Whenever Christmas time rolls around, I tend to take about fifteen minutes (this would be the amount of time it takes me to drive from East Lansing home to DeWitt, and today was Country Classics on the radio, so I had no music and therefore, thinking had no option but to commence) and think about the past year. This is not because it’s the end of a calendar year or the end of a semester, but mostly because Christmas means my birthday, which means one year older, which means when they someday write my autobiography, they’ll have a chapter on, “when Maggie was 20…” and I’d like to consider the highlights of that invigorating and must-read chapter.
The past year has been an adventure of ups and downs and bilateral movements. Of course, that goes for every year, but this past year has been especially different. I think that’s because sometime around January last year, I just stopped trying to make everyone else happy. Don’t get me wrong; I still can’t say no and I tend to spend an exorbitant amount of time cementing the happiness of others, but when it comes to my life decisions and what I want to do, I actually stopped caring how I would be judged. If you haven’t done this yet (and let’s be honest, I can’t let go completely and most of us can’t), I highly recommend you jump on this. I, the girl who still insists we have lifejackets on board just in case took a couple of risks.
What risks you say? Well, I learned how to cook. That’s a work in progress, but it’s a risk every night and so far, I think we can label it a success (the smoke detector has been going off less and less). I complimented the girl sitting next to me in class on her tote bag (a risk because I’m shy around people I don’t know)–and now she’s one of my best friends. I went on to MSU’s study abroad website and booked a trip to Italy, without a second thought as to what six weeks away meant or the little factoid being that I don’t speak Italian (and after a six week course, the only phrase I truly remember in Italian is a combination of swear words that are not appropriate for a blog my grandparents read–especially with Birthday Shopping upon us). I left my comfort zone. I made new friends. I left old friends. I combined groups. I did things that are immoral and sinful that we won’t go into and I did some exciting and incredible things that would make my parents proud of me (That Longchamp bag I e-mailed my mother about would be a good way to show this appreciation). Or at least had my dad stopped referring to me as his “alleged daughter” and pointing towards the mailman as my potential birth father.
In two weeks, I have, and of course this is not dramatic at all: the last good birthday of my life. After 21, there’s really nothing exciting except for botox appointments and parties with the theme “over the hill.” I’m kidding, of course, but there is this weird stigma about age in society. As a people, we set our goals in terms of our ages, right? As in, “I want to be married by 25.” “I want to be a CEO by the time I’m 30.” “I want to retire by 57.” These goals are set at milestones that we strive for, but as we get a year closer, it’s hard to be okay with the fact that time is actually passing. But, 20 was a super happy year. It was the best year. It only got better as every month went by. Sure, I’m having a minor case of selective memory, but overall, it was a success. It was better than 19. And 19 was better than 18. And 18, well it kicked 17’s ass. And thank God every year got better than Middle school because those awkward years were not friendly to my awkward self. But my point is, I’m finally catching onto this linear trend that as you get older, it gets better. So, 21, with it’s legal drinking age and even more intense responsibilities can come because hey, if 21 can beat 20, then I’ve got it really, really good. Someday I’ll have a husband (or a nice lap dog) and a bunch of kids and a house and a career that requires a cute pencil skirt everyday and all of these other big girl responsibilities–and those birthdays will have even more blessings than this one.
This entry’s been just all over the board, so I hope you managed to at least kind of get what I’m saying: I’m okay with growing up. It comes with a lot of heartbreaks and tears (just ask my mother, who gets to hear me crying about my B on an exam I studied for–while trying to hold back a smile that I’m so upset about an 85%) and really no certainties at all. But it’s exciting and I hope that when I’m cruising home from East Lansing next Christmas break (although Dear God, let it not be when it’s Country Classics day on the radio), I hope I’m lucky enough to have blessings to count, people to love, and of course, that Longchamp bag next to me.
Posted by M on May 17, 2009 in
Deep Thoughts So, I just finished my first year at MSU. Which in reality, finishing a year of college is not a huge deal, but for me, finishing a year of college and not wanting to transfer my butt out of college is kind of a big deal. I not only finished a year of college, but I liked it. Sure, sure, there were some academics involved, but let me walk you through some life milestones I accomplished this year that Michigan Maggie would be so proud of me for:
1. I did laundry
And I did a lot of it. I’ve gone through THREE boxes of tide. Which I buy on sale, thankyouverymuch I didn’t do a single load of laundry all through my freshman year of college. I always brought it home, where my mother, attempting to have me not hate my life, would graciously do it for me. But now, every two weeks, when I run out of panties and jeans, I do three loads of laundry (two dark, one white). It takes about four hours. Clearly, my housekeeping skills are out of control and if college doesn’t work out, I can start my own laundry business.
