Shoes

Currently, I am shopping for a new pair of TOMS to replace my a pair I've had and worn-out for the past three years. I've toured Germany, France, and Austria in them. I've wandered all over Northern Michigan. I've worn them to the mall and to walk the Mackinaw Bridge. I've worn them with socks and without, with jeans and with shorts, to work and to play. They are comfortable, and I know they will give me support no matter what I am doing. The seams are worn and frayed, but that just shows all the places the have been and everything they have been through.

These old TOMS are analogous to friends I've known for years. They are comfortable. I know exactly what to expect from them. There is history there. The foundations for these friendships are solid. They have been tried and tested, and they have survived. We have memories together, memories that fuel new experiences together.

When I get my new pair of TOMS, there will inevitably be a period of adjustment. They'll have to be broken in, and maybe I'll get blisters until they form to the shape of my foot.

Since moving to Philly, I've been breaking in new friends like a new pair of shoes. It's a slow, and sometimes painful process. And it last longer than I would like. I'm eager for the comfort of a foundation. I'm more awkward then I would like, so the comfort is usually a long time coming. I wish I could just fast-forward through the awkward moments to get to a place where I feel completely like myself around someone. Until then, I'll just put a band-aid on, and continue on. I'll break in the new shoes, eventually. And when I do, I'll be glad for everything I went through with them.

Seasons of Change

As hard as it is for me to believe, I am in the second half of my service year. Going on seven months down, with only five more to go. And with that comes more seasons of change.

Like most recent college grads, my life has been a series of short terms. First, figuring out what I was going to do after graduation, then after a summer seasonal job, and soon, I'll have to figure out what to do after my service year. I can't even tell you how many times I've been asked what I was thinking of doing upon completion of the year. I heard that question within the first few months, and as time has passed the frequency of the question has increased exponentially, both from outside sources and from my own mind. "Lindsay, what in the world are you going to do with yourself after this?"

Somehow that question has always been answered. Things always fall into place. Usually, things fall into place in a way I would have never expected, but it's always an adventure to see where I will be taken next. Although I have complete faith that something will work out for me this time again, I feel more pressure to make some decisions this time than I have before.

Do I want to stay in Philadelphia or go back to Michigan? Do I want to stay in Human Resources or look into a different field? If a position is offered, will I want continue working where I currently work? If I stay in the city, where will I live? And should I bring my car to the city? These are some of the most pressing questions in my mind. I ask myself these practical questions, but I also question whether or not I'm good enough. To get an HR job away from my current agency, to handle the pressures of a regular position in my department. And as much as my boss and co-workers encourage me, I'm not sure I completely see my aptitude myself. I don't want to just make the safe and easy decision out of fear. Although I've always had issues with self-confidence, I don't feel like I've been motivated by fear in the past, but somehow this time, the promise of security is pretty tempting. I don't know, maybe that's not the same as fear of inadequacy. Maybe I deserve a little security after a tumultuous year and a half.

Well, anyway, things are still up in the air. I do know eventually things will be decided, but for now let the resume updating begin! 

Michigan, my love

I am more of an occasional, once-in-awhile, or once-in-a-great-while writer, than a dependable writer. Well, irony counts for something right...

Here it is more than a year since my last post. My life has changed in more ways than I could possibly imagine since then. Heart-wrenching loss, a huge move, a new job, new friends, practically a new life, but my past experiences continue to mold and shape who I am. Now that I've lived in Philadelphia for over six months, I still find myself itching to talk about Michigan, eager to correct misconceptions and to tell about my overwhelming love for my home state. Upon meeting a new person, he or she knows within preliminary conversations that I am from Michigan. I've probably even shown them exactly where I'm from, where I went to school, and where I worked for a summer on my hand in that first conversation. In all those conversations with countless people, I've informed many Michigan fallacies. Let me just set the record straight. The Great Lakes are not salty. Michigan does have sandy beaches. The U.P. is not Canada or just the northern half of the Lower Peninsula, and even though Detroit is in bad shape, that does not account for the entire state of Michigan.

