Tag: personal

Pool toe

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When we were kids, we spent the entire summer in the pool.

We would bounce around in the water for hours on end, using our feet to push off the sides so many times that we would get blisters on our toes. By the time we got out, pruned and sunburnt, our feet would be bleeding from scraping them on the concrete so much. But we didn’t care. Mom called it pool toe.

I remember how we used to eat breakfast as fast as we could, and then we would play rock-paper-scissors to see who got to jump in first. We swam from morning until night, only pausing for a lunch break of watermelon and pretzels.

Photo credit: Resources2.news.com

Your hands always shriveled up faster than mine did. You used to tell me it meant we were turning into fish, and I was convinced it was true. You also swam faster than I did, but sometimes, if I was lucky, you’d let me win some of our races.

Whenever there was a breeze it would get too cold in the water. To warm up we’d haul ourselves out of the pool and lay with our stomachs down on the concrete deck, like lizards on rocks.

I remember my tangled, sun bleached hair, and the smell of the special shampoo Mom made me use that prevented it from turning green from the chlorine. I remember family commenting on how bloodshot my eyes were, but I wasn’t bothered. I didn’t mind if my eyes were a little bit red and sore, so long as I could avoid the inconvenience of strapping on goggles.

We had changing lights for when we swam at night. I would stand on the diving board, staring down into the water below. The green water meant there were alligators lurking; so I obviously couldn’t jump in, for danger of being eaten. Blue meant sharks, so once again there were some risks. But when the water was pink, it was clear of all man-eating creatures, so it meant I was free to dive in.

When we were kids, we thought days like those would last forever.

I miss it. When we didn’t care if our fingers were shriveled up like prunes, or if our noses were bright red and peeling, or if we had pool toe.

 

 

two poems

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A dead man’s nostalgia

Don’t forget me, please.

The old treehouse and its rotten ladder,

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Those baby pictures laying on the dusty counter,

Old drawings on the walls

from when laughter and cries would echo from them,

Dirty handprints on white doors,

The broken snow globe in the attic,

Don’t forget me please.

_______________

The knife of a good carver

Is love always this good?

With its wings of maroon silk

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And its sweet golden arrowheads.

Like the knife of a good carver,

It’s shaping me, not cutting.

Thank you for this love,

For keeping me from plummeting,

For inhaling my sorrows

and exhaling goodness.

For carving your name into my heart.

For each look of your luminous eyes

makes me feel like a moth mistaken

for a butterfly.

No tear I am shedding over losing you

Can ever wash away your name.

 

Distance

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Image via Shelovesmagazine.com

All I’ve ever wanted is to be close to you.

I used to think we were, but I also used to think that you told me everything. I thought you trusted me. It wasn’t until recently that I found out I was wrong.

I’ve always been aware of just how different we are but that never mattered to me. I would do just about anything to relate to you. The older I get the more I understand that we are different people.

Your friends are nothing like my friends and for the past four years it seems like you would rather be with them than with me whenever possible. Why do you choose to be close with certain people, why do you try so hard to be like them?

Sometimes I feel like we’re making progress, and then the next day I feel like you’re more distant than ever.

I want you to care about me. I want you to like me. And I know that you do, but you show it so rarely that I almost always forget.

So when you do little things like not inviting me places or blocking me on social media – things that normally wouldn’t bother me coming from people I don’t care about – it feels like betrayal.

Even when you are so unkind and when you act like you don’t care, I always forgive you. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to forgive, but I want you to accept me so badly that I pretend not to be bothered.

Sometimes I think you don’t have very good judgement and it scares me. I worry that you don’t take care of yourself. I worry about you more than you know.

When you let me in it means the world. When you shut me out it makes me feel like I don’t matter. And you don’t even realize it.

Maybe it will be better when we’re older. Maybe I’ll just have to accept that we’re different people, that we have different goals and different views. Maybe I just care more than you do, maybe I shouldn’t care so much.

But I do care. I always will.

My magic genie

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“If you were granted three wishes, what would they be?”

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If that actually was reality, like any normal person on this planet, I would wish for an infinite amount of wishes. But that’s boring. So here are my top three wishes!

My first wish would be to keep my family, friends and me healthy for the rest of our lives. I don’t want to see any more of them leave us way too early. I don’t even want to see them cancel on a party they’ve been excited for for the past month because of a flu, or not be able to sing along to their favorite song because a cold took their voice.

