I can’t help Laura with, before I send her careening to the floor, Kristina will tell me to get in front so she can take Little’s hand.
As for me? I’m still that typical middle child, the Type B between two Type A personalities. As different as I am from my two academically-oriented, science-loving, concentrated sisters, I get along with them better than I do with anyone else. My sisters are my best friends, as they have been since the days of our toilet paper parades, and they always will be.
We have a home video documenting a particular episode in which Kristina, my older sister, actively took the lead in the parade. I was in the middle, happily following along but not really paying much attention and Laura, the youngest (about one year old and still with no speaking abilities—I must say, she has made up for that by now), struggling to keep up on her stubby little baby legs. Laura had a peculiar habit of breaking away from my grasp to step on an old book—I believe it was Anne of Avonlea—that was lying on the floor of the blue-and-black tiled foyer (my parents have since replaced that unpleasing tile with a black and white checkered floor, a feat that took almost an entire year to complete). She would make sure to get both feet on the book, raptly staring at it, and then run off to find her older sisters again. At one point in the festivities, I nonchalantly swung Laura around the corner of the living room (luckily covered in a cushiony, light blue carpet) a bit too quickly, causing her to lose balance and fall over. It wasn’t until she cried out that I even realized it, and Kristina—ever the big sister—commanded, “You go first. I’ll hold Little’s hand,” becoming the new middleman between Laura and me.
The video ends there—I’m sure my dad could only take so much—but that five-minute clip is one of the earliest documentations of not just the relationship, but of the individual personalities of the Krecko sisters, which remain in full effect to this day.
We’ll start with Kristina. As the oldest sister, she takes the lead. She is the one who keeps Laura and me going around and around the house, never ceasing. When I came to college, Kristina was already a junior. She lead me in college life—helping me study, be motivated, and not be so alarmed when my exam scores weren’t as good as in high school. We went to the library together, ate together in the dining hall, and she let me stay over when I was having roommate problems. Her senior year, she cooked dinner for me (a generous gesture, considering she had to buy her own food AND actually cook it—something a college student rarely likes to do), let me hang out with her friends, helped me find research labs, and was constantly sending me emails and Facebook messages about different studies, labs, academic opportunities, and grad school information. Kristina guided me through college life, and without her, my grades and study habits wouldn’t be nearly as good.
Laura is two years my junior. She and I have a goofier relationship than I do with Kristina (Laura and I used to skip down the aisles of the grocery store near our Michigan summer house chanting “Beefaroni, Beefaroni shh!...Beefaroni Beefaroni shh!”—and this was at an embarrassingly old age). Now, I have replaced Kristina as the older sister in college, and Laura has taken my shoes as the wide-eyed freshman who has no clue what to do.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Her slightly obsessive need to step on the abandoned book in the middle of the floor foreshadowed her current desire to succeed—in everything. Like Kristina, Laura is an intense undergraduate who seems to be born with the ability to study ad nauseam. So when she came to college, my little sister did not need my advice on how to study (I needed hers!); she needed my guidance for how to have fun. I take her to parties, make sure she gets on the lists at frats, convince her that it is okay to go out despite an exam on Monday. Just how I bridged the gap between Kristina and Laura in our toilet paper extravaganza, I still come in between them to balance out the intensity. And I know that if there’s something I can’t help Laura with, before I send her careening to the floor, Kristina will tell me to get in front so she can take Little’s hand.
As for me? I’m still that typical middle child, the Type B between two Type A personalities. As different as I am from my two academically-oriented, science-loving, concentrated sisters, I get along with them better than I do with anyone else. My sisters are my best friends, as they have been since the days of our toilet paper parades, and they always will be.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
An Open Letter to the Overzealous Voice Box
Dear Boy Who Has No Concept Of Whispering In The Designated Quiet Areas Of The Library,
Here I am, sitting in my favorite room of the library. I have neatly and carefully laid out my books, binders, notecards, pens, Fiber One bar, coffee and water bottle in very specific locations around the perimeter of my seat according to both my to-do list and anticipated metabolic needs. Highlighter poised, I have begun my first assignment, ready to enjoy the peaceful, quiet environment conducive to memory retention and concentrated diligence.
And then you walk in.
You enter quietly, seemingly harmless, yet beguilingly dangerous. Sauntering around the room, you sneak peeks down at the students already sitting, trying to catch someone’s curious—and usually irresistible—glance upward to see who is walking by. You choose a spot a few tables down from where I have set up camp, nonchalantly clunking your backpack onto the table with an echoing thud, and sit down.
