Simplicity by Sunny

The older I get (not that I’m old, mind you), the more interesting life becomes.  I notice unexpected connections in almost everything.  Sometimes I see patterns, see how things in my life – and in the lives of others – become linked.  Other times I experience absolute chaos that eventually (and amazingly) makes sense.  I’m continually seeing, too, how wrong I was about this, or how wrong I surely remain about that. 

Yeah, getting “older and wiser” is quite a humbling experience.

Knowing that life is unpredictable, I wasn’t surprised when Ms. Pearl moved to Rural SW, Colorado.  Ms. Pearl was one of my co-workers back in Florida.  She moved out here a year after I did.  I, however, was very surprised that we kept in touch after her move.  An email once in a while, a picture now and again.  We’d never been close while working together and, actually, I thought she kinda disliked me.  Surprising, I know, because – quite frankly – I’m darn right loveable. 

When she wound up in Denver this past weekend, she invited me to dinner.  Not one to turn down dinner invitations, I accepted and was taken aback by her enthusiasm.  “I can’t wait to see you!” She exclaimed. 

Really?  Hm.  I began to worry.  My cynical side wondered if she was buttering me up for an Amway proposal.

When we settled into our patio table at Pasquini’s, I felt a smidge of nervousness.  But we soon found ourselves laughing and talking, big bites of calzone the only break in our excited conversation.  That night I had dinner with someone I’d not known very well, but someone I realize was willing to be my friend years ago.  And is a friend now.  I never saw it before, but it was always there.

I’ve met a lot of people in my life.  I’ve had lunches and dinners with them, seen movies with them, met for happy hour with them.  But until I moved to Colorado, I didn’t have friends.  When I didn’t know who I was and pretended to be someone else, someone ”cooler”, I hid behind a mask.  I’ve learned that if you can’t be open and honest about yourself, it’s hard to find people who even can be your friend.  Once I dropped the mask, I found friends.  And my friends have taught me things I could never have learned from a book.  How to get excited about life and appreciate life.  If it weren’t for my friends, I wouldn’t be Sunny.

If I had to give a one-word answer to what has simplified my life the most, I’d not hesitate.  Friends. 

Tell me, what’s simpler than being with a friend?  Talking about books and shoes over coffee, that’s the simplest – and most wonderful – afternoon I can imagine.  A friend doesn’t care about the labels of your clothes, whether your lipstick has smudged, or what your social status is.  When you’re with a friend, you don’t worry about what you look like or whether you’ve said something stupid.  A friend makes you feel good about yourself, so that you don’t seek approval in other unhealthy ways.  Bad romantic relationships, addictions to drugs/alcohol, buying things that create debt.  How many of these circumstances could be avoided… because of a friend?  A person who encourages you, listens to you, brings out the good in you, and makes you want to be a better person.  A person who requires your commitment and authenticity because they need your support, too.  It’s a give-’n-take kinda thing.

A friend is the most valuable accessory you can have, but it’s not easy finding a true one.  It takes a lotta searching.  If you act like a friend, though, you’ll find friends.  So, treat everyone you know as if they’re already your friend.  Give them your respect and compassion.  Because you never know where your new friend will come from.  Invite people out for coffee and lunch.  Interact with as many people as possible until you build a circle of friends who love you.  Friends who will simplify your life by filling you with the things you need – hope, excitement, conversations over coffee, shared burdens, shared joys – and steering you away from the things you don’t.  

Oh, and of course, friends are an excellent source for borrowing such things as dining room tables, lawn mowers, earrings, books….  And if you’re REALLY lucky, they’ll even feed you occasionally.

I met a man six months ago and instantly fell in love.  Well, I sort of met him. 

I spend an unnatural amount of time in bookstores.  Reading a book, while being surrounded by books – vanilla latte steaming to the right, biscotti stacked to the left - is the exact environment I hope heaven to be.  Considering my sins, however, I’m willing to settle for an exceptionally toasty library and a pot of Folgers.  Sinning requires flexibility in your after-death expectations.

During a Saturday afternoon at Barnes & Noble, I was sipping my vanilla frothiness while reading about Bill the Vampire à la Charlaine Harris.  Then I glanced up and saw him.

His faded tee-shirt advertised Bolder Boulder 2009.  His jeans, once dark, were worn at the knees.  His dark hair was slightly disheveled, like he’d been driving with the windows down.  There was a rough 5 o’clock shadow on his chin.  His eyes were framed by crinkles, indicating a smiley nature.  He wore sneakers, one shoelace broken.  As he slid into an overstuffed chair, he sighed and grinned, clearly content to be in a bookstore on a lazy Saturday.

In other words, he was Sunny’s version of the male pin-up.

He looked like a camping-and-hiking kinda guy.  Unafraid of hooking a worm or drinking Fat Tire.  But he also had a polite demeanor as indicated by the elegant crossing of his legs, avoiding the more common feet-on-table lounging position, and I felt confident that he wasn’t the type to burp in public or order drinks on a first date with the word “sex” in it.  Then his hands cracked open the book in his lap, and I finally noticed the title.  It was a cookbook on Italian cuisine.

I looked away, checking to make sure drool wasn’t dripping down my chin.  “Sunny,” I told myself.  “Get a grip!”  To calm the erratic beating of my heart, I convinced myself that he probably had two-inch toe nails and didn’t brush his teeth.  Determined to ignore him, I went back to my book, stealing a glance only occasionally because is was beyond my self-control not to. 

When I went to order another latte, I had to pass Mr. Cookbook’s chair.  The little old lady sitting next to him glanced up at me.  “Do you work here?” She asked, catching me off guard.

“Um, no,” I said.  “Is everything okay?”

“Well, I was hoping someone could help me.  I can’t walk around too good, but I’d love to read a book while I’m waiting for my granddaughter.”

I started to say that I’d find her a book, no problem, but Mr. Cookbook beat me to it.  “I’ll find you a book,” he said in the happiest voice I’d ever heard.  He looked up at me and winked.  The wink said, “Don’t worry, I got this.” 

“What kind of book do you want?” He asked.

The little old lady thought hard for a moment.  “Penguins,” she said with a firm nod.  “I’ve always loved penguins.”

Several minutes later, latte refilled, I made the trek back to my chair.  And there was Mr. Cookbook, who’d returned with sixteen books on penguins.  He patiently listened to her stories about Antarctica, which I also listened to via eavesdropping.  He occasionally revealed the little dimple in his left cheek when he smiled at her.

And that’s when I fell in love.  That happy spirit.  That patience.  That broken shoelace.

Now, months later, I sometimes wake up at 3 AM in a cold sweat, Mr. Italian Cookbook having haunted by dreams.  “Stupid, stupid Sunny,” I mutter.  “Why didn’t you ask him out?”

Or at least said hello?

Or… Anything!

He may have been married, even though he wasn’t wearing a ring.  He may have flatly said no.  But at least I would’ve tried.  And I’d get better sleep.

As crazy, anti-feminist, and girly as it may sound, I dream of finding a Mr. Cookbook.  There are undoubtedly many benefits of the single life – and I enjoy all of them.  I’m definitely happier today - as an independent, strong, ridiculously content single woman – than I ever was while dating Mr. Wrong.  Still, if I could wish it so, I’d find Mr. Cookbook (or a good carbon copy) and force him to spend many marinara drenched evenings with me.  I’d love to, well, fall in love. 

Unfortunately there are some dreams beyond our control.  Mr. Cookbook’s reappearance.  Winning the lottery.  Having a good hair day.  But there are even more dreams that are completely within our power. 

This summer I don’t have any college classes.  It’s my first “free” summer in three years.  I can do whatever the heck I want after punching out my 40 hours.  Having this much irresponsibility to embrace is delightfully overwhelming.  I’ve gone a little crazy the past several weeks since the spring semester ended.  I’ve read 32 books, watched 26 movies, drank ___ bottles of wine (nope, not admitting to the actual number), and lost dozens of hours of sleep.  As wonderful as it’s been, I can’t keep up this schedule anymore.  It’s more exhausting than school! 

