Bliss-ter

Life is kind of like a blister. But the one that developed on my foot today was all thanks to my new running shoes. At first I thought I was just feeling a hole in my sock. But after coming inside, I peeled off my sock, and the aluminum screen door slammed behind me. Sure enough, a dime-sized blister had formed on the right side of my heel, and it was stinging like no other. Perfect.

When I get blisters, I’m like an addict, and Neosoporin is my drug of choice. After I drain all I can from the blister itself with the help of a safety pin that I will generally unclip from an old race-bib-number, I lather that shit on like frosting on a cake. I want to get as much antibiotic assistance possible. When it comes to blisters, my biggest fear is that the blister will keep re-filling with liquid, and that I’ll never be able to keep it completely drained. Although, I can’t lie. I have a secret fetish (that’s no longer a secret, I suppose) with draining blisters. A strange satisfaction is evoked within me when I squeeze out the liquid and watch as the tissue held up to the blister soaks up the evidence. Weird, I know.

The worst blisters hurt when nothing is even touching them. Tonight I was sitting on the couch with my calves resting on the ottoman, one leg crossed over the other, minding my own business, while my blister felt as though it was being pinched and poked at. Sounds pleasant, right?

Hopefully tomorrow’s run won’t be as painful as I imagine it. Then again, if life is like a blister, then it probably will be a little painful. Only at times. At least I know that the run will turn out how it’s meant to, regardless of how much of a nuisance the blister is. What goes around comes around. Except for Neosoporin. That stuff’s like ten bucks a pop.

My Lede... Or What's Been Steaming in the Pitcher So Far...

I was making a mocha. I was “barring” and Jeremy was on register. With a metal pitcher of milk in my right hand, my free hand reached for the steam wand. Steam wands look like non-knuckled prosthetic fingers...generally. Instead of flawlessly lowering the wand into the pitcher sitting on the espresso machine’s grill-like platform beneath its chrome awning, my hand slipped. The smooth, white paper cup emblazoned with the Starbucks logo, was just about to be filled with two shots of espresso. It was going to be filled with steamed 2% milk. It was going to be topped off with a swirl of whipped cream. But with the slip of my hand, it was all going to be downhill from there.

My eyes hung onto the cup how a big cat looks at a slow wildebeest as it made its descent from the bar's silver-colored ledge. I hadn’t any time to wait for this stupid cup to fall. I had at least thirteen more drinks to plow through before the afternoon rush quieted down. But it seemed as though it took three whole days for the cup to actually hit the ground. When it did hit the ground, the cup didn't spill over onto its side like I imagined (or hoped) it would. Rather, it decided to land right-side-up on the grimy, black, rubber non-slip mat beneath my feet. The cup's bottom made a startling 'pop,' signifying its touchdown. The force of the ground on the cup sent the four pumps of rich chocolate mocha syrup, resting peacefully at the bottom, straight back up and into my face. I had just pumped the mocha into the cup not even two seconds ago―story of my life. In a matter of seconds I went from being fairly clean, to literally dripping with mocha chocolate. Spots of it covered my soft, cottony, kelly green apron like sprinkles of blood that would soon begin to crust over.

Chocolate inhabited the lines in my face, where my smile used to be. It lay in my forehead’s wrinkles―the ones that only reveal themselves when one or both of my eyebrows are raised. I could never get my junior high volcano to erupt, but I sure as hell could knock over a cup of dark, messy, chocolate, inducing a sugary eruption that would cause my eyebrows to go into shock mode, leaving me to discover dried mocha in my eyebrow hair a day later. One thing’s for sure... I made friends with the tweezers that day.

I was convinced that everyone in the store had witnessed my spill―even the customers. I wasn’t even a newbie anymore, either. I kept wondering what thoughts were running through everyone else’s heads. All of a sudden, I realized that no one out in the lobby saw, nor cared about my slip-up. I also realized that I still had a decent-sized line of drinks to make. I astutely cracked a laugh, and got back to work. I finished making and handing off the line of drinks following the dreaded mocha and finally made eye contact with Jeremy, just about to leave the register. A spasm of laughter snuck between his lips. Turns out, he was the only one who noticed.

California Drizzlen'

