Lately, I have been in love with my weekends. My weekdays seem like they stretch on forever--oftentimes I'm out of my apartment for over 12 hours on the days that I intern. I'm constantly running from place to place.
Yet when I walk out of my last class on Friday mornings, I couldn't be happier. A weight is lifted from my shoulders, even if I have many obligations to fulfill that weekend--there's just something about knowing that the long week has finally reached its term that's indescribable.
Those long weekdays have also made me appreciate my weekends more. I treasure the hours that I get to spend lounging around my apartment in the comfiest clothes possible with my roommates. I treasure the extra minutes that I am able to linger in bed, cuddled up under my white sheets and white comforter with the morning light just barely seeping in through my navy curtains.
What I treasure most, however, are the little things. I love when things turn up unexpectedly, and become something better than you ever imagined. I love when a movie night becomes a night of sharing stories over homemade guacamole. I love when my roommate and I both decide against cooking, and end up going on a date for Italian food and some spontaneous catching up.
Yesterday I called my mom, and we talked about absolutely nothing important for over an hour. I FaceTimed with Kyle before falling asleep. My dad and I exchanged photos of where we were today via text. I ran into my big sis at a walk for autism unexpectedly, and I finally spent time with my little sis after not seeing her all weekend. When I got in the car, my roommate who I hadn't seen all day gave me the biggest hug.
These are the little things that matter the most. These little things are what put a smile on my face, and remind me just how lucky I am. As I lay in bed on a Sunday night typing this, I couldn't feel any more grateful. But I'm sure I will, and that is what excites me the most.
Happy Monday, all.
//image via bluepueblo.tumblr.com
Sometimes, things happen to us in life that are hard to explain. You hope to make these experiences sound better than what they are, or you hope to tone them down in your retelling of them.
Yet sometimes, all you can do is say exactly what happened. No embellishments, no editing necessary. Bluntness is often unavoidable if you want to tell the truth.
Thursday morning, I was hit by a car.
That's it. That's the very cold, hard truth of the matter. It doesn't make any sense to precede those six words with any other explanation.
As I was walking to my 8 a.m. class (that I was most likely running late for), I crossed the street in front of my apartment building thinking that all was clear as all the cars at the intersection closest to me were stopped. I had assumed too much, however, when the light changed and I was almost all the way across the road.
A car had accelerated into its turn, hit me on my left side, and I went flying through the air. I can't tell you what I was thinking in those few moments between hearing the resounding thud of the metal colliding with my body and hitting the asphalt. My mind wandered to places that I hope it never has to wander again, thinking of those closest to me and what this could mean for my future.
Somehow, I stood up immediately after landing on my left side. Adrenaline was most likely my saving grace, with the help of God. I can't be thankful enough that nothing worse happened than the injuries I suffered, which consisted of soreness, bruising, a few scrapes and road rash.
I find myself thinking constantly about what could have been, and immediately praying with gratitude for His love. It was so hard to call my parents right after it happened. It was 5 a.m. in California and I woke them up crying, saying I was hit by a car. I'm so thankful nothing worse happened if only for them, as they must have felt so helpless 3,000 miles away.
This was a striking reminder to me about the fragility of life. We are constantly overwhelmed with reports on the news of murders and injuries at the top of every hour, but we never think that something similar could happen to us.
We are only human. Life is precious, and it is constantly fleeting. The best moments always are, which is all the more reason that we need to appreciate them. While my accident may have been minor, it has inspired so much more within me.
Say 'I love you' at the end of every conversation. Call your parents every day. Don't wait to tell someone something because you're worried about what they'll think. Take that extra minute to catch up with a friend.
Stop, and breathe. Appreciate your surroundings, and where you are in life. We'll never be this young again, and we never know what life may place in front of us.
//image via Note to Self
For the past few nights, I haven't been able to sleep. I've found myself lying in bed for hours on end, not thinking of anything particularly, but thinking nonetheless. My mind hasn't been able to stop.
It's interesting, because usually when you go to sleep, you either dream or you have nightmares (or if you're lucky enough, you're so tired you simply pass out). Yet I find myself stuck in some sort of an in-between, a purgatory if you will. Instead of being fully asleep or awake, I am stuck in a haze as the late night turns into morning.
I'd like to read into it and say that it is because I have become obsessed with turning my dreams into a reality, but I think that's a little too cliche (even for me). My mind has always wandered, over thinking what a conversation could possibly mean or torturing myself over an email response I hope to receive.
In this haze, my mind doesn't focus on any one particular thought (or also known as: torture device) but it jumps from one to the next, often overlapping. Everything seems interconnected, or seems like it should be.
It's like finding your Christmas lights in a incomprehensible giant, knotted ball instead of neatly organized in their cardboard container.