More importantly, I want to accomplish a dream this summer, and put movies – even books (!) – aside for the next three months.  I don’t want to accomplish just “a dream”.  Instead I want to accomplish this dream of mine that won’t go away, despite how good I’ve gotten at ignoring it.  The kind of dream that creates a painful physical yearning.  So I’m going for it.  Mostly because I hate pain. 

This summer I’m going to write and finish a novel.  A witty super-fantastic novel, of course. 

Nothing haunts you more than your lifelong dream once you’ve really pushed it away.  After choosing the nursing program, and finding myself committed to two years of biology (along with two years of simulated/real vomit, which is terrifying in and of itself for me) I thought about my dream of writing.  I feel like becoming a nurse is a form of cheating on my One True Love.  If I could allow myself to be completely impractical, I’d write books all day.  There’s no question.  I have no intention of quitting school, or giving up nursing, but on the same hand, I can no longer endure the internal struggle about my writing life (or lack thereof).

“Writing is such a terrible, slim-chanced, ridiculous pursuit!” I tell myself constantly.  “I’ll start dreaming about publication, which will never happen, and after my dreams are dashed, I’ll be more miserable than before.  Really, then, what’s the point?”

My conscience, who sounds (oddly enough) like Gerard Depardieu, interrupts my silent rants.  “Ohv courze eet’s sleme-chahnce eef you dohn’t trry!”

“But I have tried!”

“Noht vary heard, you idioht!” 

Gerard’s right, as usual.

For the next three months I don’t have to worry about the nursing program.  I don’t have to cheat behind my pen’s back.  I’ve decided to give it all I got and finish a manuscript.  I want to look back at the Summer of 2011 as “The Summer I Accomplished My Dream”.  And because I don’t want to listen to Gerard Depardieu anymore.  He’s mean to me.

Sure, there’s little chance of getting published, but that’s not the accomplishment I’m concentrating on.  I’m focused on simply finishing a novel.  I’ll stress out over the next steps later. 

I know that you, too, have missed opportunities.  Regrets.  Wished-I-Wouldas.  I-Wish-I-Couldas.  Uh oh – watch out! - here comes Gerard.  “You idioht!”  Yeah, that’s right, he’s talking to you this time.  Focus on a dream this summer.  A dream within your control and a dream that’s important to you.  Create a summer that one day you’ll look back at and say, “The Summer of 2011 is when I did it!”  

You’ll probably be shocked to learn that I’m a bit eccentric.  I decided I wanted to really really really focus on a Summer of Writing.  I want to embrace the “focus” concept to the fullest extent.  I encourage you to do the same.  So here are some things I did over Memorial Day weekend to prepare myself for being extremely lazy (on the practical side of life) so I can be extremely productive (on the writing/impractical side of life): 

1.  I stocked up for 3 months.  This is an anti-minimalist thing to do, if you’re the die-hard radical type such as myself.  I’m actually a bit shocked at my behavior because my kitchen cupboards actually have food in them.  I filled my cupboards with three months’ worth of my personally loved staples: whole-grain pasta, marinara sauce, olives, dark chocolate, peanut butter (LOTS of peanut butter), pesto, granola, and – yup – wine (LOTS of wine).  The only grocery shopping I’ll have to do will be for fruits, vegetables, and yogurt.  Time saver and, considering my impulsive nature around the olive bar, a money saver, too.

I also stocked up on 3 months’ worth of non-food items like shampoo, cleaning supplies, sunblock, etc. to prevent any trips to Target.  It’s amazing how easily that store steals an entire day from me.  A thief dressed in a red bulls eye.  I blame it on the beautiful clearance shelves.

2. I’m encouraging my writing habit by combining three loves - writing, photography, eating, blogging.  I’m in the process of setting up a new blog, which I’m really excited about.  When it’s ready for visitors, I’ll send you an invite and hope that you’ll stop by.  I’ve decided to write reviews for restaurants, bistros, cafes, etc. throughout Colorado.  I’ll be forced to lounge on a patio, sip something spicy, munch something sweet, while transporting myself into the mystery and mayhem that I create for my characters.  It’ll be an excellent way to enjoy the summer WHILE accomplishing my dream.

3.  I canceled my Internet connection.  No falling prey to hours of Hulu this summer.  But, oh, I’ll miss you.  Terribly.

4.  I updated my Netflix account down to 1-DVD-At-A-Time.  I was at 2 DVDs until this past weekend.  This way I can still enjoy a movie, but it’ll be more thoughtful and as a reward to a Writing Day Well Done.

5.  I’ve rearranged my apartment to support writing.  My dining table is now a writing desk.  I did an extremely thorough minimizing session to clear all distractions.  All that remains is what’s required for writing.  And eating.  And taking the occasional nap.

Whether it’s skydiving or learning Italian, painting or starting a business, pick a dream.  Redesign as much of your life as possible to put your focus on it.  Then give it your best shot.  And, for heaven’s sake, have a good time while you’re at it!  No frowning.  If I see any frowning, I’ll force you to drink a piña colada with me.  

It’s so easy to let a summer drift by.  Every September I look back and wonder where the “dog days” disappeared to.  They only disappeared because I wasn’t paying attention.  Even if your dream is simply to enjoy – to a ridiculously high level – every day of this summer, do that.  Splash in warm rain showers.  Go fishing, even when you think there’s no time.  Play hooky from work and go ride rollercoasters and eat cotton candy.  Drag a bag of books to the river – put your feet in – and melt into the afternoon with each flip of the page.  

…. Or just say hello to a beautiful stranger at Barnes & Noble.

This past weekend I attended my college’s nursing orientation.  Even to the outside observer, it was obvious how excited I was.  I curled my hair, pulled on my Good Butt jeans, and wore my lucky earrings.  My orientation paperwork was tucked neatly into my bag, the questions I intended to ask written in the margins.  I arrived 45 minutes early.  I introduced myself enthusiastically to any fellow student who’d pay me the slightest bit of attention. 

Eventually all fifty-three of us took our seats and stared anxiously ahead at Madam Nursing Director.  She smiled over the spectacles perched on the tip of her nose.  She exuded the essence of practicality, with a smidge of sensitivity, that a retired nurse and college director ought to have. 

It took her less than fifteen minutes to scare the crap out of me.

“Nursing relies heavily on math,” she said.  “And you must take Mathematics for Clinical Calculations.”

That’s okay, I thought.  Despite not being particularly good at math, I like it.  Liking something is half the battle, right?

“On the final exam you are required to get a one hundred percent grade.”  Madam paused to let this sink in.  “There’s no room for error when you’re administering medicine and there will be no room for error on your exam.”

I gulped.  Now that might be a problem.

“But,” a student objected.  “What if I’ve already had statistics and advanced calculus?”

“Ah hah,” she said, clearly expecting someone to ask this question.  “But have you ever had math with a syringe?”

Math with a syringe?  Somehow I should’ve known that those two things would go together, but I hadn’t really given it much thought.  Now that I was giving it thought, I realized the frightening magnitude of these two things.  As a nurse, armed with a syringe, I could kill people, for the love of God!

We were given a tour of the nursing lab, which contains hospital beds with simulated people lounging in them.  As luck would have it, five students were in the middle of a lab session and we were invited to observe.  All five students were diligently bent over this exceptionally realistic simulated person (with a full set of teeth and hair and everything, it was equally creepy and fascinating). 

“Oooh, it hurts!”  Mr. Simulated Person moaned.

We all gasped.  Apparently Mr. Simulated makes lots of interesting noises to provide as much realism as possible.  Then – without warning - something scarier than syringes, math, or fake moaning happened…

Simulated vomit spewed from Mr. Simulated.  All five students were instantly covered in yellow goo. 

I almost fainted.

“You look kinda pale,” the girl next to me whispered.  “You wanna sit down?”

Yes!  Better yet I wanted to flee into the hallway.  Open space without any vomit, fake or otherwise.  But I stood.  And I stayed.  All the while questioning the wisdom of becoming Nurse Sunny.  I also began to question my lucky earrings.  How could they have failed me? 