2. I moved in with pretty much a stranger
and I love her! My roommate is amazing, which is amazing because I talked to her maybe three times before we decided we’d contraction-ally obligate ourselves to be friends for the year. I like her so much we’re moving in together again in August. But perhaps more noteably, I am not a total slob around her. My bathroom, at this very moment, is clean. My bedroom’s even pretty clean. The common areas? CLEAN! God, I’m growing up so fast.
3. I made some new best friends
And some aren’t from my hometown. And some are. But the point is, I made new friends. I’m not very good at making friends. I’m a little (okay, waaaay) sarcastic. So forcing conversation until people decide they like me is weird for me. Especially when it comes to making female friends because batting your eyelashes just doesn’t seem to work as well on them. But hey, I tamed the beast that is my awkwardness around strangers and forced my friendship upon many. The result? Nearly a 100 new facebook friends. Impressed? I figured as much.
4. I made time for fun
Perhaps you see this as a simple accomplishment, but the thing is, when I want to do well in something, I tend to do only that. Like, I get obsessed. So when I wanted to kick some Wolverine butt last year at Michigan, I just you know, decided the library was the only place I would reside until I did just that. Which I did, but I had about 2% of my daily fun needed to be happy. This year, I made myself go out and enjoy being a college kid, even if I knew that I had a test in a couple weeks that needed flashcards made. Okay, so sometimes I still stayed in and made those flashcards. But hey, if I did, I totally had HBO on the tv. So that makes me exciting, okay?
5. I’m going to ROMA!
Look, I don’t do things by myself. Ever. I hate being the awkward person in the room that no one knows and I hate not knowing anyone. So, like any introvert would do, I just signed up to go to Rome for five weeks with 20 strangers to attend a university with 5,000 strangers. Oh yeah, and I don’t speak Italian. This is a recipe for disaster, of course. But, I also very firmly believe that this is the only time I’m ever going to be forced to rely completely on myself. Which will be totally fine, because I can do laundry.
These are some of my accomplishments, but the list keeps going. Some of them are things I’m not comfortable sharing with the interwebs and parentals that like to keep a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy with me and some are just a little not that impressive to outsiders (like, are you really interested to know that I discovered the perfect way to curl hair using dual curling irons? yeah, i figured not so much). Some are more important to my parents than to me (wooooo, the girl doesn’t need eighteen doctors!!!) and some are more important to me than to my parents (wooooo, the girl finally got a job she doesn’t despise).
I’ve heard your twenties are for growing. Which makes sense, because my wants and needs of just a year ago are nothing like what I want and need now. A year ago, I was shaking in my boots, wondering if MSU would even accept me after applying so late. Now, I start summer classes at MSU in the morning because I like it so much, I’m not even demanding summer break (although it would be nice, don’t take that the wrong way).
I guess the bottom line is that coming into your own is a long process and sometimes it’s hard and just complicated, because the path you’re on usually doesn’t have a map. It’s just kind of woods and leaves and branches, and every person has to take their machete and chop down their path. My path sucks sometimes. It’s going to suck tomorrow, when I walk into my first day of calculus and don’t remember even how to turn on my calculator (is it second on? Second on to turn it off? Oh sheesh). But, paths go places, right? That’s their whole point. So, I guess tomorrow I start going somewhere. I’m pretty sure Michigan Maggie would like that.
Do you ever feel like the entire world is just against you?
Like you’re MSU and UNC got a twenty point lead and man, you’re trying pretty hard, but there is just not enough hours in the day (like that sports allusion? Thanks. That’s all I’ve got).
I think I stay a little too busy maybe. I spend 15 hours a week in school, ten in work, seven training, 10 at fraternity events, and the rest studying. I’m so tired all the time. Even when I’m working super hard at everything, it feels like I’m never doing as well as I want to. I don’t want to just “do” everything. I want to be PERFECT at everything! Dammit! Perfection!
I’ve finally discovered the answer to succeeding at everything: A Nanny.