I notice that it takes you a small fraction of the time to pull out a book, wide-ruled notebook, and pencil (I notice that you don’t even bother with the triviality of a highlighter) that it took for me to prepare for my studyfest daylong, but shrug off this first sign of trouble. Maybe you’re just a light packer, but nonetheless just as studious as the rest of us. For the next three and a half minutes, all is well. You start reading your textbook, and I blithely go back to mine.
And then your buddy walks in.
First comes the obnoxious high five-turned-handshake that, upon impact, smacks the palms of your hands together just a little too loudly for comfort. I, in turn, snap up my head, bracing myself for what’s next.
“Yo man, what’s up?” I hear you say, loud and clear. Your friend, surprisingly, mutters an inaudible response, and I hope that maybe his “learn by example” method works for you. However, you thrust out the adjacent chair, bang the table with the palm of your hand, and utter the dreaded phrase I had been praying not to hear:
“Aight, let’s do this effing assignment.”
Can you please explain to me why the loudest person in the library is also the one who always, always does homework with a friend? You proceed to rant for 15 minutes about how you just can’t get this one differential equations problem because the foreign TA with his unintelligibly thick accent can’t teach for his life, and on top of that, you didn’t get to hook up with the hot chick from your Bio class last night because her boyfriend was watching you like a hawk the whole time, but it’s okay because you almost landed the cute girl from the gym, but she left too early and you were too wasted to follow her—oh yes, Mr. Obnoxious, I can hear everything.
Do you see people casting subliminal glances your way, politely saying, “Excuse me, we can hear you and it’s annoying?” Or do you simply think we’re all just checking you out, because you look especially good today?
Either way, I don’t understand why you want the entire library to know about your love life—or, as it seems, lack thereof. I keep hoping that you’ll suddenly become aware of your surroundings, alertly embarrassed for having caused such a ruckus (not to steal Richard Vernon’s favorite word). Or maybe your friend will subtly hint that you two should move somewhere else. But as I keep listening, I hear no prelude to a halt in your noisy oblivion.
The worst part is, I want so badly for you to be quiet so I can go back to my work undisturbed, and yet I find myself raptly listening to the unfolding adventures of your drunken, loveless Thursday night. You have me trapped under your loud, disturbing, disgustingly inconsiderate spell—after all, what could be more fun than silently eavesdropping on a stranger’s pitiful evening? Certainly not the neuronal pathways of a frog’s sciatic nerve.
But now, I suddenly realized that my studying has come to a complete standstill for the last 20 minutes, and something must be done about you. You have distracted me long enough, Oh Loud One, and it’s time for me to put on my big girl pants and ask you for some volume control. I apologize in advance for so brazenly calling you out on your overzealous larynx, but a nerd’s gotta do what a nerd’s gotta do. Hopefully in the future, you will remember the little library frequenters who actually use the building as a place to silently concentrate, and gossip while lifting weights—the clanking and whirring machinery might better muffle your venting sessions than do the flipping of pages and furious scribbling of pens. Thanks in advance.
Sincerely,
A Silent Studier Who's Losing Patience
Here I am, sitting in my favorite room of the library. I have neatly and carefully laid out my books, binders, notecards, pens, Fiber One bar, coffee and water bottle in very specific locations around the perimeter of my seat according to both my to-do list and anticipated metabolic needs. Highlighter poised, I have begun my first assignment, ready to enjoy the peaceful, quiet environment conducive to memory retention and concentrated diligence.
And then you walk in.
You enter quietly, seemingly harmless, yet beguilingly dangerous. Sauntering around the room, you sneak peeks down at the students already sitting, trying to catch someone’s curious—and usually irresistible—glance upward to see who is walking by. You choose a spot a few tables down from where I have set up camp, nonchalantly clunking your backpack onto the table with an echoing thud, and sit down.
I notice that it takes you a small fraction of the time to pull out a book, wide-ruled notebook, and pencil (I notice that you don’t even bother with the triviality of a highlighter) that it took for me to prepare for my studyfest daylong, but shrug off this first sign of trouble. Maybe you’re just a light packer, but nonetheless just as studious as the rest of us. For the next three and a half minutes, all is well. You start reading your textbook, and I blithely go back to mine.
And then your buddy walks in.
