Warning: Rant ahead. I can feel it in my bones. And, I didn't sleep last night, so it might just be a little raw.
Sometimes, I just get frustrated with people. More particularly the general ineffectiveness of communication and (often corresponding) weakness of human character. The average person is involved in hundreds (thousands?) of relationships in their lifetime, ranging from those limited to a single interaction (grocery store clerk, bank teller, the person that catches you looking at them at a red light...) to the ones that do nothing short of altering your universe. Relationships are one of the major reasons we're here on this earth in the first place. They test us, allow us to be hurt and expose our weaknesses, teach us to forgive and be forgiven, and humble us. They shape our priorities, opinions and decisions, and through them we experience the entire spectrum of emotion, from hopeless despair to giddy euphoria. And, if we're lucky, we might just be able to catch a glimpse of the eternal happiness that is in store for us.
My point about relationships is that they are tools, vehicles for experiences necessary for personal growth and development. The problem is, a prerequisite for a meaningful relationship is vulnerablility. As you connect with someone, you open yourself up to them, exposing your soft spots. An honest, well-balanced relationship allows/forces both parties to be equally vulnerable, simultaneously creating and fulfillling a need for mutual trust and concern. An unbalanced, disingenuous, or even unrequited relationship (as simple as a coworker you can't get along with, or as serious as a marriage) can be forced for the sake of utility, but more often than not fizzles out over time or ends messily.
My frustration is not with relationships (in the wise words of the Format, "I love love") but in the way people choose to go about developing them. I am thoroughly convinced that it is in people's inability to communicate clearly their needs and wants that most relationships fail, or never get the chance to start. It's easiest to explain in boy-girl terms, but at least in personal experience issues arise more frequently with coworkers and even roommates, considering in those situations you don't usually have a choice who the other party is. Instead of being straightforward and honest, we tiptoe around others' feelings, thinking that we're being polite or gentle or tolerant. In the romance department, what may seem like mystery and intrigue may honestly just be disinterest, but who would ever outright say "Sorry, I'm just not into you..."? Instead, our imaginations take one glance or comment, and can twist and grow it into some dramatic, passionate love story, and we in our weakness forget its more-often-than-not innocent, unintentional beginning. We retreat to our imaginations not because they are necessarily better than reality, but because our inability to say anything straightforward and honest prevents reality from holding much more value than what we dream up for our own personal storylines.
At work, we have candy. (That sentence is probably the most awkward transition I've ever written, by the way. I'm owning it, though.) It's kept in one of the cabinets behind the teller line, easily accessible to all. The last time we had candy, we all ate it too fast and then didn't have any for a month, which made us sad. When this batch of candy came, we all made a verbal pact to limit our personal candy intake to a specific amount, so that a) we all wouldn't gain 5 pounds and b) it would last longer, thus, we could extend our enjoyment until the next candy run. Simple, right? Well, there's this one girl who decided the pact wasn't for her, and eats about five or so pieces each day. In the grand scheme of things, who really cares, right? For some reason, though, this really grates on my other coworker. She complains to me about it, and even sends me e-mail counts of how many pieces the girl's eaten that day. It's actually quite funny, and all done in good humor, but it really does bother her. In a perfect world, my coworker would be able to just walk up to the candy-eater, express her disapproval in a non-judging manner, and the candy-eater would, without becoming personally offended, either offer some reason why she must consume those extra pieces, or commit to reforming her behavior. My coworker would then walk away satisfied and put the issue out of her mind.
It's not a perfect world, though, and instead of having the freedom to express our concern/disapproval/constructive criticism, we live in fear of hurting someone's feelings. When you have to see the person every day, you don't want to create tension by bringing up an issue. So instead we all keep things to ourselves, ignoring issues and living in frustration because we're too afraid to say something that would solve the problem. So how do we fix this? It's a two-way street. First, get over your fear of hurting someone's feelings. More often than not, they could use some tough love. It builds character. I'm not saying blurt out everything that comes to you that you dislike about others, but if there really is an issue, why not get it out in the open? Second, don't become so clouded by offense at someone's comment that you cannot be softened enough to learn from it. This talk, given by a General Authority of my church, is much more eloquent than I at expressing the importance of getting over it. There's no reason to let what someone else says prevent you from doing exactly what you want to do. If you are given criticism that is meant to honestly improve you, consider accepting it, and be grateful for the person who wants you to be better. If the criticism was in poor taste or purposefully hurtful, who really cares? It's their weakness and judgement showing through the statement.