I need a nanny. It’s not just a desire, it’s a freakin’ necessity. Think of how much easier life would be with a nanny. No more time spent waiting for the bus to take you to and fro’. Nope, the nanny and her minivan can take me to class, to work, to Louis Street, to the library. And when I’m ready to go home? I’ll have one of those awesome Disney Princess cellphones that only have like, once number programmed: the nanny. And she’ll come fetch me.
I can have lunches delivered to me. Fresh lunches. No more Healthy Choice Soy Chicken nuggets! At night, I could have dinner! I think our apartment deserves to have its oven used at least once this year.
And the nanny would tutor me when I don’t understand everything for a class. She could make flashcards to quiz me and when I fail or don’t do so hot on something (as is my life currently), Nanny can rub my back and give me fresh baked chocolate chip cookies (Mama Ann’s recipe, of course) to make me feel all better.
Since I’m so busy, Nanny would have some down time. While I’m at school or work, Nanny can clean my room and do my laundry. She can also go grocery shopping for me, fix my dresser which broke a few weeks ago, sort through my clothes to give them away, and then she can take a nap. After all, even Nannies need a break.
Nanny could be my wingwoman on the weekends, picking me up and dropping me off from events I’m stuck going to. She can tell me if I look cute or if the outfit needs changing. And when I do long runs on the weekend, Nanny can time me, make sure I don’t die, and reassure me that in fact, I am not lost even though I am in a sketchy neighborhood (actually, maybe Nanny should take judo just to ensure that I am safe in said sketchy neighborhoods).
Nanny could also respond to the emails and voicemails I get, but am generally too lazy to do anything with. My friends would probably think something was wrong with me though if I just randomly started returning their calls or doing what their messages asked. I’d have to have Nanny send out an email clarifying that my life was now her duty, just so no one freaked out.
And now, since it’s late at night, Nanny would come into my room, rub my back, and whisper sweet stories about candy mountains and soft clouds until I fell asleep.
Anyways, the position is up for grabs. Obviously, since you’d be nannying a college student, the job would be extremely fulfilling morally, so that would be the reimbursement as opposed to pay. Please shoot me an email if you’re interested. Just give me a few weeks to respond.
Perpetual students need not apply.
Posted by M on Apr 6, 2009 in
Deep Thoughts It turns out, I’m getting old.
I turned 20 back in January. I still accidently tell people I’m 19. 19 is a much easier age. It’s a lot more acceptable to be like, “hey, forgive me, I’m young and I don’t know better, I’m only a teenager!” then to be like, “hey, I’m in my twenties still acting like I’m a teenager.” It’s depressing really. I mean, I’ve been in pretty heavy denial for some time. But the thing is, more and more signs are pointing to the fact that my childhood days are ending.
I knew I was getting old on my eighteenth birthday. The UPS man needed a signature of an adult and I qualified. It was kind of cool at the time. I was so old I could sign for UPS! Woo! Know what that means now? When the UPS guy rings our buzzer, I’m over 18 so I have to go all the way down two flights of stairs and sign for the stupid package. I’m old! I don’t have that kind of energy!
Nineteen was a pretty easy year. I was still basking in the glow of being a cute “19.” Guys love 19 year old girls. They’re just young enough to lead on and still believe a gentlemen’s tales, but old enough so you don’t get into trouble. They usually aren’t college freshmen, but they generally aren’t old enough wear all they’re thinking is “where’s my rock, where’s my rock.”
But twenty, man, twenty’s been all down hill.
First, my memory is fading. I used to be amazing at memorizing things quickly and recalling information like it was my day job. But, now I have to ponder for a few moments, try not to get distracted with the millions of other tasks on my mind, and eventually I pull up something that’s usually not exactly what I’m looking for, but close enough.
My liver has also taken a hit. My dad once told me when I was 18 that someday, drinking alcohol would not be fun. I’d get a hangover so bad or I’d get so sick that I’d throw in the drunk towel. And for a year and a half of college, I proved the man wrong. I didn’t so much as have a headache my entire freshman year. This year, sure, there were some mornings when I needed a little extra sleep, but nothing major. But as the twenties began, let’s just say if I never see a shot glass again, I’d be fine. So instead, I switched to the old lady drink of choice: wine. Of course, wine is kind of making a hip comeback, but I’m so old, I drink wine spritzers, which my boyfriend tells me is what all the 65 year old women at weddings he bartends request. Great. In the mere span of six months, I’ve gone from 19 year old party machine to 65 year old wine sipper.