First comes the obnoxious high five-turned-handshake that, upon impact, smacks the palms of your hands together just a little too loudly for comfort. I, in turn, snap up my head, bracing myself for what’s next.
“Yo man, what’s up?” I hear you say, loud and clear. Your friend, surprisingly, mutters an inaudible response, and I hope that maybe his “learn by example” method works for you. However, you thrust out the adjacent chair, bang the table with the palm of your hand, and utter the dreaded phrase I had been praying not to hear:
“Aight, let’s do this effing assignment.”
Can you please explain to me why the loudest person in the library is also the one who always, always does homework with a friend? You proceed to rant for 15 minutes about how you just can’t get this one differential equations problem because the foreign TA with his unintelligibly thick accent can’t teach for his life, and on top of that, you didn’t get to hook up with the hot chick from your Bio class last night because her boyfriend was watching you like a hawk the whole time, but it’s okay because you almost landed the cute girl from the gym, but she left too early and you were too wasted to follow her—oh yes, Mr. Obnoxious, I can hear everything.
Do you see people casting subliminal glances your way, politely saying, “Excuse me, we can hear you and it’s annoying?” Or do you simply think we’re all just checking you out, because you look especially good today?
Either way, I don’t understand why you want the entire library to know about your love life—or, as it seems, lack thereof. I keep hoping that you’ll suddenly become aware of your surroundings, alertly embarrassed for having caused such a ruckus (not to steal Richard Vernon’s favorite word). Or maybe your friend will subtly hint that you two should move somewhere else. But as I keep listening, I hear no prelude to a halt in your noisy oblivion.
The worst part is, I want so badly for you to be quiet so I can go back to my work undisturbed, and yet I find myself raptly listening to the unfolding adventures of your drunken, loveless Thursday night. You have me trapped under your loud, disturbing, disgustingly inconsiderate spell—after all, what could be more fun than silently eavesdropping on a stranger’s pitiful evening? Certainly not the neuronal pathways of a frog’s sciatic nerve.
But now, I suddenly realized that my studying has come to a complete standstill for the last 20 minutes, and something must be done about you. You have distracted me long enough, Oh Loud One, and it’s time for me to put on my big girl pants and ask you for some volume control. I apologize in advance for so brazenly calling you out on your overzealous larynx, but a nerd’s gotta do what a nerd’s gotta do. Hopefully in the future, you will remember the little library frequenters who actually use the building as a place to silently concentrate, and gossip while lifting weights—the clanking and whirring machinery might better muffle your venting sessions than do the flipping of pages and furious scribbling of pens. Thanks in advance.
Sincerely,
A Silent Studier Who's Losing Patience
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Art of Posing
It took me quite a while to master the art of posing for pictures. In my awkward years, I had a habit of lifting my head up and back, creating an unsightly double chin that occupied the width of my chubby face. When I was old enough to realize that this was an issue that only tubby people dealt with, I started to change my picture style. Instead of lifting my head up, I decided to point my chin down. For some counter-intuitive reason, putting my chin down eliminated the second chin. I also realized that my face had to be straight-on to the camera lens, lest I see the remnants of a double chin on the side. These early strategies have shaped how I pose for pictures—to this day, I still try my best to face the camera dead-on, keep my chin slightly tilted down, and all the while smile as if I look like this all the time.
Face it. Everyone wants to look good in pictures. You want to look skinner than you do in real life, you want to look prettier than you do in real life, and you want to look like you’re not even trying to look skinner or prettier—that it comes naturally.
After perusing my Facebook friends (“perusing,” in this case, is a euphemism for “creeping”), I have come to some very specific conclusions of how, exactly, people achieve this feat of looking their best, and have compiled a list of the most common poses that boys and girls strike before the camera flash. (I should admit right now that I, too, am guilty of using all of these strategies. And they work!)
Ladies, your pose in a photo can make or break the possibility of a new profile pic. Here are the things a girl must do to look good.
1. Hand on the waist. This is important, for it not only emphasizes the smallest part of your torso, but it also creates a slimmer, toned arm. Don’t you hate when the fat at the armpit crease wrinkles up, giving the appearance of untoned, jiggly flesh? With the arm in a bent position, that problem is eliminated. Be careful, though—this pose can look stilted and unnatural, especially if another girl is doing the same thing. In that case, bringing your arm just SLIGHTLY back but still relaxed and down will do the trick. And don’t forget the shoulder pop! I’ve found that raising my shoulder up and bringing it out makes it look bonier, and gives the appearance of a thinner overall body.
