Perspective.

When I was four years old, my parents divorced. This is important to know about me.

My dad moved away, and so did we. With my mom. We went to a new town where she worked to support and raise us. I didn't know it at the time, but money was short. I didn't care; I was young and happy.

Four years later, my parents remarried, having realized in separation the weight of their vows to stay together. I was the flower girl in their second wedding.

Despite their reconciliation (and no longer living in a single-parent household), money was still tight. My parents had gone to community college long before; my mom left for wifehood. My dad graduated with an Associates' degree in drafting, but worked with it only a short time, if at all. They married young, and spat out the obnoxious bundle of joy that is my older brother four years later. They hopped from job to job, town to town, figuring things out as they went.

Not long after they separated, my dad went back to school. It took him years to finish his Bachelor's degree in education, working full time and driving an hour one way for classes part of the time. I was 12 when he graduated. I remember the speaker being hideously long-winded. A year or so later, my mom finished her Associate's degree.

Yet even with their diplomas in hand, the hard-hit economy of northern Michigan wasn't handing them any breaks. My dad worked for two years as a teacher in a tiny high school, then was laid off. My mom continued to work in a job she hated for several years before having the opportunity to (finally) do something she loved, was good at, and was actually challenging enough for her (she's very intelligent...I got her brains).

Today, I was driving across town and thinking about my parents, and about me. I often get asked, being young and single and not-Texan, what brought me here. The short answer is "AmeriCorps." The long answer is much more complicated. How do you explain 23 years of decisions that result in a single event? Especially when you're not always sure they were the right decisions?

Sometimes I get frustrated with the choices I made at 18. I chose not to go to the University of Michigan (though accepted), electing instead to attend the tiny liberal arts school that few people in a 200-mile radius and nobody beyond knew about.

Sometimes I wish I'd made the other choice, that I'd gone to Architecture school as intended, instead of getting the Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy and Business Administration I picked up instead. Or even that I'd picked a school that me to attend rather than the other way around.

And then couldn't find a job in the field I wanted. Which led me to AmeriCorps. Which led me here.

Sometimes I wish I was "further along" in life. That I was making more money, that I was more settled. That I was on track in an actual career, rather than bouncing from experience to experience as I'm prone to do. I look at friends from high school and college, and I envy them. Their jobs, their security.

Then I remember my parents. I remember their determination to finish what they started -- even if it took 20 years to do it. I remember the sacrifices they made (and are still making) to give me this life. Their encouragement to go to school, and to stick it out for four (or 3.5) full years so that I wouldn't be fighting the same battles they did. Of putting their own education and dreams on hold to allow me to pursue mine.

I'm not running a company. I'm not making millions (Lord...I'm hardly making thousands). I won't be able to retire at 40 (if at all). I didn't go to an "elite" school. I didn't even know what sushi was until (late) high school.

I guess I don't have much to brag about.

Well, save for the ability to actually do what I love (even if I landed there through a roundabout way). And 24 years of ridiculous, awesome, and humble experiences that have made me who I am. And two amazing parents who love me, support me, and didn't hand me the world, forcing me to find it for myself.

So eat that, you ivy leaguers*.









*UofM people, I'm sorry. I love you. Oh, and you one Harvard person. I love you too.

Fat Tuesday, Michigan Style

I live on the Gulf Coast. Mardi Gras is a big deal. And while we here in Texas don't have quite the same level of public nudity and debauchery of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, we know how to throw quite the wild party.

Nonetheless, my Fat Tuesday celebrations of this year and last have been missing a key element: paczki.



I love my state and our traditions.

There's a polish bakery in Houston...but it's too far to drive today. Next year, when I'm living there, you KNOW I'll be standing in line.

Much love from Texas!

C-Jo

On a day of love.

To the single, the lonely, the broken-hearted:

May this day be one of peace, of contentmen. Know that you are beautiful, you are handsome, that you are valuable, and you hold an essential place in this world. Be grateful for this opportunity to move freely, to be YOU alone. Only you can write your story, and only you can fulfill the purpose God has for your life. If no one else tells you today, know that I'm glad you're here.



To the married, the dating, the not-so-single:

Embrace the joy of this day, the cheesy cards and the over-the-top displays, but don't get caught up in them. Find ways to show your partner that you love them every day - don't let your romance end as the sun goes down and the 15th begins. Enjoy each other's company, and be grateful for the opportunity to celebrate love together.