As I drove home from orientation, shell-shocked and disheartened, my hands were shaky on the wheel.  I’d had such hope for being a nurse.  I really wanted it.  But did it want me?  Was this the right path?  Or had I made a mistake?  What if I go through nursing school, only to realize that it’s the worst mistake of my life?  What if I never get past feeling faint at the sight of vomit (fake or otherwise)?

Tough questions.  I’ll let you know what answers I found, but not just yet.

After writing Learn to Look at Yourself Differently, where I mentioned my plan to become a nurse, Chandra wrote a comment asking for insight:

I just graduated…from a community college with a degree in accounting. I’ve always loved numbers and budgets! I graduated with a 4.0 even!

I also got a job as an accounting assistant this February during my last semester and guess what… I HATE every second of being there. Every week of being there makes me want to hurl myself off a cliff. So, now I’m stumped. I had no idea this wouldn’t be the path for me, and now I have no idea what path to take.

So I’d like to ask for a little advice. How the hell did you pull nursing out of your… well, you know :) … I’m dumbfounded as to where to even begin looking. So if you have a spare minute, I’d love some insight.

My first bit of insight is – Congratulations!  You started something and you finished it.  Not to mention the 4.0 part – that’s undeniably impressive.  Following through with things – the things we promise ourselves, the things that are important to us, the things that aren’t important but are necessary nonetheless - is fundamental for building self-confidence and self-respect.  For this reason alone, Chandra, feel comforted knowing that you’re the kind of kick-butt woman who knows how to set herself up for accomplishment. 

Another bit of insight… Work shouldn’t instill the desire to “hurl [yourself] off a cliff”.  (Though I do heartily empathize.)  But expecting perfection from a job, or anything else, is unrealistic at best.  Regardless of who we are or where we work, no matter how much we appreciate our jobs, or adore our personal lives, we’ll struggle sometimes.  We’ll have days where we go home and crawl directly into bed.  Days when the world is cruel, our boss is even more cruel, and the wine can’t be poured fast enough.  Days when you’ll want to – well, Chandra said it best – hurl yourself off a cliff. 

I’m reminded of my dad, who often said, ”Kid, life isn’t about getting rid of all your problems, because that’s impossible anyway.  It’s about building a life with higher quality problems.”   

While I can’t say these words were ever comforting, I can grudgingly admit to the wisdom. 

Trying to find my own path recently, I stressed myself out in only the way that a Recovering Type A person can.  I considered it a huge problem that I wasn’t able to immediately figure out The Answer & Solution to the Rest of My Life.  But during a 3 AM pacing-down-hallway-while-biting-nails session, I realized how great my problem actually was.  Two and a half years ago, before returning to college, I wouldn’t have had any of the options I was currently obsessing over.  By taking the initial step of continuing school, I opened a new world of possibility, which also means a new world of choices.  Otherwise known as a ”new world of conundrums”. 

So, when we move forward, we face conundrums.  A conundrum, then, is something to be thankful for.  I’d rather suffer terribly over choosing one path of many than not having any paths to choose from at all.

How did I pull nursing out of my arse?  Well, when you chase your tail long enough, you’re bound to find something back there.    Even though nursing seems an “out of the blue” and “out of character” decision, it makes sense to me when I look back at my path thus far. 

When I was in fifth grade, I volunteered at the Humane Society every Saturday.  Unfortunately my mom always had bad timing.  She’d arrive to pick me up at the very same time that I was playing catch with a dangerous Rottweiler-type mutt six times my size.

“Sunny,” she begin her lecture as we drove home.  “That beast could’ve eaten you!”

“But Mom,” I’d protest passionately, as only a fifth grader can.  “Everyone else says he’s ugly and mean, but he’s not.  He’s the sweetest dog ever.  And, anyway, if I don’t play with him, no one will!  And, Mom, not playing with a lonely dog is totally unacceptable to me!”

“Young lady,” she’d shake her finger in front of my face.  “If you continue that tone, I’m going to beat you.  And if you continue to offer yourself as barbecue to hairy beasts, I won’t take you there anymore.”

She never did beat me.  And she always took me back.  I volunteered there until high school and loved every moment of being slobbered on, bitten, and licked.  It was heaven.  I only stopped going because I decided to become a candy striper at St. Mary’s Hospital.  I loved the hospital as much as I loved the animal shelter.  My favorite part of St. Mary’s was helping people.  People who were lost and needed directions.  People who just needed you to keep up senseless conversation because they were nervous.  And, boy, am I ever good at keeping a conversation going – even when there’s no one around! 

I’ve always loved the underdog, literally and figuratively.  I love people.  I especially love people who aren’t easy to love.

Life hasn’t been particularly easy for me.  I grew up in a tough family.  Criticism outweighed encouragement.  As the daughter of a Naval officer, I bounced from one school to another as we relocated every couple of years.  And because I stuttered until the age of thirteen, I was ruthlessly bullied.  I never had friends or felt like I belonged anywhere.  My mom died when I was fourteen, and I was quickly sent to France as an exchange student when my dad couldn’t figure out what to do with me.  As many kids do when they’re lost and lonely, I found trouble.  Lots of it, because I rarely do anything half-heartedly!    I struggled with a wild streak until my mid-twenties.  I struggled with relationships, finances, lack of self-respect, and all sorts of other things, too.

I’ve come to realize that life isn’t particularly easy for anyone.  We all struggle.  I still find myself struggling.

It’s because of my own struggles that I love people who aren’t easy to love.  When I see them struggle, I hurt because I’ve struggled, too.  But, unfortunately, I never know the right thing to say to help someone.  Despite my ability to wax poetic on hundreds of subjects, I become a verbal dunderhead when it comes to comforting someone in need. 

And that’s one of the reasons that I want to be a nurse.  I want to give of myself for others, lend my compassion to others.  Nursing gives me the ability to do something concrete to help people.  To move my hands, be on my feet, offer a smile, and exhaust myself - feeling myself moving each moment of the day – and doing it all for the purpose of relieving pain.  That, for me, is the epitome of career satisfaction.  Looking back on who I really am – not the misguided wild-child or any of the other personas I’ve adopted over the years – but on the characteristics that I’ve always carried within myself, I realize that I’m a helper.  Or, at least, I try to be a helper.  I express myself, not with spoken words or brilliant gestures, but by washing the dishes. 

Yeah, washing the dishes.  When I want to contribute to someone, I roll up my sleeves and I wash their dishes.  When I want to show my love, I don’t tell the person (how embarrassing!).  Instead I make them coffee.  It’s just my way.  I’m a helper and a doer.  To help and do, as a nurse, made sense as a great fit.  Before I learned about the math and syringe part, anyway.

Back to that drive home after my orientation.  I did find answers to my nervous questions.  YES!  I still have hope for being a nurse.  How will I know this isn’t the right path until I hold that syringe for myself?  And, YES!  I’m still afraid.  Afraid of microbiology, clinical calculations, and simulated people.  But I’m more afraid of not trying.  As for vomit, there’s messier things in my current corporate environment, and somehow I’ve gotten used to corporate messy stuff rather well.  

So, what’s my first piece of advice?  Know who you really are.  Know what you like to do.  Don’t be afraid to challenge yourself, or scare yourself by reaching just past what you think is possible.  Fighting one’s nature is exhausting, frustrating, and it’s a battle that can never be won.  Fighting one’s fear is equally exhausting, but it can be defeated. 

Finding a career path, however, isn’t a purely romantic pursuit.  If it were, I’d be writing novels while lounging in a minimally decorated Tuscan bungalow.   

So, my second piece of advice?  You need to know who you are, what you like to do, and what your strengths are.  You need to be unafraid of challenging yourself.  Then you have to blend all of this into what’s marketable.

Another reason I chose nursing is because it’s a growing field.  Based on actual numbers from the previous graduating classes at my college, I can expect to find a job as a R.N. within three to six months of passing the N-CLEX, at an hourly wage almost double what I currently earn.  Considering my personality, my likes – and the job market - becoming a nurse makes sense.  Before deciding on the nursing program, I researched dozens of other possibilities.  Teaching, social work, library science…  It was a long list.  After comparing the numbers, and thinking about what I really wanted in a career, nursing was the best choice.  And, really, what’s better than a pair of scrubs for a minimalist’s working wardrobe?   