Nothing particularly makes sense, and the only way that it will is to painstakingly sort through it all. Unfortunately, my brain seems to have decided lately that the time to do this is at 3 a.m. But perhaps I simply need to set aside more time to reflect--to reflect and breathe.
It seems like now is the time to figure it all out, or start to. Life seems to consist of untangling the knots that get in the way, even if that only lasts for a short period of time. Nothing will ever be perfect forever, but hopefully things will start to make a little more sense.
And hopefully, I'll be able to rest a little easier.
Saying goodbye to someone is one of the strangest, most difficult exchanges one can have as a human being. Of course, I am not one to believe in goodbyes. I will always be the one to correct a friend or loved one: "I'll see you soon. Don't tell me goodbye."
Yet it's difficult to convince yourself that you'll see someone soon, when the logical half of your brain says that four months isn't quite what one would define as "soon." The emotional half attempts to quash theses all too real thoughts--you suppress the inevitable tears and reassure yourself that it is going to be okay. After all, what would you do if it wasn't okay?
Goodbyes are thought-provoking because you can't dwell on them. You expect such an exchange to be lengthy and emotional. A goodbye should have meaning, it should be memorable.
But I've learned that you can't force something to be meaningful. Much like New Year's Eve or birthdays as we grow older, goodbyes typically fall short of our expectations. We expect them to be cinematic, with our hair blowing in the wind as our companion launches into a poignant monologue about how much they will miss us.
We attempt to dismiss these expectations as silly and cliche (that's the logical part of our brains speaking again). Yet as you turn away from the one you're with, you can't help but wonder: is this it?
This is the part of your story where there should be a climax. You've been thinking about this moment for weeks. You've been trying to spend as much time as possible with those you will soon be leaving, with the thought in the back of your brain that they will be too far away too soon.
Yet once the time arrives, all that's left to do is say goodbye. You stand there with your arms hanging by your sides, exhaling with a heavy sigh and wonder what else you can do or say. You repeat yourself over and over, trying to console yourself as much as the one you're with.
Ultimately, you realize that you simply have to let go. Hold on any longer, and you're merely inflicting more pain upon yourself and the one (or many) you love.
It's like ripping off a band-aid.
Do it quickly. The pain rushes in, fast and burning. It will linger, but you will not suffer the same numbing pain that comes with a drawn-out goodbye. There is a time to cry. That time is most certainly now. You must not torture yourself. It does not do well to dwell on such a moment; dwell instead on the happy ones. You made those memories for a reason.
One thing is certain. Goodbyes never get any easier, no matter how many times you say them. Ripping off a band-aid hurts just as much at 63 as it did when you were 3. Yet they do make us stronger; they make us realize what we are leaving behind, what we are so lucky to have and what we will return to.
I'll see you soon.
//image via Olivia Bee photography.
This summer, my parents decided that it was time to replace the carpets in my sister's bedroom and my own. I was also instructed that my childhood furniture would be sold and the bedroom set that belonged to my grandmother would take my place.
Of course, the opportunity to play with interior design is not one that I am to turn down. But I soon realized that new carpets and new furniture meant one thing: lots and lots of moving.
College students are quick to associate with this pain; while we may love the lives that we live in those dingy first apartments and prison-like dorm rooms, the two most torturous days of the year are when we move in and out.
Packing up your entire life into boxes is strange enough--but in the case of packing up your childhood room, it's even stranger. You come across things that you have no idea why or how you ever came to possess it. More likely, you come across the smallest of things that trigger the strongest of memories.
Unpacking was much more difficult than packing things up temporarily, as I was tasked with sorting through my things to decide what was worth keeping. Stuffed animals were bagged to be given away to younger family members, artwork from a class taken freshman year of high school was stashed into folders--yet one box remained that I struggled with.
The box could not be lifted by one person. It had to be at least 30 pounds. And it contained my magazine collection that was established in early 2007. Six years of Vogue, Teen Vogue, Nylon and a smattering of others had added up without much notice.
I've always had a love affair with magazines. My father introduced me to their magic at a young age, and I've never looked back. Yet as I looked at these magazines stacked up on my kitchen table like soldiers standing sentry, I wondered what purpose they still held. Yes, they are archives that can be treasured; they are tomes of style that may one day be considered rare and ancient.
I live in New York for three-quarters of the year. These magazines sit in my childhood room during that time, doing nothing but collecting dust. So what should become of them?
Eventually, I reached the decision that I would give them away. Subscribing to these magazines is what made me fall in love with fashion and writing, inspiring my desired career path. Yet they are no use to me if they sit untouched 3,000 miles away. It's hard to part with things that have extended meanings; it's hard to part with the pages that have set fire to an unending passion within me.
But it's time. And now that I will soon be moving into my own apartment, perhaps it's time to start my own collection once more.