I so appreciate a good dose of honesty. There's nothing wrong with saying, "I like you." Or, "Please stop that." Or, "I changed my mind." (That's usually the hardest one, because who wants others to know that they aren't completely resolved in every decision they ever make?) A simple statement like that could break this stupid, tension-filled world we force upon ourselves, and allow honesty and genuine concern for others be the foundation of our relationships. Just don't forget one of the most important statements... "I'm sorry."
Dear World,
Sometimes I just want to grab you by the collar and shake you.
Love,
Sarah.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
My apartment complex is quite the place for drama. I live far enough away from campus that instead of students, most of the apartments are occupied by a... er... less educated, often unemployed, lower income socioeconomic group. There are police there about every other day, I'd guess. I think most of the "incidents" are domestic violence cases. Screaming matches at the pool, people being pushed down the stairs... I feel like I've seen it all. There are loud drunk people, louder motorcycles, and dogs. Lots and lots of dogs.
Sunday was just another day at the apartment. I was sitting on my second-floor porch, innocently eating a graham cracker and enjoying the sunshine, when I noticed a flicker across the parking lot. It was a fire! Albeit tiny and dying, it was still a conflagration (thank you, 10th grade English). Somehow, the corner of someone's porch had caught fire (I'm guessing a cigarette or someone getting a little overzealous trying to burn ants with a magnifying glass). It was so small, I didn't know what to do. I watched dumbly as a guy walked out of his apartment, looked at it puzzedly, tried to knock on the door, got no answer, and disappear back into his apartment. I wandered outside at one point, but he beat me to knocking on their door (I let him). I wasn't even sure who to call! Would the 911 operator get mad because it was so small and I was taking resources away from other, potentially life-threatening situations? Would the apartment owner be angry if I tried to be the hero and extinguish it myself, because the fire was actually his mini sacrifical alter or a grand scientific experiment and I managed to douse his dreams with naught but a pitcher of water? So, instead, I chose option 3, which is "gawk uselessly and let the responsibility fall on someone else." A few minutes later, no thanks to me, two large fire trucks, sirens blaring and lights flashing, pulled up, followed by another, although smaller, truck.
Approximately nine thousand firefighters exited the trucks. After examining the barely-smoldering mess on the porch, one man grabbed a ladder, one grabbed some sort of scraper, and one grabbed a glorified fire extinguisher. The three men went to work while the other 8,997 watched and chatted among themseles. (As a side note, real-life firemen are not as attractive as in the movies/TV/imagination. Sad day.) The men climbed, sprayed, and scraped, and after about fifteen minutes the entire extremely anticlimactic event was over.
I feel like I failed as a citizen. Don't be alarmed; had the fire posed any real threat to the porch, building, or people, I would have taken immediate action. The issue was in the non-issue of the entire situation. What would you have done?
Sunday was just another day at the apartment. I was sitting on my second-floor porch, innocently eating a graham cracker and enjoying the sunshine, when I noticed a flicker across the parking lot. It was a fire! Albeit tiny and dying, it was still a conflagration (thank you, 10th grade English). Somehow, the corner of someone's porch had caught fire (I'm guessing a cigarette or someone getting a little overzealous trying to burn ants with a magnifying glass). It was so small, I didn't know what to do. I watched dumbly as a guy walked out of his apartment, looked at it puzzedly, tried to knock on the door, got no answer, and disappear back into his apartment. I wandered outside at one point, but he beat me to knocking on their door (I let him). I wasn't even sure who to call! Would the 911 operator get mad because it was so small and I was taking resources away from other, potentially life-threatening situations? Would the apartment owner be angry if I tried to be the hero and extinguish it myself, because the fire was actually his mini sacrifical alter or a grand scientific experiment and I managed to douse his dreams with naught but a pitcher of water? So, instead, I chose option 3, which is "gawk uselessly and let the responsibility fall on someone else." A few minutes later, no thanks to me, two large fire trucks, sirens blaring and lights flashing, pulled up, followed by another, although smaller, truck.
Approximately nine thousand firefighters exited the trucks. After examining the barely-smoldering mess on the porch, one man grabbed a ladder, one grabbed some sort of scraper, and one grabbed a glorified fire extinguisher. The three men went to work while the other 8,997 watched and chatted among themseles. (As a side note, real-life firemen are not as attractive as in the movies/TV/imagination. Sad day.) The men climbed, sprayed, and scraped, and after about fifteen minutes the entire extremely anticlimactic event was over.