2. Shift your weight entirely to the side of your bent arm. Again, this emphasizes the small waist on which your hand is resting, and gives nicer curves of the hips—an overall good position to emphasize proportional curves. Some girls make the mistake of shifting their weight to the OPPOSITE side, which looks awkward and completely negates the small-waist illusion.
3. Bend one knee and bring it in toward the other knee. For some reason, this popular fad has been deemed cute.
4. Tilt your head—BUT NOT TOO MUCH. You don’t want to look like you have strabismus; you want to indicate that you’re happy, carefree, and not at all worrying about whether or not you’ll have to untag this picture later.
5. Suck in. This should be pretty self-explanatory. However, take caution that sucking in your belly automatically causes most girls’ shoulders to rise up (okay with the one that you’re already raising; not okay for the other). Learn to isolate only the abdominal muscles when sucking in, and you’re golden. I have practiced in front of a mirror, and now bringing in my belly comes completely naturally to me.
I haven’t completely mastered the art of a guy’s pose—all I have been able to conclude is that, for the most part, every single guy wants to look bigger than he actually is. From checking out multiple male Facebook friends’ pictures, I have decided upon the top 3 things guys do for pictures.
1. Stick out their chests.
2. Pull back their arms to create the illusion that their pecs are bigger.
3. Flex. Some guys are incredibly talented at flexing without giving away the secret in their faces; others, not so much.
The major discrepancy I have seen between girls and boys is the angle at which the picture is taken. A boy absolutely LOVES their pictures being taken from below—it makes him appear taller and bigger, and I’ve noticed that the double chin issue of doing this is trivial and irrelevant.
This seems totally unfair to me, as I absolutely detest pictures of me taken from below. After constant reminders to the photographers to “take the picture from above,” my friends have dubbed me Queen of Above Angles. I know it’s annoying, but I say, do what you gotta do to look good! And I know I’m not alone in this case—Facebook is ridden with photos of girls’ faces holding the cameras up, pointing down at their pointy chins and high cheek bones (facial features that suddenly appear in these pictures, yet that these girls oddly seem to lack in the real world). But do I judge them?
Not at all.
Face it. Everyone wants to look good in pictures. You want to look skinner than you do in real life, you want to look prettier than you do in real life, and you want to look like you’re not even trying to look skinner or prettier—that it comes naturally.
After perusing my Facebook friends (“perusing,” in this case, is a euphemism for “creeping”), I have come to some very specific conclusions of how, exactly, people achieve this feat of looking their best, and have compiled a list of the most common poses that boys and girls strike before the camera flash. (I should admit right now that I, too, am guilty of using all of these strategies. And they work!)
Ladies, your pose in a photo can make or break the possibility of a new profile pic. Here are the things a girl must do to look good.
1. Hand on the waist. This is important, for it not only emphasizes the smallest part of your torso, but it also creates a slimmer, toned arm. Don’t you hate when the fat at the armpit crease wrinkles up, giving the appearance of untoned, jiggly flesh? With the arm in a bent position, that problem is eliminated. Be careful, though—this pose can look stilted and unnatural, especially if another girl is doing the same thing. In that case, bringing your arm just SLIGHTLY back but still relaxed and down will do the trick. And don’t forget the shoulder pop! I’ve found that raising my shoulder up and bringing it out makes it look bonier, and gives the appearance of a thinner overall body.
2. Shift your weight entirely to the side of your bent arm. Again, this emphasizes the small waist on which your hand is resting, and gives nicer curves of the hips—an overall good position to emphasize proportional curves. Some girls make the mistake of shifting their weight to the OPPOSITE side, which looks awkward and completely negates the small-waist illusion.
3. Bend one knee and bring it in toward the other knee. For some reason, this popular fad has been deemed cute.
4. Tilt your head—BUT NOT TOO MUCH. You don’t want to look like you have strabismus; you want to indicate that you’re happy, carefree, and not at all worrying about whether or not you’ll have to untag this picture later.
5. Suck in. This should be pretty self-explanatory. However, take caution that sucking in your belly automatically causes most girls’ shoulders to rise up (okay with the one that you’re already raising; not okay for the other). Learn to isolate only the abdominal muscles when sucking in, and you’re golden. I have practiced in front of a mirror, and now bringing in my belly comes completely naturally to me.