My second wish would be to have superpowers. I’d probably go for invisibility, just think of all the things I could do! I could successfully prank my friends for once, I could easily avoid talking to people, I could even become the richest spy ever, because I could sneak into anywhere and spy on anyone I wanted to!

My last wish is kind of embarrassing. But I wish I had the perfect body. I want to be able to wear the clothes I want to wear, to look good in a picture without trying to, and I am sick of my grandparents telling me not to eat that because “it will just go straight to your hips” every single time we go out for dinner.

Of course that will never actually happen. It’s not like magic genies are real… but if they are, I better get one!

Autobiographies.

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I often wonder how people write autobiographies. That wonderment often boils down to my curiosity of how life plays out. How does one go about living a life interesting enough to write about?

Photo Credit: diannedawson.com

What is it to live a life full of intrigue and well meaning? I haven’t lived that much of life but there are so many people my age or within margin that have already lived such extraordinary lives. I feel like I’m playing a game of catch up with a future I can’t even see.

How do I live an extraordinary life worth marking down in the books? How do I reach a point where I feel confident enough to write it myself?

I often wonder how people write autobiographies; do remarkable lives just happen or are they fought for? Am I fighting hard enough? Am I fighting for one at all? What does it take for a life to be incredible?

25 things to be happy about

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I’m out of ideas for this week’s blog post, so here are twenty five things that make me happy. Hopefully the thought of them will make you happy too.

  1. The smell of orange blossoms
  2. “The look” exchanged between my best friend and me when we have something to tell each other
  3. Hanging my hand out the window of the car
  4. Sun shining through the blinds in the morning
  5. Laughing for no reason
  6. Swimming on a hot day

    Photo credit: heifer12x12.com
  7. A favorite song playing on the radio
  8. Eating watermelon on the beach
  9. The sound of rain
  10. Sunsets
  11. Excitement for the future
  12. Good friends
  13. Self-confidence
  14. The feeling of pond water up my nose
  15. Stopping at fruit stands on the side of the highway
  16. Walking in grass without shoes on
  17. Hugs
  18. Finally being able to catch my breath after a long run
  19. Finishing homework early
  20. Visiting new places
  21. Seeing someone I love after I haven’t seen them in a while
  22. Throwing a ball for my dog
  23. Singing at the top of my lungs
  24. Riding my bike down a hill
  25. Dancing even though I know I’m a terrible dancer

Skin

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One of my favorite things in the world is skincare. Maybe not the most deep or expected of passions but know you know. While I may not have the best skin, I do really love washing and moisturizing my face, plus all the steps in between.

I remember as a kid I never washed my face, or occasionally I snuck some of my mom’s face wash, but that was it. Then when I got older and interested in actually caring for my face, I got whatever I saw show up the most often on drugstore shelves.

The face-wash made my face feel tight enough that someone could play a snare drum solo on my face. Whatever moisturizer I mistakenly picked up was essentially a too strong concentration of salicylic acid (an effective BHA acid in small doses) suspended in a silicone cream; it left my skin sensitive and irritated.

It was a dark time that almost killed any desire I had to take care of my skin.

It was frustrating, what was supposed to help me feel good about myself was instead making me feel like I didn’t even want to try to take care of myself. Instead of feeling relaxed, my skincare was stressing me out, which in turn made my skin freak out.

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com

So I began to actually research skincare. I started with the products that had made me so sad and pinpointed what ingredients didn’t work for me, and ones that could.

I followed obscure internet trails into back alley articles about the difference between moisture and hydration, pressure points to take down face swelling, and that products with pearl powder are known for their brightening properties.

Now, one of my favorite parts of skincare is all the research that goes into learning about different ingredients and their uses. In fact I often become obsessive and go down rabbit holes I didn’t even realize I stumbled into.

For example, did you know that snail mucin, which is exactly what it sounds like, is great for hyper-pigmentation, and that the best way to harvest it, cruelty- free, is to pamper the snails by putting them in a dark room and avoiding stressing them out. It’s like prepping escargot but the snails live in the end.

The more research I’ve done the more quickly I’ve discovered that skincare is an extremely subjective topic; recommendations and “holy grail” items don’t apply to all. While one person could love birch sap another could hate it, plus everyone’s skin is different.

Through all my research I also learned that caring for my skin isn’t about vanity, it is about taking care of myself mentally. It has become a part of maintaining my mental health.

I look forward to it before I go to bed and when I get out of bed in the morning. I use it to decompress at the end of the day or armor up for one. Skincare to me is time I have carved out for introspection and reflection, which helps me feel less anxious and better about myself, inwardly and outwardly.