To all of you:

Thank you for your tidbits of laughter, encouragement, and hope. Thank you for sharing in this life journey with me.



MUCH love from Texas,

Carolyn

Getting hammered.

I spent a quiet evening at home last night. I made myself a simple dinner, then headed off to the grocery store. I came home, let Bennet out, and settled into bed. All by about 11:30.

Within an hour and a half, all my roommates came home. With the loud, boisterous voices of people who've had a few drinks. Their chatter and banging around the upstairs and lights turned on woke me up, and I laid there waiting for them to settle so that I could go back to sleep.*

And for a moment, I was jealous. They had tried to convince me to come out, but I opted for a calm evening. In that split second of lying in bed and debating telling them to hush and knowing that it probably wouldn't do me any good, I wanted to be right there with them. Flushed and giggly.

But it lasted only a split second. And then I remembered that hangovers suck. That the attention you receive because you're drunk and bold and other people are drunk and bold is false, and lasts only as long as the buzz. That memories are best kept preserved, not lost amidst the flow of booze. And that there's so much more to life than being hammered.

I'll admit it; since moving to Texas, I have had more alcohol than in all my years prior. I allowed myself to get caught up in an atmosphere where you need to drink to have fun, where you "deserve" a drink after a long day. My approach was rather mild, but it was enough that I've been drunk several times, an experience that I had never had previously.

Over the past several months, though, I've grown restless with that way of life. I guess I'm not the person who need to stray into rebellion for years on end; a month or two was more than enough for me.

I don't really want to drink. I just don't. Alcohol holds little magic for me. I'm not sure it ever did; fitting in (though I hate to admit it) was the trigger.

Yes, at 24, I still battle with teenage-type insecurities.

But I will say this: Over the last year, I've learned that it's okay to be me. If it's okay with a glass in my hand, then it certainly ought to be okay when there's not.

I'm the girl who dances in the street (sober). Who wiggles out of her tights on the side of the road (sober) so that she can go dance in the water (sober). Who makes up words and can't get a sentence out because she's tripping over her own tongue (sober). I love (sober) game nights and spontaneous (sober) kitchen dance parties.

And I'm the girl who won't really drink from here on out. Maybe I'll have one if I accompany others to the bar. But that's all. It's more than enough.

And for the next forty days, starting Wednesday, it won't even be an issue anyway.



*I'm pretty sure my roommates don't read this; they've often made comments to the contrary. However, just in case (and as a result of past bad experiences), I'm adding a disclaimer: I'm not mad at you guys at all, so don't take this post as my passive aggressive whining. I'm just telling a story. :)

Sidesteps to Move Forward

Tonight I applied for community college.

To be honest, submitting the application makes me nervous. Moreso now than when I was filling it out.

Going back to school -- and to a community college -- is a frightening thing.

I know how it all works at a four-year school. Or at community college when you're still living at home. But this is neither. It's foreign territory for me.

And it's for an Arts degree. Not just a Bachelor of Arts in things I can BS my way through for 3.5 years. It's two exhausting years of pinpricks and late-night sketching and trying to put a zipper in properly, a feat that, after fifteen years of sewing, I have yet to accomplish.

And there's still that little question of whether going back right now is the right thing to do -- or the thing I fully want to do.

I go back and forth. Daily...sometimes weekly.

But I've applied, and got that instantaneous response of "You're accepted!" that only happens with community colleges.

So now the rest just has to work itself out one way or another.

40 Days of Water

Today I received a rain-soaked package from Nashville, Tennessee.

These were inside:




They go with this:



In less than a week, I'm giving up my coffee, my tea, and my amaretto sours.* For forty days I'll drink nothing but water, and the money I save will be set aside, held for something far more important than curing my caffeine-deficiency headache.

For most of us, water is a seemingly unlimited commodity. Clean water is everywhere; we drink it from sinks and coolers and bottles. We get it in parks and on sidewalks, and even at the end of a hose.

I have to remind myself to drink water. At work I keep a cup on my desk, though it is often neglected in favor of a coffee cup. I have a choice. I can drink water, or I can drink something else. The cooler and the espresso machine are both not more than a few steps away from my desk.

I can't imagine what it would be to have to walk a mile, or more, for one drink of water. And to find, upon arriving, that it is contaminated with insects and other substances so foul it would make our stomach turn to even think of it.

Just one of our American dollars could provide clean water to one African for one year.

One dollar. For a whole year.

I spent five times that this morning on just one smoothie.