I haven’t completely mastered the art of a guy’s pose—all I have been able to conclude is that, for the most part, every single guy wants to look bigger than he actually is. From checking out multiple male Facebook friends’ pictures, I have decided upon the top 3 things guys do for pictures.
1. Stick out their chests.
2. Pull back their arms to create the illusion that their pecs are bigger.
3. Flex. Some guys are incredibly talented at flexing without giving away the secret in their faces; others, not so much.
The major discrepancy I have seen between girls and boys is the angle at which the picture is taken. A boy absolutely LOVES their pictures being taken from below—it makes him appear taller and bigger, and I’ve noticed that the double chin issue of doing this is trivial and irrelevant.
This seems totally unfair to me, as I absolutely detest pictures of me taken from below. After constant reminders to the photographers to “take the picture from above,” my friends have dubbed me Queen of Above Angles. I know it’s annoying, but I say, do what you gotta do to look good! And I know I’m not alone in this case—Facebook is ridden with photos of girls’ faces holding the cameras up, pointing down at their pointy chins and high cheek bones (facial features that suddenly appear in these pictures, yet that these girls oddly seem to lack in the real world). But do I judge them?
Not at all.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
hasta la vista, baby!
Finally, after 6 semesters (including two summer sessions), I am finally getting ready to move OUT of the residence halls and into an apartment! Despite some trepidation I have about living in an apartment (I have to cook MY OWN FOOD? And wash my own dishes?!), ultimately, I have concluded that apartment life will be much cooler, more exciting, and just overall more awesome than living in the dorms. Here are the top 15 reasons why I can’t wait to say adieu to dorm life FOREVER!
1. No more flip flops in the shower.
2. No more weekly emails from a coordinator about how to serve the community.
3. Nobody will be swiping into the building to see if the doors still work—yes, auxiliary police, they still work.
4. The bathroom will never be “Closed For Cleaning” at the most inconvenient times possible.
5. No more screaming kids at 10:00 when I’m trying to study—or SLEEP.
6. So long, fire drills!
7. I won’t have to wait in line for food—and I can eat whenever I want, whatever I want (to the extent of my culinary expertise, of course…good thing I love pasta and grilled cheese.)
8. I can prop the door open for as long as I want without an alarm going off that alerts all of State College that I violated some dorm rule.
9. No more roommate agreement and check-out forms
10. My mail will come to the same building I’m living in.
11. I won’t be able to succumb to the daily temptations of Creamery ice cream and warm, melty chocolate-chip cookies in the dining halls that continually sabotage my ever-existent diet.
12. I can keep my door unlocked when I leave my bedroom to eat.
13. I can sing in the shower (without any strangers hearing, anyway…)
14. I don’t have to use ugly bed risers and bendable desk lamps that look like they belong in “Back to the Future.”
15. I will know everyone who will be sitting on our toilet—and know that they're all clean.
1. No more flip flops in the shower.
2. No more weekly emails from a coordinator about how to serve the community.
3. Nobody will be swiping into the building to see if the doors still work—yes, auxiliary police, they still work.
4. The bathroom will never be “Closed For Cleaning” at the most inconvenient times possible.
5. No more screaming kids at 10:00 when I’m trying to study—or SLEEP.
6. So long, fire drills!
7. I won’t have to wait in line for food—and I can eat whenever I want, whatever I want (to the extent of my culinary expertise, of course…good thing I love pasta and grilled cheese.)
8. I can prop the door open for as long as I want without an alarm going off that alerts all of State College that I violated some dorm rule.
9. No more roommate agreement and check-out forms
10. My mail will come to the same building I’m living in.
11. I won’t be able to succumb to the daily temptations of Creamery ice cream and warm, melty chocolate-chip cookies in the dining halls that continually sabotage my ever-existent diet.
12. I can keep my door unlocked when I leave my bedroom to eat.
13. I can sing in the shower (without any strangers hearing, anyway…)
14. I don’t have to use ugly bed risers and bendable desk lamps that look like they belong in “Back to the Future.”
15. I will know everyone who will be sitting on our toilet—and know that they're all clean.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Simple Minds, Simple Pleasures
Sometimes you forget to think about the little things that just make you happy. So, here's a memory refresher.