I have also discovered that when I'm not telling someone directly that I'm from Michigan, my accent is apparently doing it for me. I had no idea I had such a thick Michigan accent. I've been told it is most evident when I pronounce words like "tool,""tulip," and "radiator" or when I say "register," instead of "vent," words I had no idea I pronounce differently than in other parts of the country, until I moved to Philly.

Clearly, I still miss The Great Lakes State, and I can't even tell you how excited I am to go back to visit for a long wedding weekend in October. I'll be listening to Pure Michigan commercials until then, letting the soothing voice wash over me as it describes idyllic Michigan experiences. I'll see you soon, old friend.

How Great Thou Art

Her dark hair fell down her back in one continuous sheet down to her waist. She wore a thin white headband at her hairline. A gold cross necklace dangled down her cleavage. Around her wrist, she wore rosary beads, looped around several times to form a bracelet. Her grandmother had prayed daily with these rosary beads, but now Leah wore them to accent her bohemian style. Today, worn with a bikini top and a skirt that flowed down around her feet.

Between long draws, a cigarette carelessly hung between two fingers, swung at her side as she strolled along the empty sidewalk, the hot cement warm on her weathered feet. Leah had always despised wearing shoes, and her calloused feet showed the preference. This had started out as just a walk, but her walks inevitably ended on the front porch of her on-again-off-again boyfriend Jake. He was, of course, sitting on rickety chair, with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, already drunk at 11a.m., an occurrence that was not unusual.

“Hey, babe. Come over here and give Daddy some lovin,’” he slurred. Leah stood in front of him, hand on hip, not moving, not saying anything. She flicked the ashes off the end of the cigarette. She was tired of this. Everyday, the same thing, and she could pretty much guarantee he would be making out with someone else by the end of the night. Probably with the slut that just moved in next door. He seemed to have his eye on her. Leah knew how this would turn out, yet she always returned. She didn’t really have anyone better.

Reluctantly, she sat down on his lap. He tugged on her skirt, lifting it, until he could get his hand under the fabric. He rubbed up and down her leg, and this was only the beginning. Leah relaxed against him. She might as well enjoy it.  

Somewhere far in the distance, a church bell played How Great Thou Art to signal 12 o’ clock.

Paranoia

Do you know what it is like to not understand the conversations your two roommates are having? I’m talking not being able to hear one of them talking to you because they are yelling from another room, or jumping into the middle of an-already-in-progress conversation and not knowing what the original idea was. I’m talking about never having any idea what is being said because your two roommates are speaking effing Bulgarian. I mean when they speak to me, they speak English, but they rarely speak to me. I’ve tried striking up conversations with them, but these attempts usually fall flat, and they are back to speaking only Bulgarian. So, I’ve kind of given up trying. Now I’m getting rather resentful and paranoid. Today, I came back from a trip to Walmart, and one of them (whose name I’m still not completely sure of, but it is far too late to ask) was talking to someone one Skype.  I kept hearing her say something about Walmart, and I thought she was using a sarcastic I’m-making-fun-of-you tone. Now for all I really know there might be a common word in Bulgarian that sounds like Walmart. Maybe she wasn’t referring to my recent trip to Walmart. Maybe she was taking about a Walmart coming to her hometown in Bulgaria. I kind of doubt it, but hell, what do I know. When living in a room where English speakers are the minority for two weeks, paranoia seems the inevitable result. 

Accountability, Please

Almost a month ago, I graduated from Spring Arbor University with a degree in English Writing and a minor in sociology. Now I am working as a waitress in Mackinaw City for the summer, a job which basically requires no writing, except for scribbling illegible orders on a note pad so you can plug the orders in before your short term memory gobbles them up. Needless to say, that is not exactly the kind of writing I've been training for four years to do, but that is where life has taken me for the time being. I am determined, however, not to let the skills I have learned become rusty. This blog will keep me accountable , keep me writing. So here goes. Let the writing begin.