How do you figure out who you are?  Ask yourself what you enjoyed as a kid, before peer pressure and parent pressure and Real Life overwhelmed you.  Think about what moves you emotionally.  That’s always a good sign of what’s really important to you.  What makes you laugh?  Cry?  What gives you energy, people or silence?  What kind of environment do you want to work in?  A busy place or a quiet place?

We can never learn who we are by asking hypothetical questions, though, or trying to research ourselves while firmly secured in an armchair.  What fun is armchair research, anyway?  Make a list of all the things you think you might like to do.  Get out into the world and give them a try.  Volunteer, talk to people in different fields, attend a scary nursing program orientation.  Take a class and see how it feels.   

You can’t expect to have Your Perfect Career drop out from the sky.  You have to go searching for it.  Some people have been blessed with a calling that they can’t ignore, but for most of us it takes more effort.

Like Chandra, even though you think you’ve found the answer, and you go after it, you may discover that it wasn’t what you expected.  But that’s nothing to be afraid of.  If you can finish one thing, you can finish another. You can take advantage of everything that you’ve learned, and everything you continue to learn, if you want to.  You can try a different company or work your degree from a different angle.  My friend A.W. chose her degree in finance because, as she told me once, ”I figured I could get into any company through the accounting department.”  I always thought that was a brilliant plan.

Who says we should stick with only one field or one job for your entire working life anyway?  Your career, just like your personal life, is a journey. 

How do you know what’s marketable?  Read, read, read.  This is where armchair research is exceptionally helpful.  I’ve found the Bureau of Labor Statistics immeasurably valuable.  Here’s the Occupational Outlook Handbook for info on salaries, work environments, education required, growth projections, etc., of every kind of job out there.  Browse magazines, journals, and other publications on your subject field.  Myself, I’ve already started perusing the 8th edition of Sparks and Taylor’s Nursing Diagnosis Reference Manual. 

My ultimate advice about finding your path?  Never stop moving forward.  Just go.  Move.  Grow.  Learn something new every day.  Try something new every day.  Start each morning with positive expectation.  Know that your life isn’t about your job, it’s about the life you bring into your job.  Life isn’t about work always being easy, it’s about making every struggle work to your advantage.  It’s not about the money you make, it’s about making money to fund your dreams.

So, get to work already! (Pun intended.)

This past winter I sampled my first calamari.  The kind where the octopus had been pregnant and her babies were included with the marinara.  Yes, this is considered gourmet.  No, I can’t explain why.  I remember looking down into that bowl of ringlets and dead squid babies, involuntarily curling my upper lip, and proclaiming very firmly, “Ain’t no way I’m eatin’ that.”

As is usual after a few too many glasses of Cabernet, I soon found myself doing what I said I wouldn’t.  ”Wow,” I said, licking spicy marinara from my lips and picking up another forkful of ringlets.  “I never thought I’d be a calamari lover!” 

And, much to my surprise, I am.

I’m a mix of many eccentric things.  I’m addicted to Tabasco, fascinated by prison documentaries, and adverse to furniture.  The younger version of myself never would’ve guessed that I’d cover all food groups with Tabasco - disgusting!  I never would’ve guessed that I’d stay up until 2 AM (for more than a week straight) watching National Geographic’s Lockdown series - boring!  To imagine an apartment without furniture, well, that would’ve never crossed my mind. 

There are many more things of the non-eccentric variety that make up my life, too.  Things that I could never have predicted as becoming important.  Photography, Swedish modern design, baked brie, Netflix, Smartwool socks (they’re truly amazing).  Some things have come to me naturally, like taking pictures while hiking, and they follow a sensical pattern.  Capturing photos of the Rockies is surely an understandable hobby to fall for since I adore the mountains and hike often.  

Sometimes, though, the things that make up who you are don’t make sense.  They’re separated from what you normally do, how you normally behave, or in some way break the patterns/habits/routines that you’ve established for yourself. 

I’m a firm believer in boring routines.  I love the predictable!  Well, at least to some degree.  I love having my barista call me by name because I see her almost every morning.  I appreciate knowing the quietest corners of the library, my favorite spot in Denver for brunch (it’s Snooze, by the way).  These things don’t arrive – favorites and people who know you by name – if you don’t have some sort of consistency. 

But as with all things, there’s a caveat to an overabundance of predictability.  Being too consistent and following a routine that’s too strict prevents you from unearthing something new.  Not just a new restaurant or a new hiking trail.  A new part of yourself.  A part of yourself that you’ve never seen before.  

I recently went through a tough time these past several months.  Not because my psych class this semester gave me a doozie of a headache (and has now made me wonder if I, too, have a personality disorder since I talk to myself excessively).  My tough time was of the, “Where do I go from here?” variety.  What do I do with the education I’ve been working so hard on these past two years?  I had to either turn left or right, so to speak, no longer able to choose safe prerequisites. 

I always believed that I’d chase an English degree. I always assumed I’d work at 5280 (a Denver magazine) or something of the like, make enough money for an extensive wine collection, take an awesome vacation every year, and live happily ever after.  Oh, and hopefully fall in love with a man who drives a dusty Chevy, owns a plethora of camping equipment, cooks eggs Benedict on Sunday, and can change a flat tire.  Piece-a-cake.  Simple, right? 

Despite my lack of furniture and owning less than 100 Things, life is never as simple as I try to make it .

Very, very, very surprisingly, I don’t want to be an English major.  I loved every moment of my literature classes and will never be the same since Hemingway.  After taking two English Composition classes, I’m a more critical thinker and reader and can write about complicated subjects.  But I don’t love the field like I expected to.  I’m not drawn to the work that an English degree would provide.  Instead, I was craving something that I couldn’t name, and when I finally figured it out, I was shocked.  What I wanted was something I’d never before considered.  Never ever identified with.   

After much reflection, and a lot of self-doubt, I decided to enter the College of Nursing. 

“You? A nurse?“  I know, whoda thunk.  ”You know there’s, like, biology and blood and guts involved, right?”

Yup.  I sure do.  I’ll need to learn a lot of stuff that I have no previous experience with.  I’ll need to learn organic chemistry, anatomy, physiology, human nutrition (which is all about wine and cheese, I’m sure), the complicated world of pharmacology, and how to properly administer an enema.  (I’ll be honest, not looking forward to the enema part, but at least I’m moving from my current “peon” status of the business world to “poop-on” status of the health care world I consider this an improvement.)  I did my homework.  I met with my academic advisor.  I signed on the dotted line and have radically shifted directions.  And, yup, I’m scared.  I’m also extremely excited.  It will require dedication and many cappuccinos.  I’m committed to giving this everything I’ve got. 

I could go on (and on) about why I want to be a nurse, and how I came to this decision, but what I’m really trying to convey right now is that no one – least of all myself – would ever have put the words “Sunny” and “nurse” into the same sentence, unless it went something like this:  “Sunny is in need of a nurse.” 

Despite many great experiences over the past four years, I’ll confess that – until two years ago – I’d never seen myself as particularly worthwhile.  I come from a family where criticism was much more prevalent than encouragement.  I never saw myself as capable.  I never looked at myself as smart.  Good at starting things, perhaps, but never finishing them.  I never considered myself brave, responsible, organized, or even much of a good person.  How could I?  I’d done very little that would’ve revealed these qualities.  Until the age of twenty-six, I shifted between doing what was expected - unspeakably miserable -  and rebelling.  Though I did rebel with a lot of gusto, and for that I suppose I revealed some sort of capability . 

After moving to Denver, I saw myself as someone who had moved cross-country, found her home against the mountains, and was proud of that accomplishment.  But she’d never go farther than that one defiant act of breaking away and finding independence.  I saw myself as a person who watched life from the sidelines, celebrating everyone else’s happiness, but never believing that I could join the game.