1. Being the first person to lower the toilet seat after the bathroom's been cleaned
2. Sleeping on top of your covers so you don’t have to make the bed in the morning
3. Finding out that the last bite of your ice cream cone still has ice cream in it
4. Looking at your alarm clock and seeing that you can still sleep for another hour
5. A pancake with crispy edges
6. Being sore after a good workout
7. Having someone call you by name when they say hi
8. Little boys wearing argyle sweater vests
9. Looking good in a picture
10. Falling asleep to the sound of rain
11. Skinny days (Also: good hair days, good skin days, good makeup days, and pretty days)
12. A compliment from a stranger
13. Calling out the correct answer while watching Jeopardy
14. Finishing a book
15. Flirting
16. Completely using up the ink in a pen
17. Turning around in a line so that when you look back, it’s moved up 5 feet
18. Pulling into the driveway just as the song on the radio ends
19. Waking up or going to bed on the exact hour
20. Saying something that makes everyone laugh
21. “Likes” on a good Facebook status
22. Getting a letter in the mail
23. Paying with exact change
24. The first bite of a slice of pizza
1. Being the first person to lower the toilet seat after the bathroom's been cleaned
2. Sleeping on top of your covers so you don’t have to make the bed in the morning
3. Finding out that the last bite of your ice cream cone still has ice cream in it
4. Looking at your alarm clock and seeing that you can still sleep for another hour
5. A pancake with crispy edges
6. Being sore after a good workout
7. Having someone call you by name when they say hi
8. Little boys wearing argyle sweater vests
9. Looking good in a picture
10. Falling asleep to the sound of rain
11. Skinny days (Also: good hair days, good skin days, good makeup days, and pretty days)
12. A compliment from a stranger
13. Calling out the correct answer while watching Jeopardy
14. Finishing a book
15. Flirting
16. Completely using up the ink in a pen
17. Turning around in a line so that when you look back, it’s moved up 5 feet
18. Pulling into the driveway just as the song on the radio ends
19. Waking up or going to bed on the exact hour
20. Saying something that makes everyone laugh
21. “Likes” on a good Facebook status
22. Getting a letter in the mail
23. Paying with exact change
24. The first bite of a slice of pizza
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
"Friendship"
Abby Lewis* was weird. She came into my circle of friends one recess in fifth grade, and for three long years we had to deal with her odd habits and lack of social graces. My friends and I knew there was something “off” about Abby, but we just didn’t know what.
Abby was persistent, and stayed in our group much longer than any of my friends and I expected or wanted. Instead of shutting her out (and risking an intervention by the recess aid or teacher), we took advantage of her annoying ability to appear wherever we were during recess or lunch. Because Abby was totally clueless, we did not pass up a single opportunity to tease her. She was consistently the scapegoat in our favorite game “Four Square,” always the ball fetcher whenever our basketball rolled down the hill during “Knock-Out,” and never “It” when we played freeze tag.
Abby had become a staple in our group. However, whenever anyone outside the friend circle asked me about her, I always vehemently assured the questioner that none of us actually liked Abby, and we kept her in the group because she just wouldn’t leave.
And that was definitely true. We would lament and complain to each other about how annoying Abby was, how she gave us a bad reputation among our peers, and how difficult she was to get along with. In sixth grade, she gave a 10-minute presentation to the class about why she’s so different. I remember it to this day.
“I have Asperger’s,” she declared. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard of this disorder. My father, a child psychiatrist, would come home every night and talk about all kinds of childhood disorders, including those on the Autism spectrum. I remember thinking at the time, “Great Abby. But you telling the class about this won’t make anyone pick on you less.”
Unfortunately, I was right. After her soap box lecture, Abby went right back to being Abby. And I went right back to being the girl who made disgusted faces when Abby picked off her eyebrows, and rolled her eyes when Abby tried desperately to fit in.
My friends and I dealt with Abby for three long years. Finally, at the beginning of eighth grade, we had a discussion. We were not going to let Abby be in our group anymore. That morning, my friends designated me as the one who would tell her. I didn’t want to do it, and to this day I regret being the quiet, meek pushover that I was in that group since third grade. In retrospect, I realize that part of the reason I put up with Abby for so long was that, for those three years, I had the opportunity to graduate from being the group’s scapegoat. My friends stopped making fun of me for saving my paper bags at lunch and didn’t flick grape seeds at me while their focus was directed at Abby.