I'm not going to pretend that I'm not a native Southern Californian. But I will admit to having considering it on more than one occasion. For some strange reason, that will forever remain foreign to me, Californians--at least the Southern ones--suck at driving in the rain. I don't know what it is about water. But I do know that us Californians have an undisputable love-hate relationship with it. We can't get enough of it when we're half naked and it's 80 degrees outside. But when the thermostat drops below 60, and it's "sprinkling," life gets turned on it's side--only until the clouds part, and we're warmed by the sun's gentle rays once again.
I had the utmost privaledge waking up to thunder and lightning this morning. It almost never happens, but when it does, I soak it up. My dog Sammy, on the other hand, trembles like one of those toy characters that you wind up and watch bumble across the diningroom table. My mom thinks he was traumatized by loud noises as a pup. I also had the privaledge of waking up with a more accommodating version of the flu this morning. Not nearly as miserable as yesterday morning, but I was still feeling drone-like. Regardless, I was GOING to GO to CLASS TODAY, no matter what. But just my luck, after driving behind a bunch of harebrained Southern California drivers who don't know how to turn on their windshield wipers, and then paying a whole 8 dollars for all-day parking, my first class got cancelled. So now, I am coming to you LIVE from the University of California, Irvine's Athletic study lounge, because I have no where else to plant myself until 2 p.m. To make matters... (I'd say 'worse,' but I'll go with) more interesting, I'm forbidden from running... at least until I'm done with class, am at home, and the weather dies down. Hopefully all of those things take precedence, because I'd love nothing more right now than to shove out for a succulant little 30-minute run. My last class of the day should be great though. It usually is. Plus, my professor was born and raised in New York. So I'm eager to hear her perspective on Californians and weather (other than sunshine, and north of 60 degrees). On a positive note, I'm sure that my umbrella has enjoyed its time outside of the backseat of my car.

Tardy Voices

I was planning on writing this the moment I got home from the first day of school. Three weeks later, here I am.


Do I leave? Do I stay? I don't know. I never know what to do in these situations. A debate was going on. It was a debate that I'd prefer plant itself on C-SPAN, instead of vocally bantering behind me. It's the debate about whether or not it's okay to reasonably leave class if a college professor isn't present for a specific amount of time in which class should have been in session. But here we are. It's the first day of school--not to mention my first class of the fall quarter-- and my English professor is already 32 minutes late. And counting.
The first ten minutes of class was comparable to a field trip to a mortuary. But now, after listening to, and simply overhearing cordial conversation, I've already learned that at least three of my new classmates have accents. Two sounded Austrailian; the other one was most likely a British or an English one. Either way, I like accents. I've always wanted one. I've even tried speaking in one for an entire day. Too bad I only lasted about thirty minutes. After a half-an-hour, my dialect seemed to change and fade out, and it only went downhill from there. I think it's fun to watch their (people with accents) mouths as they're speaking. Creepy, I know. But for some reason, I feel as though their mouths move differently as a direct result of the accent, itself.
Soon enough, my class caught word that our professor was "on his way," from a teacher down the hall, apparently. "He'll be here in fifteen minutes," so she said. Apparently he "forgot" there was class today. Or something like that. I laughed when my classmates joked about how our professor was probably going to stagger in, wearing sweats and sunglasses, in attempt to hide his drunken stupor. Too bad he turned out to be about 80 years old. On a positive note, he has an accent. And even though he speaks in the slowest drawl I've ever heard anyone speak in before, I have a whole ten weeks to figure out what the accent is.

Sometimes, We don't Always Need a Reason

Yesterday was an emotional day. And I'm not even sure why. If I had to guess, It'd have to be due to a mixture of confusion, uncertainty, and doubt... all of which jump on our backs every so often. But yesterday was different. And it took me practically the whole day to come to terms with why I was feeling this way. At first, I believed my so-called emotional outburst to be a result of some "problem" or overwhelming factor in some random sector of my life. For a little while, I felt as though my recent miscommunication and (at times) conflicts with my roommates was eating at me. I mean, lately, things have been a little out of wack. I was certain that this was the cause of my little emotional break down. But then, I realized that I was wrong.

I recently finished a book called "Season of Life," written by Jeffery Marx, which introduced the crazy idea that emotion, empathy, and relationships, are critically important parts of the way we live our lives, or (how some people believe in) the way some things just "pan out" the way they were supposed to. The book goes into further detail about how society sets limitations and boundaries on emotions, and what feelings we can and cannot express (especially in males), and how releasing emotions and expressing genuine love and empathy towards others is looked down on as a weakness in character. Regardless of gender, I believe that life is truly what you make of it. I'll be bold, and quote Marx as he proclaims that "Life is only 10 percent what happens to us, 90 percent how we react to it" (142). I definitely have to agree with the statement that he makes, because what life truly comes down to, is the decisions we make, and how those decisions not only affect our lives, but also the lives of others close to us. To build upon treating life as what you make of it, I firmly believe that the ability to reveal one's emotions hardly dampens their character at all. If anything, displaying how you honestly feel about something, even if it means releasing a few tears, is better than concealing what is obviously trying to escape you.

All of this was running through my mind yesterday... in a matter of ehh 15-20 "ish" minutes. Even I hate admitting it, but I cried. And boy, was it a good cry. I can't even explain how relieved I felt when I wiped away the salty tears from my face, and was on my way to my last class of the day. I felt cleansed. Better yet, I felt rejuvinated. I had come to terms with the fact that sometimes, we don't always need a real reason to show emotion, or feel a certain way. Sometimes emotion builds up inside of us, and we only become aware of it when it kicks us in the behind and starts pouring out of the holes in our faces. It's our internal selves taking a breather to say "time out, Melissa." "It's time to release me!" I also think that having the maturity to accept that showing emotion is a healthy release to relieve yourself from stress and whatever life brings us (which apparently, is only 10 percent) comes in time.