When I returned to college two years ago, I remember buying my first textbook on campus.  I think I sprained something hauling that 30 pound book to my car.  I remember reading that first chapter, stuffed with complicated words.  I remember having to read every page two or three times before anything sunk in.  I never told anyone how difficult that first class really was for me.  It was frustrating and I’d get sick to my stomach thinking that I’d fail. Then I’d have proof that I really wasn’t smart, after all.  Or worthwhile.  Or capable.  Or responsible.  Or any of the other things I very much wanted to be.  But I didn’t fail.  I got an A.  The second class I took was a little bit easier, the third easier still.  Textbook speech began to make sense.  MPA writing formats became second nature.  Not because I have super powers, it’s because I gave it everything I had. 

Then a funny thing happened somewhere between my third and fourth classes.  I saw myself as a student.  I excelled in subjects I’d never done well in before.  I saw myself as capable.  Smarter than I realized, though certainly no genius (who needs that kinda pressure anyway!).  And absolutely worthwhile.  I learned how to look at myself differently.  Not because of the good grades I received, but because of what I began to see in myself through the process.  I proved myself capable by giving all of my effort.  I proved myself responsible because I got everything done when it needed to get done.  I made a promise to myself that every class I started, I would finish- no excuses.  I kept that promise.  I built trust and confidence inside of myself, one class at a time. 

That’s how I know I can be a nurse, despite any previous aversion to science.  It’s because I know I can conquer a challenge.  It’s because I want it badly enough to work hard for it.  I want the blood, the guts, and the chance to help people.  I can be a nurse because I learned that I can… well, learn.  I can learn the biology and anatomy and chemistry.  Not without difficulty or without struggle, but life isn’t about coasting through things.  It’s not about watching from the sidelines.  It’s not about exerting the least amount of effort.  It’s about committing to something that’s important to you, even while knowing you’ll have to work hard to accomplish it.  It’s about uncovering what you don’t know about yourself (yet) and having the courage to be that person.  Even if it doesn’t fit into your routine.  Even it if doesn’t make sense.

I don’t believe that college, or any other *one* thing is the ticket to seeing yourself differently and/or revolutionizing your life.  College was just how I began to look at myself differently.  Consider, though, all of the possibilities that will give you a new perspective of yourself.  Volunteering.  Tutoring.  Finishing a class - a cooking class, a martial arts class.  Running a marathon.  Reading about a subject you think you can’t understand.  Try something new, something foreign, and enjoy the experience.  Just choose something – anything!  Start it, put all of your effort into it, complete it.  You’ll soon meet an unexpected stranger inside of you.

You can even start with something easy, like eating squid babies.  Who knows?  You, too, could be a calamari lover. 

Every morning you can catch me – mid-yawn – picking up a caramel latte at the cafe inside of my neighborhood grocery store.  It’s a great way to start the day for several reasons:  it meets my requirement for caffeine, my barista gets a kick out of my extremely bad jokes-of-the-day, and it allows me to pick up peanut butter if I run out the night before.

Yesterday I delivered my joke-of-the-day, relished that first creamy sip of caffeine… and tried to talk myself out of a Boston cream donut.  To no avail.

“Ooh,” I sighed, inching closer to the beautiful display of unhealthy breakfast items.  “They have chocolate-coconut donuts today.”  Since coconut donuts make a rare appearance in the bakery, it only made sense to grab two.  Plus the Boston cream.  It was, after all, a Monday.

While walking out of the bakery, bag of delicious sugary breakfast treats clutched gleefully, I heard one baker greet the other, “Hey, how’s it goin’?”

“Oh, you know,” he replied, stacking baguettes.  “Another day in paradise.”

The way he said it, and the roll of his eyes, made it clear that he didn’t consider himself anywhere near paradise.  Hearing his sad sarcasm made ME sad.  Thank goodness for the coconut donuts, they always lift my mood, and yesterday was no exception.  I felt badly about not finishing all three of them, but some things aren’t meant to be accomplished.  The baker wouldn’t leave my thoughts, though, and I wondered how awful life could be when you’re surrounded by baguettes and donuts for eight hours.  To me that IS the definition of paradise.

I can understand that not everyone appreciates carbohydrates as I do, but what I can’t understand is how – at 6:45 am – it’s already expected that the day will be horrible enough to deserve an eye roll.  Cinnamon roll, yes.  Eye roll, not so much.   

Anything can happen on ANY day.  That’s the beauty of life.  The unexpectedness.  The surprise.  What if we started each day like it was already perfect?  Like it already held something wonderful.  Like it would be perfect simply because you already thought of it as perfect.

I will never forget my favorite hike in Golden, Colorado.  It was October and the aspens were so yellow that it was painful looking at them.  There I was, three miles into a five-mile hike…. and then it began to rain.  Water pounded against the back of my neck, rolling beneath my jacket and down my spine, and I shivered against the way it tickled.  And it was cold – so cold. 

“Stupid Sunny,” I chastised myself.  “It’s called The Weather Channel and you shouldn’t be afraid of checking it!”

If I had checked, I would’ve missed the intimate tickling of rain.  I would’ve missed my introduction to the most satisfying love affair of all time -Me and Mud.  Lots of mud.  Everywhere on me.  I’ve never laughed so hard.  Or been that drenched.  That dirty.  That overwhelmed with beautiful unexpectedness.  I was freezing, but also embraced by the smell and the sound of a Colorado storm.  I was mud-covered, but felt cleansed. 

I remember, too, being on one of the worst dates of my life (and I hope for many more terrible dates, they’re actually quite fun).  We were at this fabulous dessert bar called, simply, dBar.  This particular night my date had indulged in way too much Jim Barry Shiraz.  I appreciated his enthusiasm for red wine, but the entertaining monologue that it produced was more suited for situations not in public.  Or around children.  Or women. 

“Yes, that is, indeed, an interesting story about Vegas,” I assured him when he paused for breath.  “But since drugs and prostitution aren’t really legal here in Denver, it may be best to lower your voice a bit.”

All I could think about while perched on my bar stool, listening to Mr. Vegas’s inappropriate stories, was, “I curled my hair for this?” 

Embarrassed and miserable, I dreamt of happier things.  Like bubble baths and nunneries.  And when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, a dapper gent strolled from the kitchen, and without hesitation, walked to my dejected spot at the bar.  “The moment you walked in, I said to myself,” he paused to give me a look that said he understood my current pain.  “She looks like a port kinda girl.”

I sat a little straighter.  “I do?”

“Well, aren’t you?” He asked. 

“That depends,” I said hesitantly. 

“On?”

“Whether or not I like port.”

He gasped with mock despair.  “You’ve never tried port?” 

I shook my head.

“Then one 20-year on its way.”  He sized me up.  “For you, a tawny.”

“I don’t know what that means, but if it’s a come-on,” I warned him with a good-natured grin, giving a little nod to my drunken date.  “I’m not easily amused right now.”

And while I sipped on a 20-year tawny port, smooth like silk and sweet like maple syrup, this dapper man from the kitchen – my hero that night – told me all about apple tarte tatins while he peeled Granny Smiths across from me.  We discussed chocolate frosting and cheesecakes (it is, after all, a dessert bar).  And – suddenly – it hit me.  This man, who’d saved me from an embarrassing evening (my date had since disappeared into the bathroom to hug the porcelain god), was Keegan Gerhard.  The Food Network guy.  Yeah, that’s right, one of the top 10 pastry chefs in the nation.  He happens to own Denver’s dBar.

I decided that, yes, I was happy to have curled my hair that night.  You never know when you’re going to meet a famous pastry chef.   

Best worst date of my life. 

There are mornings when I don’t want to unroll from my toasty quilt.  Mornings when I’m unenthusiastic about facing the world.  It’s on these days that I only have to do one thing – slip on my Dorothy shoes.  They’re bright red ballet flats.  I click my heels three times before leaving my closet.  “Not in Kansas anymore,” I say.  Something about those shoes make my steps lighter.  Every day that I wear my Dorothy shoes is a great day.  Do the shoes have magical powers?  Or do I greet the day with happy expectation, and simply make it so?

Start every day like it’s already perfect.  Like there’s going to be a wonderful surprise somewhere within it.  Curl your hair.  Don’t check the weather.  Click your heels.  ’Cause, Toto, there could be a twister brewing any moment. 