I’m also starting to have this pathetic maternal longing. I see babies and I want one. Even when they’re crying, I can’t help but think they’re adorable. Even when they’re screaming. It melts my heart of ice.
My weekend social patterns have also gotten increasingly old. I used to be a Thursday, Friday, Saturday Night Weekend kind of girl. Now I’m like, “Well, Grey’s anatomy is on Thursday, so I shouldn’t go out then. Then, Friday night I really need to do laundry and maybe I’ll go to the gym Saturday night.” Nineteen year old Maggie would laugh at pathetic twenty year old Maggie.
Plus, aging is painful. In high school, I was a cross country runner. Now, given I didn’t take it so seriously, but I still did do it. And I did run 8 miles three or four times without any trouble. I ran 9.5 miles on Sunday. It was 48 hours ago and my body still hates me. It’s not like I just woke up and ran this, mind you. I’ve been training for months. But, I can feel every muscle in my legs, my arms, my butt. Even my back hurts! You know you’re old when your back hurts…
I’m also starting to get my priorities in order. Instead of always thinking about myself, I’ve started to think about other people. How annoying is that? I clean my apartment because I get worried my roommate will get frustrated if it’s too messy. When my grades took a hit this semester due to a busy schedule and harder classes, I made the conscious decision that I would try as hard as I could, but I would not let school affect how I feel about myself. Ugh. That’s such a grown up thought. I even decided to go on study abroad all alone because the experience would be worth the discomfort! Now I’m stuck experiencing an amazing trip without the catty girlfriends I’ve had since I was 12! The misery!
Nineteen Maggie would think Twenty year old Maggie is a huge buzz kill. I have this weird feeling though, that grown up Twenty five year old Maggie will think that Twenty year old Maggie was just coming into her own. Growing up sucks. But the nice thing about it, is once you’ve done it, it’s over. Now, I really should go drink some prune juice, knit, and watch Oprah. That’s what you old people do all day, right?
Posted by M on Feb 19, 2009 in
Deep Thoughts I am quite ill.
Practically on my deathbed really. Except I hope not because the bed in my apartment was provided by the cheap-o owners of this complex and it is very hard. So if this is really my deathbed, then I got totally screwed in the deathbed department because I’m going to die on something as hard as a rock.
The bacteria/virus invaded my system early Tuesday morning. I woke up, took one breath and I knew it: I was a victim of the common cold.
When I lived in the dorms as a freshman, I was sick practically from the day I moved in until the day I moved out. Seriously. I got the flu, food poisoning, pink eye, two infections, the cold at least four times, and a discovered food allergies from cafeteria food that I never knew I had. That was all second semester, by the way. I considered it a victory when I went a full week without having to have any nyquil. I’m probably the only kid you know who makes sure her Mom schedules her flu shot because I’ve had the flu and I will gladly take an uncomfortable shot that lasts two seconds over puking for a full week.
In the apartments, me and the roommate have breathing room. So, I’ve gotten two colds this year, but that’s all. Not too bad. Until, that is, The Incident occurred.
About a week ago, I was on the bus. While I hate public transportation, I also hate walking in the cold. Therefore, public transportation lured me into its warm vicinity and forced me to sit next a heavyset male who was listening to his ipod while mouthing along to the words. That should have made me suspicious. I don’t trust people who silently sing along to their ipods. An ipod is a private experience between you and the music. Why should you mouth the words? Are you trying to show off? Am I supposed to sing along too? Why are you bragging that you have an ipod that you can sing too? The whole thing is just a riddle that can’t be solved.
Anyways, suspicious ipod user then sneezed. And I knew it was over. I knew I was going to be sick.
My mother likes to claim that it’s my own fault that I get sick all the time. Technically, she has a point. I have this thing about washing my hands before I eat. As in, I don’t do it. I hate water so, in order to avoid it, I’m willing to take my chances. Of course, now that I can’t breathe out of my nose and I’ve asked my friends if they have any last words to say to me, I’m wishing I would have just used the damn soap and washed away this ridiculous virus.
Getting sick is a little extra rough for me, in my defense though. I work at a hospital, so getting sick means that I can’t go to work. That’s bittersweet, considering it means I get to sleep in instead of working, but I don’t get paid. Also, I’m training for a half marathon, so I have to run five days a week. Getting a cold means I have to take a few days off because I’m running a slight fever and strenuous exercise with a fever means that you know, your heart could fail. I’m trying to avoid that, although with the way this illness is going, that could happen anyways.