This being said, the next time you have the urge to cry or release emotion, try letting it just happen. Even though we may not know exactly where the urge is coming from, it is desperately trying to escape our bodies, and often in the form of tears. And (I know I do, but) sometimes we are quick to associate tears with sadness. Does it ever occur to you that an emotional outburst of tears might be a streak of happiness merely trying to capture our attention in order to realize that life is good? Even if it doesn't always feel like things are going our way, it's always interesting to look at others who don't have it as great. Whatever the reason, always remember that "sometimes, we don't always need a reason."

"O-per-ator, oh could you help me make this call?"...

A classic Jim Croce song. Surprisingly, not many people have heard it, or of Jim Croce for that matter. I find this odd... which is why it is today's topic and matter at hand. Kids my age these days listen to the most bizarre things. (Sidenote: I'm turning 21 this year, and yes, I refer to myself as a kid. Heck, visit me in 20 more years and I'll probably still be referring to myself as a kid...at least at heart). Sometimes when it's just my 13 yr.-old younger sister and I driving in the car, I'll flip the radio station around in order to expose her to what I call "the good stuff." Before I go any further, I'll admit that I understand that not everyone enjoys or listens to the same types or genres (if you will) of music or have the same taste in music. However, I find it odd that somehow, I was able to discover that I'm quite the fan of the same music that each of my parents enjoy... or at least the stuff that they listened to at my age. It boggles my mind that some people won't even give this stuff a chance. At about 6:45 this morning, I was driving to track practice in a fog cloud. And until I flipped the radio dial to KOST 103.5 only to hear the famous Andy Gibb's (of the Bee Gees) "I just want to be your everything," I was basically in a fog. Possible pun intended. The moment that song come on the radio, I kind of jumped a little in the driver's seat, because: a) I was completely alone in my car, and was going to be able to sing my heart out, b) it was 6:45 and still dark out, and I needed something to spark my mood before our long run at practice, and c) it's a great song! I will admit that some songs throughout the decades can appear or (in this case) sound cheesy or corny. But I think that's where the magic comes from. And if you truly listen to the lyrics themselves and absorb the point that the artist is trying to make, most often than not, you'll find some deeper meaning to a song that may sound as though it's being sung by a cortet of drunk chipmunks. So, If I may, here's some suggestions for you...

1. "Operator" and "This Time" by: Jim Croce
2. Anything by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (pre-band-break up)
3. Anything by the Allman Brothers... but preferably "Night Rider" and "Melissa" (ironic?... I think not)

First Day of School

I woke up this morning at 7 a.m., and then reluctantly hit the snooze button on my cell phone, in order to allow my eyes a few more glorious minutes behind my eyelids. Knowing what lay before me today on this first day back at school, I knew that I couldn't sleep past 8 o'clock. I needed to get to school by 9 in order to snag my ideal parking spot, lock my bike up by Crawford Hall, hop on the elliptical for 20-30 minutes, and then head off to my first class of the day at 11 a.m. My agenda for the day was a full-proof plan. Little did I know, that my parking lot was being used and occupied by the University of Texas football team, who was using our athletic facilities to train on, prior to playing in the up-and-coming Rose Bowl game in Pasadena. Nevertheless, I was obliged to pay a whole 8 dollars to park in the nearest parking structure for the remainder of the day. Talk about a scam.

After I was suckered into purchasing a parking permit, I made my way over to the athletic trainer's room with high hopes of having a decent elliptical session. But again, little did I know that the trainer's room would be blockaded by security and police enforcement--due to the presence of U. Texas' football team on campus. Once again, much like how I was deterred from parking in my usual and convenient (not to mention, illegal) parking spot, I was again prevented from even entering my school's athletic training room-- at least until 1:30 p.m.-- completely defeating the purpose of arriving to school at 9 a.m. But I'm still solid, and in one piece. I wasn't going to let this "off" morning shake me.

I decided that I would merely elliptical after our 2 p.m. track practice. Coincidentally, come 2 p.m., our team wasn't even able to meet for our first official track practice of the season at our own track. The Texas team had it blocked off as well. Holy Moses.

My first class starts in an hour. At 11 a.m. I will get a taste of whether or not I'm even interested in the topic or theme that this English 102 class has to offer me. Then, I can decide whether or not I want to drop the class. Hopefully 19th Century Melodrama will be as interesting as I imagine it to be. Unfortunately, it wasn't. I'll probably drop the class this evening.

I'm a little cold right about now. I have a pair of running tights in my track backpack--which also just so happens to be filled to the brim with my pleasure reading, running shoes, 2 extra t-shirts, my day planner, i-pod, my trusty hairbrush that I use (only) for putting my hair in a pony-tail, and other miscellaneous-yet-necessary items. But I won't be able to change into my tights until after track practice is over, and I'm headed to my younger sister's basketball game around 7 p.m. Even if I didn't change, it wouldn't be the first time I've worn my short maroon-colored running shorts out in public. It's just about noon, and my second class is just about to begin. I can't help but think about how the rest of the day will pan out...