I feel like I failed as a citizen. Don't be alarmed; had the fire posed any real threat to the porch, building, or people, I would have taken immediate action. The issue was in the non-issue of the entire situation. What would you have done?
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Mission accomplished.
Yesterday I accomplished a fantastic feat of strength, endurance, and sheer will. It is probably most comprable to the twelve great labors of Hercules, or the climbing of Mt. Everest, or even making the perfect grilled cheese sandwich. What did I do that deserves eternal praise and awe? (Drumroll?) I ran a mile in 8 minutes. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking... Really? All that build-up for that measly little accomplishment? I do that every day... in my sleep... on my hands! It may not seem like a big deal to most people. It's not that fast and most people have much more extrordinary accomplishments under their belt.
The point is, I've had this goal since I was twelve, or something close to it. I remember writing in my journal that my dad had promised me some gift (I think it was fifty dollars) if I could run an 8-minute mile by the end of summer. I was all gung-ho for about three days back then, but my heart wasn't in it and I just didn't care that much. So, the goal fell by the wayside and sat there, leering at me for a decade. I tried occasionally, getting spurts of motivation that would last a week or two, but the short-lived efforts never amounted to much. Once, my freshman year of college, I ran six miles straight (nine total that day), but they were slow, painful, over-ten-minute miles.
This past month, I started going to the gym regularly, sometimes twice in a day, and just ran without too specific of a purpose. One day I tried the ugly ten-minute mile, and found that it wasn't as grueling as I expected it to be. A week or two later I was down to nine. Yesterday morning, I woke up after a fitful night's sleep, cranky and annoyed at the sun for not being up yet. But somewhere in the car ride between my apartment and the gym, I just knew that it was the day. The day to conquer what had been nagging at me for ten years.
And... it was done. Not particularly gracefully, not with any kind of running finesse, but done.
A small but meaningful moment in my life. If I never run that fast again, I don't care. I'm not going to stop trying to better my time, but the satisfaction of working for and actually accomplishing that measurable goal is something I'm just... happy and satisfied with. :)
The point is, I've had this goal since I was twelve, or something close to it. I remember writing in my journal that my dad had promised me some gift (I think it was fifty dollars) if I could run an 8-minute mile by the end of summer. I was all gung-ho for about three days back then, but my heart wasn't in it and I just didn't care that much. So, the goal fell by the wayside and sat there, leering at me for a decade. I tried occasionally, getting spurts of motivation that would last a week or two, but the short-lived efforts never amounted to much. Once, my freshman year of college, I ran six miles straight (nine total that day), but they were slow, painful, over-ten-minute miles.
This past month, I started going to the gym regularly, sometimes twice in a day, and just ran without too specific of a purpose. One day I tried the ugly ten-minute mile, and found that it wasn't as grueling as I expected it to be. A week or two later I was down to nine. Yesterday morning, I woke up after a fitful night's sleep, cranky and annoyed at the sun for not being up yet. But somewhere in the car ride between my apartment and the gym, I just knew that it was the day. The day to conquer what had been nagging at me for ten years.
And... it was done. Not particularly gracefully, not with any kind of running finesse, but done.
A small but meaningful moment in my life. If I never run that fast again, I don't care. I'm not going to stop trying to better my time, but the satisfaction of working for and actually accomplishing that measurable goal is something I'm just... happy and satisfied with. :)
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Can I just have a few more hours in the day?
I have a problem.
I have too many ideas.
Like,
I want to paint a watercolor. I want to take gormet cooking classes. I want to sew. I want to read Shakespeare's entire collected works. I want to run a 7:30 mile. I want to go back to school for an MBA/teaching certificate/master's. I want to cross-stich. I want to learn German. And "re"learn French. I want to teach myself the organic chemistry I never learned in college. I want to get a real job again. I want to be a true scriptorian. I want to scrapbook the sections of my life I haven't gotten to yet... try everything before 10th grade and after junior year of college. I want to learn Claire de Lune on the piano... and all of Chopin. I want to raise a seeing-eye dog puppy. I want to learn cake decorating.
The real problem is, I want to do all of these things right now. So instead, I let myself get overwhelmed, and do none of the above. Well, I've gotten down to a 9:00 minute mile (which is quite the personal accomplishment, actually) but that's about it.
Where do I start? I don't want to start school until my location is more secure. Many of the other things come down to time/money/time. I just need to start small. Othello and a petit four, anyone?