I also have an exam tomorrow. But because my head is pounding, I’m finding it difficult to focus. I’ve been trying to memorize three ratio equations since Tuesday. Somehow I think it might just be a lost cause.
My body needs some rest now. It is fighting a losing battle. Please leave your condolences below.
Posted by M on Feb 17, 2009 in
Deep Thoughts,
No One Cares,
Random Dear Monday,
I hate you. I hate you so much. You’re the meanest day of the week and you know it. I don’t even feel bad for you, even though I know everyone hates you, because you suck that bad.
Do you think it’s funny that I have to get up at 7 in the morning on your day? Do you find it entertaining that I spend all Monday working, at classes, tutoring, then have to come home and do homework all night? You’re the worst day of the week because you make me get up early. I just want to sleep. Why can’t you give that to me? I don’t ask for much. But Monday, in your selfish ways, you can’t even give me that.
I will tap dance upon your grave,
Maggie
Dear Tuesday,
I like you more than Monday, but that’s not saying much.
I like that you let me sleep in a little more, but I don’t like that you’re three days away from the weekend. Also, I’m not a huge fan of your television line up. You just don’t have much to offer me, Tuesday. You’re just kinda…blah. I guess the bottom line is there’s no spark between us. At least Monday and I have a passion of hatred towards eachother. With you, well, if we skipped Tuesday, I probably wouldn’t even notice.
Regards,
Maggie
Dear Wednesday,
As a middle child myself, I feel for you. You’re stuck between an average day (tuesday) and a happy day (thursday). You aren’t really noticed, except for during lent when those crazy catholics go crazy over your Fat day. But I do like that when I get to you, I know I’ve always made it.
Of course, that’s really no way to have a relationship. I shouldn’t spend my life trying to “get through” a relationship. I guess overall, I wish you nothing but the best. But then again, like any middle child, if you disappeared, no one would really notice. Including me.
Whatever,
Maggie
Dear Thursday,
Hi! How are you? You’re amazing, do you know that? You’re just like that long lost friend that you only see once in a while but get super excited to see whenever she comes around.
Your television line up is amazing. I get to sleep in on your day. You’re never too busy at the mall. And on lots of Thursdays, I get to go out and visit my friends. Sometimes I have to spend you in the library, but even then, I know that you’re so close to Friday. My door’s always open. Come visit whenever you like.
Love,
Maggie
Dear Friday,
You are wonderful. Sure, I have two classes on you, a full day of work, and typically some type of painful activity at night, but I look forward to you every week. I never do homework on you. I eat horrible on you. I don’t even have to work out on your day! You’re the best. You’re like Christmas eve–filled with anticipation for what the next day will bring.
Love you!
Maggie
Dearest Saturday,
How art thou? I adore thee.
You are the most wonderful day, my love. I love how you smell, I love how you appear out of nowhere and let my boring life become exciting. I love how you let me sleep whenever I want, how you make me study a little, but if I slack off a little, unlike that bastard Monday, you don’t punish me. You just tell me to make it up later.
I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I know you’re the most popular, most fabulous day and I’m sure you have millions of fan letters waiting. Just know that I cherish our remarkable bond and I cannot wait to see you soon, my love.
xoxox
Maggie
Dear Sunday,
I don’t really hate you, I just don’t like you. I feel bad for you, being so close to Monday. And I hate that I spend most of you in the library and that you come with a feeling of dread. I guess I just don’t have much to say to you.
Maggie
P.S. since you’re so close to Saturday, will you tell him I love him? And that I cannot wait for him to come as soon as he can! Thanks Sunday, you’re a true friend.
Posted by M on Feb 4, 2009 in
Deep Thoughts My whole life, I was told I was a mutt. While my friends went around bragging that they were half Italian, full blooded Russian, or a quarter Canadian, I could only sit on the sidelines, stuck with blood that was a mixture of so many European countries, I couldn’t list half of them I tried. I had no ethnic roots. I was not allowed to wear a shirt that says “Everyone Loves A (insert ethnicity here) Girl.” Then, one day, that all changed.
I don’t remember who exactly told me, but the truth eventually came out: My great great grandmother was a full blooded Indian.