And, in case of a feeling-miserable emergency, eat donuts .

I’ve always been a romantic.  It was with great excitement, then, that I leaned closer to my date, after he leaned closer to me, our dinner table the only thing between us.  He was about to say something and I wanted to hear every word.

“Yes?” I encouraged, eyes wide, breath catching.  Surely he’d say something wonderful.  I was ready to be swept off my feet.

“Sunny,” he began. “In the short time we’ve been dating, you’ve broken all of my deal breakers.”

I jerked back.  Since I’m pretty straight-laced, with a few exceptions naturally, I was surprised.  “Oh?”

Before he could elaborate, our server came to take our drink order.

“A Chianti,” I told her without hesitation.  “Stat.”

“And,” the server said courteously, head turning toward my date.  “For you, sir?”

“Well, doll,” he said, sending her a suggestive wink, drawing out each word that came next.  “I’ll have a long slow comfortable screw up against a wall.”

I gasped.  If my momma, a woman from South Carolina, could’ve heard these words, she would’ve boxed his ears. 

“A what, sir?”  The server asked, confusion and embarrassment twisting her face.

And, unfortunately, he repeated his request. 

This is a legitimate drink, I found out, but not one I’d ever consider ordering on a fourth date.  I should’ve left then and there, but hindsight is, as they say, 20/20.  When this wasn’t available, he settled for a brandy sour. 

After a few swigs of Chianti had settled into my blood stream, I dared to question him.  “What are these deal breakers, exactly?” 

“First of all,” he began.  “You drink too much.”

“If you’d like me better without a glass of wine in hand, perhaps you should invite me somewhere other than a bar?”

He brushed this aside.  “You’re just not my type, generally speaking.”

I raised both eyebrows.  “Oh?”

“You dance way too suggestively,” he elaborated.  “You smile too much.  You’re obviously a wild child.  You say the weirdest things.  I don’t get you.  You’re just…strange.”

My eyes lowered.  I clenched my hands together.  I’m five feet and six inches tall, but at that moment I felt only one inch.  I wanted nothing more than to escape our private booth, running to the safety of the parking lot. 

“But,” he said. “You’re interesting.  I’m willing to take a chance on you.”

I’m embarrassed to admit that I sat there for an hour, conversing as well as possible, while he elaborated on all of the things he didn’t like about me, but why he’d give me a “shot” anyway.  When our drinks were dry and our dinner was eaten, I even kissed him after he walked me to my car.  He expected that kiss, despite how he’d made me feel, and I didn’t know what else to do.  That night, I was a traitor to myself.

Driving home, I cried until my lungs hurt, until I couldn’t breathe.  Until my eyes felt like sand paper.  I entered my apartment, unclasping the necklace and earrings I’d painfully chosen.  Scrubbed my face of the carefully applied mascara.  Slipped out of the pretty ballet flats.  Unfolded myself from the fancy clothes.  I crawled into bed, broken.  I cried until I fell asleep. 

All I could think about that night, and the next day, were the words he’d said, and the words that he didn’t say, but were abundantly clear:  “You’re not good enough, but I’ll slum it for a while, because you’re interesting.”

I’m not perfect.  I’m the most imperfect person you’ll ever meet.  I am a wild child, if that means I’m unconventional.  I’m eccentric.  I do smile too much, I blame it on my Midwestern background.  I dance in downtown Denver like I dance in my kitchen – like no one’s watching. 

This was Mr. Convertible.  Two years ago.  And the next day I sent him an eloquently worded email saying I thought it was best we not date anymore.

The same Mr. Convertible who convinced me to tour a corn maze with him last October.  The same Mr. Convertible I’ve been dating since that corn maze, which I wrote of recently.

Yup, Sunny definitely IS interesting AND an idiot .

There’s nothing wrong with giving someone a chance.  Forgiving the wrong words.  Understanding a different point of view.  I won’t ever argue with being compassionate.  You have to ask yourself, however, where your compassion ends and your ego begins.  Because while dating Mr. Convertible, I was only trying to prove myself good enough.  For my ego.

Enter the stiletto.  The very essence of my ego.

Christmas day arrived and I went to Mr. Convertible’s house for a holiday dinner.  It had been several years since I’d spent Christmas with anyone, so I was pretty excited.  It was here that I met – well, we’ll call her Ms. Glitter – and I sat next to her during that dinner. 

“Wow,” I commented to Ms. Glitter.  “That’s some amazing body glitter!”

“Yeah,” she said, running a fake nail along her cleavage.  “I’m all about the bling.”  She glanced at my sneakers with disdain.

“Yeah,” I said, giving a nonchalant laugh.  “I’m all about broken shoelaces.”

Several weeks later, Mr. Convertible admitted that he’d dated her.  She was an ex-girlfriend.  And I’d sat next to her at Christmas dinner at his house. 

No problem, I said to myself.  I could handle that.  I’m supposed to be progressive.  A little – as I always like to think of myself – eccentric and liberal.  I met her again at another of Mr. Convertible’s parties - me again in sneakers, her again in glitter.  She made it clear that she was competing for Mr. Convertible’s attention.  She rubbed her cleavage in his nose.  She made fun of me.  She made me feel one inch tall, just like Mr. Convertible himself had years before.  Mr. Convertible, however, did nothing but soak up the attention.  I drove home that night, picking up a habit I’d quit years ago  – biting my nails until they bled. 

When I knew she’d be at Mr. Convertible’s dinner party the next weekend, I arrived early so I could have two glasses of wine before the party started.  I was nervous.

Earlier that morning, I looked at myself in the mirror.  I saw the freckles on my nose, from the hikes I’ve taken in the Colorado sun.  I stared at the fleece in my closet.  The broken shoelaces gracing my shoes.

“How will I compete with Ms. Glitter?” I asked myself, knowing there was no competition.  I was sunshine and sneakers.  She was glitter and cleavage.  Lots of cleavage.  Lots and LOTS of cleavage.

I did only what I knew how to do.  I went to Macy’s.  I  bought the tightest push-up bra I could find.   The band around my rib cage pinched, I could barely breathe, but I was filled with a momentary surge of confidence. Then, I wandered around the shoe department… And there they were…

Six-inch stilettos.  Bright red.  Fake diamonds encrusted along the side.

I beckoned the salesman.  “Size eight.”

I slipped them on, spine curving into that familiar arch.  Toes slipping into the position they’d unhappily lived for many years.  Suddenly, the Sunny I never wanted to be again appeared.  I looked at myself in the mirror.  I gave a nod of satisfaction.

The salesman winked at me, reminding me of the wink Mr. Convertible gave our server two years earlier.  A good sign, I figured.

Ms. Glitter I’d never be, but Seductive Sunny I could reinvent.  Superficial Sunny.  Controlled Sunny.  The Sunny who never smiled.  The Sunny who never danced like no one’s watching, shaking her hips around her kitchen and in downtown Denver.  Gone was the Sunny who loves her mountains, who loves herself when breathless from running up a trail with aspens, who laughs when tripping over her broken shoelaces.  Who relishes reading books in her empty apartment.  Who’s returned to college, takes refuge in the library, and wants only what’s simple and authentic.

I painted red upon my lips.  I pulled a silk camisole atop tight jeans.  I bought a bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz-Grenache.  Of which I drank two glasses of at Mr. Convertible’s house before anyone else arrived, ready to compete, but needing liquid courage.  All the while feeling sick inside.  A traitor once again.

What was there to compete for?   A man whose deal breakers I’d broken two years earlier?  A man who’d told me, in convoluted terms, that I wasn’t good enough?  A man who was never worth my tears?

With my red lips and perfectly chosen ensemble, I was brilliant.  I was as bright and as fake as the diamonds on my stilettos.  I laughed, tipping my head back, running my fingers slowly down my throat.  I told funny jokes.  I shook the curls I’d put into my hair, flirtatious and seductive, completely charming.  Mr. Convertible was impressed.  He liked Superficial Sunny.  But what Ms. Glitter – or Mr. Convertible, for that matter – will never know is that, despite shining that night, I lost. 