A good book for more research is Charlotte Cho’s The Little Book of Skin Care.

Haven’t met you yet

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I know who the love of my life is. But I haven’t met him yet.

I know that he will love music and maybe play the guitar and we’ll both know how to speak Spanish. He will want to travel the world and he will care about conserving resources and the environment.

He’ll be intelligent and insightful and probably a democrat.

My parents will love him and he will get along with my brothers.

When I ask him to go on a road trip at 2 P.M. on a Saturday he will pack a bag and we’ll be driving by 3. He’ll like being outside. He’ll be good at climbing trees.

image via pinterest.com

We will have long discussions about the fate of the world and we’ll never get bored. He’ll know exactly what to say and exactly what not to say.

He will love the beach and will make me laugh until I cry.

We will listen to each other. He will dance with me in the living room, even if there’s no music.

I don’t know his name and I don’t know exactly what he looks like.

But I know he’s out there. I just hope he finds me, and that I’m the one he’s looking for.

My Love…

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… I will miss you so much.

You’re probably the single most important person in my life and we have an expiration date. I tear up whenever I think about losing you, and I drown in tears each time I realize that it is inevitable.

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I will miss you. I will miss your beautiful bright smile from across the room, all your jokes (that are horrid by the way, but still better than mine), your amazing eyes when I simply need someone to stare at me with so much love and make me feel wanted, your stained soul that matches mine, all the warmth you can give me with a single hug, I don’t think there’s one thing I won’t miss.

You’re so sweet, you’re so romantic, you’re so good, you’re mine. I am so lucky to call you mine.

I want things to stay the way they are, I want to hold on to you forever, to the 251 days since I began to fall in love with you. That is not enough time for me to love you the way you deserve to be loved, and not nearly enough time for me to get sick of you in any way.  I can’t even imagine that. I can’t imagine leaving you. We deserve more time.

At the end of the day, we’re going to be fine. We will live, and at one point we will move on. I just wish we didn’t have to. And who knows, maybe our lucky paths will meet again.

Dear College Reader…

whynotstayinLeave a comment

On the paper/computer application in front of you is me, or at least all you get to see of me before you deem me good enough or not.

It takes you 650-1000+ words for you to supposedly understand who I am, who I know myself to be and who I want to be. Yes, I wrote the words, I told you the stories, I’ve built from what I have in me, who I think I’m supposed to be. I’ve compressed seventeen years of life into eight or nine paragraphs expressly for your viewing pleasure.

But, reader, this one is different, this one will tell a different story because what you don’t see in the typical “What have you done to better your community” and “What is your passion” supplements (which have a strong undercurrent of “be impressive, we’re watching you”),  are the long nights, the tears and disgusting tissues, the pacing, the self-judgment, the pain of feeling so insanely inadequate that every achievement feels like a trivial pursuit or worse- a lie.

Painting Credit: Antoine Stevens

I’m here to tell you that I am more than just 1000 words. I am an incomplete but also fully whole person, and that I have not a f*$%^&g clue who I am, who I’m going to be.

I feel as if for the past six months I have been folding, bending, and working against every instinct I have to somehow force myself into a two dimensional version of myself.

I don’t blame you reader because you will remember that I am a person — a breathing person who worries and is bad at things, who is vain, loves shopping and small trivial things, is selfish and is trying all the time to be good enough for my friends, family, and the opportunities I’ve been granted — behind that application. I hope.

I have hidden behind pseudo-confidence and humor the fact that I am terrified of not being as good as I think I am, that my secret fear, that everyone lies to me when they say I’m good at something to spare my feelings, will be true.

I am terrified to have my future rest in the hands of someone else, because it rests in your hands. I’m scared that what you see on those applications is not the best me because I couldn’t get the right words out.

If I’m completely honest with you, reader, applying to college has made me feel like crap. Everyone else seems to have things figured out, they’re writing easy but I can’t remember how it was to breath without feeling like an anvil is sitting on my chest, without typing triple letters because my hands are shaking so badly.

I don’t know what I want and I don’t know what you and the college you represent want, but I just pray that I am what you want.

I hope that my sleepless nights, my years of homework, my work, my words, my bending and near breaking, my near misses, my wins, my losses, all my books, my stories, my short mostly un-lived life is enough for you, even if you don’t get to see all that in my edited, word pinched application.

Please let me be enough.

…