I know, right? How exciting. I was thrilled.
My brothers and my parents brushed this little tidbit aside, but oh no, not I. I sucked onto it like a leech. I’d finally discovered that I was, dare I say, exotic? And I was not letting it go until I’d discovered everything about it. I mean, obviously there was an entire POPULATION of people I was practically related to!
The first struggle was determining exactly how Native American I was. After some calculations, I discovered I was you know, basically a full blooded Indian. 1/16, my friends, 1/16. That’s 6.25% for my readers who aren’t too hot at mental math.
Next, I had to learn exactly what type of Indian I was. There’s a lot of tribes out there and I felt it was pertinent to identify with the correct one. So, I did some interviewing and essentially, I’m Cherokee. Probably. I mean, there’s a pretty good chance that I’m Cherokee. There’s technically no evidence of this tribal affiliation, but after looking in the mirror for a few seconds, I decided that I’d go with that. It rolls off the tongue and my best friend’s Cherokee too, so we like to think that our great ancestors shared a wigwam. Maybe they even made headdresses together!
Unfortunately, once I logged onto the official Cherokee website, I learned that just “being pretty sure” doesn’t actually cut it. I have to have evidence. Oh, and there’s that little matter of having to be 25% Cherokee before they’ll even admit me into their little special club. Kind of cliquey, huh? Plus, even after all of that, the process of receiving any benefits of actually being one of them, like those fancy dividends from the casinos or a free education, is just not going to happen.
But hey, that’s okay! Because I’m still Cherokee! And a little more time with The Google led me to an organization full of people who aren’t Indian enough to be in the official Organization, so they’ve started their own. And for $12.95, I can be a part of it!
Once that little matter was resolved, it was time to come up with our Native American names. Because my family had no interest in pursuing this with me, I gave them all names on their behalf. Cliff became “Frolics with Small Animals.” Don’t call her Mom, call her “Tivos All That Laughs.” The brothers needed special names, so David was branded “Mooches off Parents” and Jake got “Will Dance for Lady Attention.” I gave myself “Sunshine Cloud” and my dog “Raindrop.” I think these names put us more in touch with not only our tribe, but with nature. And nature, after all, was the playground of our ancestors. Plus, I have a new guilt trip for all my “white” friends. It goes something along the lines of “You should really be nicer to me. After all, your family stole the land of my forefathers. I think you’ve done me enough harm.”
I was all set to pay the 12.95 and get the certificate of Ethnicity and hey, I could even slap it on my resume. But then, well, I decided against. I don’t need a club to tell me I’m Cherokee. After all, I have the word of my family, and they’re “pretty sure” that’s the tribe we’re in.
Posted by M on Jan 27, 2009 in
Deep Thoughts
The paper mate pencil is a key component of my childhood. It may seem like a rather random and old fashioned artifact, but in fact, it could take some of the responsibility for who I am today.
In my young age, my father was a lawyer at a rather pompous law firm in downtown Lansing. Although it had its perks, like a fully stocked fridge of Mountain Dew, it also had some serious drawbacks. That is, my father was forced to work. Like, a lot. So, sitting at home in the formal living room, he’d talk into his little tape recorder, which his secretary would later type up for him. But, he always had these pencils just laying around. With their custard like shell, pink tip, and twisty bottom, they were magical to me and my brothers. Pencils you don’t have to sharpen? It was amazing. A real feat of physics to six year old.
Dad worked a lot from home, so the pencils were scattered everywhere. Pencils became kind of fixation, one that hooked my older brother. David found mechanical pencils to be fascinating. He’d spend hours in Staples before school started picking out the perfect mechanical pencils to write with. You know those pencils that are outrageously expensive, kept like diamonds in glass cases at high class stores? David was drawn to those like a fat kid to a tub of butter. He wanted them. Once, we went to the University of Kansas and there was an entire aisle, solely of pencils. When I got bored of looking at tshirts with birds on them, I tugged my Dad’s arm and said “let’s bounce.” But we couldn’t. Nope, David was in hog heaven with those pencils.
When we got into middle school and high school, our lovely peers rarely used anything but mechanical pencils. But, they usually got the fancy ones. You know, the ones with the different colors, and you can refill their lead, and all the cool kids were using them. So for a while, Jake and I used the multicolored ones, and Dave used his fancy ones.