I have too many ideas.
Like,
I want to paint a watercolor. I want to take gormet cooking classes. I want to sew. I want to read Shakespeare's entire collected works. I want to run a 7:30 mile. I want to go back to school for an MBA/teaching certificate/master's. I want to cross-stich. I want to learn German. And "re"learn French. I want to teach myself the organic chemistry I never learned in college. I want to get a real job again. I want to be a true scriptorian. I want to scrapbook the sections of my life I haven't gotten to yet... try everything before 10th grade and after junior year of college. I want to learn Claire de Lune on the piano... and all of Chopin. I want to raise a seeing-eye dog puppy. I want to learn cake decorating.
The real problem is, I want to do all of these things right now. So instead, I let myself get overwhelmed, and do none of the above. Well, I've gotten down to a 9:00 minute mile (which is quite the personal accomplishment, actually) but that's about it.
Where do I start? I don't want to start school until my location is more secure. Many of the other things come down to time/money/time. I just need to start small. Othello and a petit four, anyone?
Sunday, July 31, 2011
This post is for the birds.
I may or may not have recently or not so recently become obsessed with birds.
It may have something to do with the bridal blog I enjoy reading (don't ask) where many of the latest themes seem to revolve around vingate, chic, delicate, rustic... which obvi (inside joke with some old roommates, again, don't ask) leads to bird cages, nests, and the like.
It's funny how you can play with the shapes and colors... some of the birds below don't look like any bird I've ever seen (okay, yes, none of them actually do), but it still works. And it's still adorable.
This one is favorite:
Is it because they're so strangely proportioned and often awkward looking and at the same time beautiful and endearing?
This one speaks to me in so many ways. It screams of love and romance, but at the same time is vague, anonymous, and leaves so much to the imagination.
I think owls are the most vintage of all birds, probably because they always make me think back to the old Tootsie pop owl. And... I want that pin cushion. I don't even sew, but I don't care. It's amazing.
ANYWAY. I haven't had this kind of obsession in a long time. However, I think I've had it for longer than I even recognized. I bought these two little guys at Tai Pan Trading in the mall back in Provo almost a year ago... (Please note my photography skills are lacking. They're much prettier in real life).
And speaking of real life... I took this picture with one of my first cell phones (I'm trying to justify the terrible quality and small size of the photo) years ago, in Tennessee. There were these little sparrow-like birds that insisted on building quite intense nests in the little alcove near our front door. The parents would occasionally try to dive-bomb us as we went outside to get the paper, but other than those few near-death experiences the chicks provided us with much entertainment. At one time there were five or six little guys, all lined up along the edge of the nest because they were too big to fit inside.
And this should have been my final clue: this was a needlepoint I made for my grandma for Christmas last year. They love to watch the birds in their backyard (a genetic predisposition for my obsession, perhaps?), so I thought she'd enjoy a homemade gift. I'm pretty sure it was a hit, but then again what isn't with grandparents?
Well, that's all I have to say about this. I'm sure I'm not alone, but that doesn't make me feel any less crazy every time I see some bird craft/accessory/jewelry and desperately want to add it to my collection that I don't actually have.
The end.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Goober
For all of those people who were dying to know the answer the last question of my first-ever blog post... I've named my guinea pig... (drumroll please)...
Goober. Aka Goobie-poobie, Goobie-doobie-doo, and occasionally Peanut.
Goober. Aka Goobie-poobie, Goobie-doobie-doo, and occasionally Peanut.
bər
–noun South Midland and Southern U.S.
the peanut.
(thank you, dictionary.com)
I called him a different name every day for about two weeks. Nothing seemed to fit. I tried normal human names, like Charles or Harold (the royal wedding got to me a little, can you tell?), I tried names that were seemingly invented solely for our cuddly furry four-legged friends (not to be confused with two-legged friends who happen to be furry, who I personally find quite un-cuddleable)... Sparky, Rufus... It wasn't until one day, almost by pure inspiration, I was walking through the grocery store and spied the name on one of those disgusting sounding peanut butter/jelly pre-mixed concoctions.
Don't ask me why the concept of alternating stripes of peanut butter and jelly in a convenient and only-one-knife-needed way sounds so utterly repulsive, considering a homemade-no-frills PB&J is one of the undeniable simple pleasures in life, but in my mind it's akin to... gross. I can't even think of anything. I take it back. Wait... nope, nothing. Ew.
(shudder).