If my momma, from South Carolina, could’ve seen me that night, she would’ve boxed my ears.  I would’ve deserved it.

I lost myself.  I lost everything I’d worked so hard for- in the space of one evening. 

Driving home that night, I again cried all the way home.  Not because of Mr. Convertible.  Not because of Ms. Glitter.  Because of me.  Because of my ego. 

This story isn’t about gender.  It isn’t specifically about dating.  It’s about putting your ego aside and standing up for yourself.  Which is something I didn’t do.

You can drive away from a bad date, crying until you’re completely spent, and, the next morning, be lifted by the knowledge that you’re still You.  Beautifully you.  An absolutely gorgeous person, unique to any other being that anyone will ever know. 

You can roll your eyes at the person who wants to compete with you, or the person who makes you feel less because you don’t glitter as they do.  You can walk away and know that you glitter more brilliantly because you’re You.  Absolutely perfect with your imperfections and your genuineness. 

It’s not easy.  Here I am, a spunky crazy person who lives with two pieces of furniture.  I’ve embraced minimalism and simplicity… and I fell.  I scraped my knees on true complexity.  The complexity of losing yourself.  But I can tell you, from experience, that the only people worth complexity are those who love you for your broken shoelaces.  That love you for the quirks and craziness that make you You.  Go ahead, complicate your life – with the nervousness, the butterflies, the biting of your nails – but only for the people who like the amazing person you already are.

Your ego will want to play the games that others want you to play.  Remember, always, that you have a choice.  You can simply say, “No, thanks.” 

For the record, the shoes are on eBay.  And Mr. Convertible is now driving solo. 

I’m a daydreamer.  Sitting next to a wide window at work, I spend most of my days staring at the mountains – elbow planted on cubicle desk, chin propped in palm – daydreaming about everything.  Like zipping through Manitou Springs in a ’54 Corvette Roadster.  Designing the perfect downtown loft, starting with white and chipped hardwood floors.  I remember the Tuileries Garden in Paris, from when I was an exchange student, and imagine sitting there again, reading Voltaire.  I daydream about Napa Valley, sighing with the idea of being chauffeured from one vineyard to the next, languid and happy. 

Well, I daydream about these things until my boss catches me . 

Having a secret, cherished, gorgeous world inside of my head is something I consider very important.  When all of those daydreams, though, are purely fantasy (don’t think the Roadster’s in my immediate future, more’s the pity) it can dampen the daydreaming experience.  Rather than melt into something fanciful, I begin feeling frustrated that nothing wonderful actually happens.  I’ve discovered that one of the best gifts I can give to myself is this:

Something to always look forward to.

Something that, during a tough day at work, I think about and immediately smile.  Something on the calendar that makes me excited for the beginning and ending of another day.  I still daydream about a Roadster (and a silk bandana for my hair, as it’s a convertible), but it’s tempered by many equally wonderful realities to also daydream over.   

Unfortunately, I’m not a wealthy woman.  I don’t have tickets to Brazil taped to the refrigerator.  Thank goodness, as I’m more Stockholm than Rio, anyway (Nordic architectural design!  IKEA!  Meatballs!).  Something to look forward to doesn’t mean something expensive or ridiculous.  My current “something to look forward to” is tickets to the Colorado Symphony on February 25^th.  Other treats I regularly indulge in:

• I print out movie tickets (from Fandango) for movies I can’t wait to see.  I buy them a week in advance and soak up the anticipation.
• Road trips with my camera.  I love planning all the details – cafés to stop at, scenic spots.
• Road trips to new trailheads. 
• Museum events.  Recently I saw the King Tut exhibit at the Denver Art Museum and eagerly counted down the days until I saw an Egyptian funeral mask with my very own eyes.
• Books Release dates.  I get excited for when my favorite author, or a book I’ve been excited about, finally hits the stands.  I put the date on my calendar and race to the bookstore.  The day after my purchase, I plan a Reading Day Extraordinaire – tucking myself into the couch, opening a bottle of Chianti, nibbling olives and chocolate.  This is my idea of perfection.
• Happy Hours or dinners with friends.  I like to have one evening scheduled for drinks or dinner with a good friend every month.  Nothing is more delicious than anticipating something yummy to go with long conversations about men, work, books, music, hiking, cooking, and photography.
• Visiting new cafés/bistros.  I like to try a new one every weekend.  I print out the online menu and tack it onto my cubicle wall – allowing me to indulge in how that upcoming afternoon will be like, latte in one hand, book in the other.

Think of something that you can look forward to.  Buy football tickets and display them in a prominent place.  Print out directions for a road trip and, throughout the days, make notes about the stops you’ll make along the way.  Plan a dinner date with your best friend and mark it in Big Block letters on your calendar.  Just do something that makes you wake up in the morning and say, “Another day for dreaming!  Another day for planning something fantastic!  Another day for doing something that makes me happy!”

Recently I perused the statistics for my blog, curious as to how people find me and what my readers are searching for.  One of the top – daily! – searches involved some phrase related to “living without TV”.  Interesting.  Last March I wrote about my life sans TV in this post.  Seeing such an interest, I thought I’d expound on the topic.

I don’t believe that television is The Devil.  Commercials are undoubtedly evil, but I derive too much pleasure from 30 Rock and Arrested Development to ever call them bad names.  It’s easy to get caught up in TV shows – and movies – and (if you’re me) especially easy to become the victim of National Geographic documentary marathons.  Yum! 

I’ve been without TV for almost two years.  I can tell you that my life is more satisfying as a result.  I use Netflix extensively on my laptop, which I’m willing to admit, without hesitation, is still a form of TV.  Being able to pick and choose what I watch, and when I watch, changes the game, though.  I only watch programs that I’m interested in, at times when I’m craving down time.  For me, TV has become an indulgence – like chocolate or Shiraz – not the constant background noise to my entire life.  TV used to provide me with a false sense of company (easy to do when you live alone), a false connection to humanity, and an escape after work.  Life is infinitely more enjoyable when it’s stripped of anything false – company, connection, escape.

If you’re looking to cut back, or eliminate, TV from your life, here are my suggestions:

1.  Bring home piles of books from the library.  Sign up for Paperback Swap.  Fall into the pages of architectural designs, interior decorating, nature photography, mysteries, the adventures of Harry Potter, hiking guides – or anything that seems compelling.

2.  Start a Movie Night Club.  This may sound like it’s working against the cause, but I think it puts television into its proper place.  By planning a regular Movie Night with friends, you shift the focus from watching TV thoughtlessly.  Instead, you create a connection with other people.  You laugh at Adam Sandler.  You cry with Bridget Jones.  I do this on a monthly basis with my friend Becky.  We cook a themed dinner to match the movie (and a themed drink ) and delight in the magic of cinema.

3.  Develop a hobby that can be done at home.  It’s great to replace TV with exercise, or something equally productive, but what about when it’s wintertime – below zero temperatures, snow on the ground?  What about those times when you want to unwind into an evening of hermitude?  Find a hobby that can be done while lounging in bunny slippers.  Create a blog, write a book, paint landscapes, sketch portraits, learn an instrument, listen to opera (or sing opera!), meditate in the bathtub.  

4.  Take an interest in cooking.  This could be classified as #3 above, but I think it deserves its own category.  We all have to eat, so why not take pleasure from preparing food?  Cooking can be the perfect way to share time with family, or sing to your favorite music, or simply chop/dice/peel in a beautiful silence.  

5.  Take an interest in eating.  Expanding on #4, taking the time to enjoy dinner is one of the most pleasurable substitutes for evening TV.  Eat with friends/family and talk for several hours – don’t forget the vino!  

6.  Invest in some board games.  A little known fact about me is that I rock at Boggle.  It’s impossible to beat me.  Despite my general lack of competitiveness, I become a fighting crossword machine when a Boggle timer starts.  I guarantee that there’s a game out there somewhere that you’ll enjoy playing.  Invite friends over for charades.  Start a weekly Scrabble get-together.  Or simply play crossword puzzles by yourself (preferably while in the bathtub – don’t forget the vino here, either! ).