Slowly, though, we all switched over to the yellow and brown Paper Mate Sharpwriter #2 pencils. Perhaps we didn’t all want to, necessarily, but we’re all a little absent minded, so our sparkly new pencils would get lost, and Dad, always faithful to those Paper Mates, would have boxes of them just laying around. So, we’d use them and before I knew it, when school shopping came around, all three of us kids were buying boxes of the Paper Mates. We just couldn’t help ourselves.
This tradition lasted through high school and now into college. I never really noticed what a trait it wasin me though, until my first year of college. A girl down the hall from me, halfway through the year, asked me if she could borrow one of those “business looking pencils” for her exam the next day. She traded me two tubes of Dior Lipgloss for them. For those of you who don’t speak Dior, it was a pretty awesome trade in my favor.
It wasn’t until today, however, that I learned what a trait it was in our family. As I sat next to my older brother’s friend in class, he asked if he could borrow a number 2 pencil for our scantron quiz. Of course, I replied, and leaned into my bag to pull out a handful of Paper Mates. He burst out laughing, “You have those too? David had those laying everywhere! What’s with your family?”
What’s with my family? We’re loyal, I suppose. When we find a product we like, we stick with it. And those Paper Mates, well, I have at least four boxes in my desk drawer right now. I write my papers with them, I fill in notes with them, I take tests with them, and when they’re on sale, I stock up on them. Is it weird? I suppose. But hey, when you find something as glorious as the Paper Mate Pencil, devotion is key.
The search for my life’s mission began when I was a wee little child. According to my baby book, which my mother was religious about updating, I first proclaimed that when I grew up, I wanted to be ”a grandpa.” This may sound a little weird, but when I look back on it, I just think about what a smart little kid I was. My grandfathers are both retired, they both sleep whenever they want, and they both have enough money to live comfortably. Instead of my parents encouraging me to perhaps think of a more realistic way to spend my life, I think they should have been patting me on the back because even as a toddler, I knew what it meant to have it made.
After my parents told me being a grandpa wasn’t going to work out for me, I decided instead that I would be a mom. Because I was only three or four at this point, it was seen as adorable to have a little water baby to take everywhere. My first water baby was black. I thought for the longest time that my parents were trying to be really liberal and forward thinking by buying me a doll of the opposite gender, but I found out later it was just that they were all out of white babies and hey, Santa had to bring me something.
I ditched motherhood to be a ballerina. After all, even at five I knew that tutus and pink tights were way better than expelling children from my uterus. My darling mother, certainly aware of my lack of coordination (the amount of times I trip over myself per day is truly remarkable), encouraged me to pursue my dreams by signing me up for Chris’s School of Ballet and purchasing me tickets to the local theatre, where a real ballet was coming to perform. The ballet lessons didn’t go well (besides coordination, it turns out I also lack rhythm) and as for the performance, I fell asleep shortly after the curtains opened.
Since I couldn’t even stay awake to watch my future profession, I decided that ballerina Maggie was just not going to work out. I went through the other typical little girl ideals: pop star, model, fashionista, doctor, cake decorator, bookstore owner, coffee shop owner, travel agent, wnba player, teacher, etc. But, let’s be honest: the pop star thing is out, I can’t carry a tune and after ten years of piano lessons, all I can do is play the chorus of the infamous “Go Tell Aunt Rhody.” I’m too old to be a model, I don’t care enough about clothes to design or sell them, Science hates me, and cake decorators have to be able to bake–without the Sara Lee box.
When I finally reached that mystical senior year of high school, I was told it was time to narrow down my interests. After all, I had to pick a college that had a degree that would help me reach my career, which would give me a pay check, and would eventually allow me to buy my own yorkie (my first one was stolen–more on that later). I came home from school and talked to my parents, working through my options. There was big ten schools, and liberal arts schools, schools decked out in blue, schools in green, and schools in other combinations of colors that were ghastly, not flattering at all when matched to my complexion.
In the end, my dad told me not to fret. I could do whatever, then go to graduate school to do what I wanted. While the idea of going to school for longer my not please all people, I instead thought back to that little girl with the dream of being a grandfather and all the perks that come with it: naps, someone else supporting you, and no job. A student, with nothing to do but classes, is on the same level, except since I’m still young, I won’t have to worry about pills, breaking a hip, or a dwindling retirement fund.
If I could go back and talk to toddler Maggie, I would tell her not to worry: dreams do come true. Grad school, here I come.