Despite that three-year grace period, I was still the second-best pushover. Reluctantly, I agreed to be the bearer of bad news. When Abby sat down to lunch, I took a deep breath and cut right to the chase. I remember my exact words: “Hey Abby, we were all thinking…sometimes, friends go in separate directions—”
That was all I had to say. Clueless, imperceptive Abby somehow knew—whether from the tone of my voice or the condescending looks everyone gave her—that she was getting the boot. She picked up her tray, said, “You’re kicking me out?!” and walked away.
My friends smiled as they watched her go. I did, too—but I was ridden with guilt. I felt so guilty, that when I came home, I told my mom. Well, I only half told her; being too ashamed to admit that the words were my own, I put the blame on another friend in the group. She was appalled that anyone would be so mean, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was actually I who told Abby to leave.
That night, I called the girl I had just banished from the group. I told her I was sorry, and that she could sit with us again. She accepted my apology—something I don’t think I would have done—but never came back to our table.
Now, eight years later, I’m studying to be a child psychologist, and I will be seeing patients like Abby for the rest of my life. To this day, whenever I think about her, I experience a twinge of guilt. I hope that my efforts to treat patients like Abby will act as a kind of redemption for how mean I was back then. I used to be ashamed to be Abby’s friend. Now, I’m ashamed that I never was.
*name has been changed
Abby was persistent, and stayed in our group much longer than any of my friends and I expected or wanted. Instead of shutting her out (and risking an intervention by the recess aid or teacher), we took advantage of her annoying ability to appear wherever we were during recess or lunch. Because Abby was totally clueless, we did not pass up a single opportunity to tease her. She was consistently the scapegoat in our favorite game “Four Square,” always the ball fetcher whenever our basketball rolled down the hill during “Knock-Out,” and never “It” when we played freeze tag.
Abby had become a staple in our group. However, whenever anyone outside the friend circle asked me about her, I always vehemently assured the questioner that none of us actually liked Abby, and we kept her in the group because she just wouldn’t leave.
And that was definitely true. We would lament and complain to each other about how annoying Abby was, how she gave us a bad reputation among our peers, and how difficult she was to get along with. In sixth grade, she gave a 10-minute presentation to the class about why she’s so different. I remember it to this day.
“I have Asperger’s,” she declared. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard of this disorder. My father, a child psychiatrist, would come home every night and talk about all kinds of childhood disorders, including those on the Autism spectrum. I remember thinking at the time, “Great Abby. But you telling the class about this won’t make anyone pick on you less.”
Unfortunately, I was right. After her soap box lecture, Abby went right back to being Abby. And I went right back to being the girl who made disgusted faces when Abby picked off her eyebrows, and rolled her eyes when Abby tried desperately to fit in.
My friends and I dealt with Abby for three long years. Finally, at the beginning of eighth grade, we had a discussion. We were not going to let Abby be in our group anymore. That morning, my friends designated me as the one who would tell her. I didn’t want to do it, and to this day I regret being the quiet, meek pushover that I was in that group since third grade. In retrospect, I realize that part of the reason I put up with Abby for so long was that, for those three years, I had the opportunity to graduate from being the group’s scapegoat. My friends stopped making fun of me for saving my paper bags at lunch and didn’t flick grape seeds at me while their focus was directed at Abby.
Despite that three-year grace period, I was still the second-best pushover. Reluctantly, I agreed to be the bearer of bad news. When Abby sat down to lunch, I took a deep breath and cut right to the chase. I remember my exact words: “Hey Abby, we were all thinking…sometimes, friends go in separate directions—”
That was all I had to say. Clueless, imperceptive Abby somehow knew—whether from the tone of my voice or the condescending looks everyone gave her—that she was getting the boot. She picked up her tray, said, “You’re kicking me out?!” and walked away.
My friends smiled as they watched her go. I did, too—but I was ridden with guilt. I felt so guilty, that when I came home, I told my mom. Well, I only half told her; being too ashamed to admit that the words were my own, I put the blame on another friend in the group. She was appalled that anyone would be so mean, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was actually I who told Abby to leave.
That night, I called the girl I had just banished from the group. I told her I was sorry, and that she could sit with us again. She accepted my apology—something I don’t think I would have done—but never came back to our table.
Now, eight years later, I’m studying to be a child psychologist, and I will be seeing patients like Abby for the rest of my life. To this day, whenever I think about her, I experience a twinge of guilt. I hope that my efforts to treat patients like Abby will act as a kind of redemption for how mean I was back then. I used to be ashamed to be Abby’s friend. Now, I’m ashamed that I never was.
*name has been changed
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