That's not right.

So I've given up my 40 days. I've surrendered them to this mission, to honoring our brothers and sisters in this struggle, and to, even in such a small way, partnering with them to ease the burden.

And I'd encourage you to do the same. Visit www.bloodwatermission.com. Check out the organization, see the projects they're involved in, and think about ways you can help.

Our choices, for better or worse, can have a global impact. Take charge of your footprint, and do something good.






*A note: Most of my drinks, including my beloved espresso, is free, thanks to working alongside a cool student-focused organization. So, by giving them up I'm not really saving any money. I'll be putting aside a yet-to-be-determined small amount for each. It won't be fully equivalent to purchasing from a coffee shop because I can't afford that (which is part of the reason I don't do it), but it'll be some token that I guarantee will add up significantly over time. In any case, this action is equally about the action and the money. So no other drinks, even if they are free.

Stop with your denim harrassment!

American Eagle keeps sending me emails to tell me their jeans are on sale.

I love American Eagle jeans, but it's a new and tempestuous affair. I found them only this winter, at Maggie's insistence. They didn't have any in my size and short, so I bought one regular-length pair which is too long even with my highest of heels.

Because I love them.

Yet I won't buy another pair right now.

This running kick is doing funny things to my body. Funny good things, but it just doesn't make sense to buy ANY clothing for a while, until we figure out exactly where we're heading with this.

Speaking of running....I completed my first 5K on Saturday.

Time: 34:12
Age Group (20-24) Rank: 14/21
Overall Rank: 228/377

It felt amazing. I was bouncing around all the rest of the day.

Now I've started a new running program, this one time-based rather than mileage. In 6 weeks, I should be running an hour solid.

And I'm working my way up to Marathon training.

For reals. It's #1 on my list.

Oh, the list. How I'm already failing at some things. Like taking a photo daily. I think I got two. Whoops.

But I still have what, 49 weeks to go?

Much love from Tejas!

CaroJo

Apples, drills, and three long miles.

I ran 3 miles tonight. 3.02 total, I think. I don't remember. It's my last long run before Saturday morning at 8:30 am, when I'll be running my first-ever 5K.

I signed up a month ago, knowing that if I didn't plunk down the cash, I'd never go through with it. And I almost didn't anyway. Running is a struggle for me. But it's something I decided to do a few years ago, and I've (intermittently) stuck to it. Not consistently enough to make huge strides, but enough that every time I came back to it, it got a little bit easier.

This time I ran strong for about 2.5 weeks, after having run just a couple of weeks before Christmas, and taking a two week break.

And then I stopped.

My legs hurt, and I was faltering on even the shortest of distances. I was frustrated by someone else who picked it up after me and was making faster strides (and bragging about it). I became discouraged, stopped believing I could do it. So I took "a week off." Which turned into two. And a half.

A week ago, I decided I was going to try again, but I failed again. I'm not even sure I ran a quarter of a mile that day, at least not in a single spurt. I came to a sudden stop on the sidewalk, not far from where I'd started, fighting back tears and wishing -- against all wishes -- that this were easy.

Defeated, I walked up to the beach, took off my shoes, and waded into the Gulf, letting the cold water swirl around my legs. I thought about what I was doing, how frustrated I was...and how afraid of failure.

I realized that day that I was focusing on the wrong thing -- on the race. Instead, I needed to focus on every step, every breath, and every mile of the road in front of me.

I didn't run again until Monday, three days ago. With Nikki beside me coaching and encouraging, I ran 2.5 miles, letting out a loud whoop at the end of the route. I felt renewed, energized, excited.

And then tonight we decided the best approach would be to do a long run -- 3 miles or so -- and an easy run tomorrow.

So I struggled and fought and had to pee my way through 2.75 miles. And then, suddenly, it got easy. It even got fun. I blew through the last .27 miles, then slowed to a walk to revel in my accomplishment.

Last night I picked up my number for the race, but tonight I became a runner.

Tonight I fought through the hard and the painful and the generally uncomfortable to complete the task -- and to find out I kind of liked running after all.





P.S. With my parents' blessing, I returned the tools last night in exchange for a drill. It's perfect, and everybody's happy.

P.P.S. Jorge (mi computadora) got a brand "top case," which is Apple lingo for the keyboardal area. No more crack, and no more weird gunk -- even the keyboard was replaced. For free. Thank you Apple for your design flaws and for taking full responsibility to fix them.