Tanget much? Anyway. I saw the name, plastered across that horrible perversion of childhood memories and college-induced poverty, and immediately just knew.
Goober is actually quite the character. This may bore some of you who weren't denied the opportunity to care for a small rodent in your younger years... but I really am fond of the little guy. He's a nibbler, not a chomper, so when he thinks my fingers are carrots on a daily basis (you think he'd realize after a while) it's not so bad. Once, he thought my cheek looked tasty... I wonder what he was thinking then... anyway. He's my live alarm clock... if I'm not up when my alarm goes off, his squeaking is a good back-up. It's adorable until the squeak turns into a squawk (It took me about 3 minutes just now to figure out how to spell that word, for some reason. Strange.) which is not as attractive a sound coming from such a little guy. All he wants is his carrot, so can you really blame him? He's a cuddler, too, which makes for a nice replacement when Nate isn't around.
Just kidding.
Maybe.
I like him. He's my little friend since the tragic death of our betta fish (I accidentally murdered him. It involved a garbage disposal. Not a good story.) a few months ago. In all honesty he probably couldn't care less who I am as long as he gets fed, but he does recognize me, and makes me smile every time he "rearranges his furniture"... a.k.a. headbutts his plastic igloo house and throws his food dish like a frisbee across his cage. What a fiesty, adorable, ridiculous little guy!
(thank you, dictionary.com)
I called him a different name every day for about two weeks. Nothing seemed to fit. I tried normal human names, like Charles or Harold (the royal wedding got to me a little, can you tell?), I tried names that were seemingly invented solely for our cuddly furry four-legged friends (not to be confused with two-legged friends who happen to be furry, who I personally find quite un-cuddleable)... Sparky, Rufus... It wasn't until one day, almost by pure inspiration, I was walking through the grocery store and spied the name on one of those disgusting sounding peanut butter/jelly pre-mixed concoctions.
Don't ask me why the concept of alternating stripes of peanut butter and jelly in a convenient and only-one-knife-needed way sounds so utterly repulsive, considering a homemade-no-frills PB&J is one of the undeniable simple pleasures in life, but in my mind it's akin to... gross. I can't even think of anything. I take it back. Wait... nope, nothing. Ew.
(shudder).
Tanget much? Anyway. I saw the name, plastered across that horrible perversion of childhood memories and college-induced poverty, and immediately just knew.
Goober is actually quite the character. This may bore some of you who weren't denied the opportunity to care for a small rodent in your younger years... but I really am fond of the little guy. He's a nibbler, not a chomper, so when he thinks my fingers are carrots on a daily basis (you think he'd realize after a while) it's not so bad. Once, he thought my cheek looked tasty... I wonder what he was thinking then... anyway. He's my live alarm clock... if I'm not up when my alarm goes off, his squeaking is a good back-up. It's adorable until the squeak turns into a squawk (It took me about 3 minutes just now to figure out how to spell that word, for some reason. Strange.) which is not as attractive a sound coming from such a little guy. All he wants is his carrot, so can you really blame him? He's a cuddler, too, which makes for a nice replacement when Nate isn't around.
Just kidding.
Maybe.
I like him. He's my little friend since the tragic death of our betta fish (I accidentally murdered him. It involved a garbage disposal. Not a good story.) a few months ago. In all honesty he probably couldn't care less who I am as long as he gets fed, but he does recognize me, and makes me smile every time he "rearranges his furniture"... a.k.a. headbutts his plastic igloo house and throws his food dish like a frisbee across his cage. What a fiesty, adorable, ridiculous little guy!
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Col-uh-RAH-do
I have been living in Fort Collins for about nine months now. It's a college town, so it obviously has all the things any respectable college town does: excessive amounts of fast food, dirty Mexican burrito joints and grungy discount liquor stores. Unlike Provo, however, the town's existence isn't entirely dependent on students. This allows for a slightly more mature community feeling. It turns out people who make real money have standards for things like food and activities. Once you get outside of the immediate mile-or-so-radius of campus, things get classier. Well, classier, but with more cows, if that makes any sense.
It doesn't.
Welcome to Colorado (which I now have to pronounce Col-uh-RAH-do, not the correct way of Col-o-raw-do, or I am mocked). Initially, I thought moving here would be pretty similar to Provo. There are giant mountains on one side (although they're on the wrong side... it took me four years to internalize the "mountains mean east" mantra and now it's all backwards. I do still find a small comfort knowing I can see the other side of what I used to look at every day from campus, but my near-nonexistant internal compass is so confused). It's dry, and flat, up until the base of the mountain range. It's in the west, and compared to the forests of Connecticut pretty barren. However, there is a key difference between here and "Happy Valley"... I don't live in a small, crowded, valley anymore. To the east, instead of another range of mountains, there is................ (get it? Nothing. It's flat.) Endless open space. Which obviously (in the west) means endless farms and ranches. So, the composition of the population is not quite the same as college-student-packed Provo. You have the (mostly) young students, and scattered in that age group are those of us living the dream of working full-time and reminiscing about the "good old days." Then there are the regular suburban homeowners, the 9-to-5 dads and power-walking-stroller-pushing moms. Then, there are the ranchers and the shirtless-pickup-drivers and the cowboys. And don't forget the sign dancers.
Funny thing is, everyone, no matter their job or life status or hair color or state of dress or undress, goes to the bank. I've met a wide variety of people merely by being the person that is in charge of the money. Just yesterday I helped someone, and as I watched him walk out, I noticed he wasn't wearing any shoes. I'm not the person to diss the awesomeness off being free to wiggle your toes as you please, but what happened to the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" policy? More on this later. Anyway, many people that come into the bank are the exact opposite of me: they love to chat with strangers. I'm a get-in-do-business-get-out kind of person. I'm polite, but never go out of my way to make conversation with someone I'll probably never see again. On the other side of the teller line, however, I have no choice in the matter. More often than not, I am pushed out of my comfort zone as I find myself in the middle of a conversation with a complete stranger, and often by the end of the exchange am glad I learned something about that person.
Moral of the story: moving here has been more of a shock than I imagined it would be. There are two LDS singles wards for the entire town, and although I grew up in a ward that encompassed five towns and the most Mormon kids to ever go to my high school at one time was 5... my last four years in Provo made me forget how the real world really is. But, I have been blessed with the opportunity to try myself in new ways, strengthen my beliefs and essentially build a new life from the ground up.
I take it one day at a time.
So far, so good.
It doesn't.
Welcome to Colorado (which I now have to pronounce Col-uh-RAH-do, not the correct way of Col-o-raw-do, or I am mocked). Initially, I thought moving here would be pretty similar to Provo. There are giant mountains on one side (although they're on the wrong side... it took me four years to internalize the "mountains mean east" mantra and now it's all backwards. I do still find a small comfort knowing I can see the other side of what I used to look at every day from campus, but my near-nonexistant internal compass is so confused). It's dry, and flat, up until the base of the mountain range. It's in the west, and compared to the forests of Connecticut pretty barren. However, there is a key difference between here and "Happy Valley"... I don't live in a small, crowded, valley anymore. To the east, instead of another range of mountains, there is................ (get it? Nothing. It's flat.) Endless open space. Which obviously (in the west) means endless farms and ranches. So, the composition of the population is not quite the same as college-student-packed Provo. You have the (mostly) young students, and scattered in that age group are those of us living the dream of working full-time and reminiscing about the "good old days." Then there are the regular suburban homeowners, the 9-to-5 dads and power-walking-stroller-pushing moms. Then, there are the ranchers and the shirtless-pickup-drivers and the cowboys. And don't forget the sign dancers.
Funny thing is, everyone, no matter their job or life status or hair color or state of dress or undress, goes to the bank. I've met a wide variety of people merely by being the person that is in charge of the money. Just yesterday I helped someone, and as I watched him walk out, I noticed he wasn't wearing any shoes. I'm not the person to diss the awesomeness off being free to wiggle your toes as you please, but what happened to the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" policy? More on this later. Anyway, many people that come into the bank are the exact opposite of me: they love to chat with strangers. I'm a get-in-do-business-get-out kind of person. I'm polite, but never go out of my way to make conversation with someone I'll probably never see again. On the other side of the teller line, however, I have no choice in the matter. More often than not, I am pushed out of my comfort zone as I find myself in the middle of a conversation with a complete stranger, and often by the end of the exchange am glad I learned something about that person.
Moral of the story: moving here has been more of a shock than I imagined it would be. There are two LDS singles wards for the entire town, and although I grew up in a ward that encompassed five towns and the most Mormon kids to ever go to my high school at one time was 5... my last four years in Provo made me forget how the real world really is. But, I have been blessed with the opportunity to try myself in new ways, strengthen my beliefs and essentially build a new life from the ground up.
I take it one day at a time.
So far, so good.
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