7.  Love music.  Find music you love listening to.  Music that entrances you.  Music that forces you to do nothing except listen.  How long ago was it that you reclined and let music carry you away?  Listen to hundreds – thousands - of different songs until you find a collection of artists and pieces that make you happy.  Try Italian operas, techno, hip-hop, garage bands from Sweden… 

8.  Maintain friendships.  I’m often disappointed at how little anyone talks on the phone anymore.  Everyone texts - sometimes because they’re also watching TV.  Spend an evening catching up with friends on the phone.  Make it a habit to keep in touch and call your friends regularly.

9.  Build new friendships.  Extend invitations for coffee, wine, or dinner.  It’s not always easy to put yourself out there, but spending an evening with a new friend over a cup of java is infinitely more wonderful than meeting a new character from NBC.

10.  Find a cafe where you can become a “regular”.  A place that calls your name at the end of the day.  Somewhere to be around people, have a conversation with the baristas, crack open a book, or simply watch people walk by.  An after-work destination is something to look forward to, and an alternative to going home to the 6 o’clock sitcoms.

11.  Attend free evening presentations.  There are two places I always check for free talks and special guest speakers – The Tattered Cover (a wonderful independent bookstore) and the Denver Art Museum.  Every month they have authors, curators, and experts giving talks.  They’re fun and, even if I’m not particularly interested in the subject, I always learn something new.

12.  Follow your dream.  Take the extra time you once spent on TV and put it toward something you’ve always wanted to accomplish.  Go back to school.  Learn French.  Enter dance competitions.  Give life meaning.

I’m amazed at the beautiful imperfections of life.  I’m grateful for the imperfections.  Imperfect moments make the greatest stories.  Imperfect people are often the most wonderful.  It’s when things go wrong – you get lost, you lose, you fall – that you learn who you are.  Without the falls, the losing, the wrong turns, I’d never be where I am – or be who I am.  And I certainly wouldn’t laugh as often.  Life is an imperfect, completely unpredictable experience.   

I couldn’t have predicted, for example, again dating Mr. Convertible (from this previous post).  Which has certainly been an imperfect experience!  The dinner date I wrote about last August wasn’t our first date – far from it, actually.  Mr. Convertible and I met two years ago while dancing at Fado’s, an Irish pub complete with an excellent whiskey selection and peppy live bands.  We didn’t actually meet that night, he just stared at me while we both shook our booties on opposite ends of the dance floor.  For his viewing pleasure, I shook my booty with lots of enthusiasm . 

“What’s up with that guy?”  I shouted over the music to my ( à la moment) dance partner/date.

He glanced in Mr. Convertible’s direction.  “He’s either drunk or hot for your bod,” he said, giving me a twirl.  “He looks pretty sober, actually.”  He narrowed his eyes in a possessive little scowl.  “Want me to beat the crap out of him?”

I rolled my eyes.  I haven’t always dated the most congenial of men .

A week later Mr. Convertible appeared a second time  - like magic - at my Cocktail Club.  He stared at me in the same lascivious manner, but at least found the decency to introduce himself.  I’m still unsure of how he tracked me down, through our social grapevines somehow, but when he thrust his hand out at me, I had bigger concerns than his stalker-like behavior.  Like breathing properly.

“I’m Mr. Convertible,” he said, a smile lifting the corner of one lip.  He was the perfect image of a handsome, confident Cheshire cat.  Standing over me, blocking any interruption with the angle of his shoulders, he meant business.  And it was clear that he wasn’t going anywhere until I signed the papers.

I swallowed, grasping the extended hand.  When his fingers wrapped around mine, sending a delightful shock up my arm, I couldn’t remember my name.  “I’m…”

“Sunny,” he rolled my name out slowly. 

“How did you…?”  I couldn’t finish this sentence either.  Mostly because I couldn’t decide whether to punch him in the nose – the audacity! – or melt – how romantic! 

He gave a little shrug, which made me lean toward the “punch in nose” option.  “You’re Sunny,” he said again.  “And you’re going to have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

Well, geesh, what choice did I have?  The man is “pushy” personified.  Our first attempt at dating went horribly.  Because we’re imperfect.  He’s pushy, I’m stubborn.  Better stated, as in my previous post, he’s ravioli… and I’m peanut butter.  We’re exact opposites.  It didn’t last long and I was happy to leave the complication behind.  He wasn’t.  He’s pursued me relentlessly ever since.  I’ve, in response, mostly avoided him relentlessly. 

Every week thereafter he tried convincing me to join him for dinner – or the theatre, strange festivals, Rockies games, dancing, karaoke… Periodically I’d catch up with him over a drink or join him for dinner, but when it became clear that Mr. Convertible was incapable of seeing me without stealing my lips for a good-night kiss, I spent almost an entire year sidestepping his invitations.  ”Busy tonight”, “Oops, outta town”, “My new special-ops military boyfriend wouldn’t approve”.    Last October, though, he sent me an invitation so cruel.  So completely irresistible that I had no option but to cave.  

“Sunny,” he implored.  “Join me for a corn maze?” 

I’m from Wisconsin for the love of God!  Walking among eight-foot stalks of dried corn, under the stars, in the middle of manure-scented pastures?  Of course I have to go.  It’s my idea of heaven with a little twist of “back home”.  He tricked me.  He tricked me good. 

That night, lost together beneath an inky sky, bumping into corn stalks and into each other, I recognized a sudden craving for ravioli.  Since that moment, I’ve enjoyed many delicious Italian dinners.

We’re the most imperfect pair imaginable.  He’s a convertible driver, I’m a Subaru girl.  He’s worldly, I’m small-town.  He’s parties on a Friday night, I’m Netflix and fuzzy socks.  He’s beaches and palm trees, I’m cabin-in-the-woods.  But, somehow, it’s working.  Because I accepted what doesn’t make perfect sense and trusted what felt right.  I’ve realized – *gulp* - that compromise isn’t such a bad thing.  That setting aside perfection – that concrete visual ideal preventing possibility - welcomes knowledge and excitement.

I’m glad for our imperfections.  Glad that Mr. Convertible is so different from me.  He makes everything fun.  He shows me how to see things in a whole new way.  He makes me feel like I’m 16 again.  I’m forever changed, in a positive way, because of him.  I would’ve missed out on this – on a new part of myself – if I hadn’t loosened my grip from perfection.

As a recovering Type-A, I’ll never be capable of throwing all caution aside.  I believe in standards and expectations.  We should set standards for ourselves, from the way we’re treated in relationships to the routines we indulge in.  On the other hand, we must also welcome imperfection.  Open ourselves to things that we’re not quite sure about, but are drawn to anyway.  If you realize, no matter how soon or how much later, that it’s no longer right, you can always say, “no thanks, I’m done” and move on.  At least you tried, and you’ll have learned something new.  Without doubt, life will never be boring! 

Your life will always be imperfect, no matter what you do or how hard you try.  You have the choice, though, on whether it’s beautifully imperfect.

I went back to college, finally, because I realized the experience didn’t have to be perfect.  I didn’t need to immediately know which major I’d choose, how long it’d take me to graduate, or which career path I wanted to chase after.  It was enough to say, “This may not be easy, or end well, but it’s worth doing, even if I do it badly.”  

I went salsa dancing for the first time, having finally accepted how ridiculously imperfect I’d be.  I injured plenty of toes that night – still do, if you must know – and I laugh at how horrible a salsa dancer I am, because it’s funny and I’m having fun. 

I became a minimalist when I released my need for a perfectly furnished apartment or perfectly designed clothes. 

I’m openly eccentric because I don’t need a perfectly polished facade. 

Allow me to leave you with a Chinese proverb:  ”Were I to await perfection, my book would never be finished.”  So, go write your book!  Begin creating the imperfect and utterly beautiful story of your life.

Wow, it’s really been a while since I’ve posted here – shame on me!  As I’ve mentioned before, I returned to college last year, but this fall my mindset changed from, “Wow, school is fun!”, to, “Oh my God, what was I thinking?”.  These past five months, my life has revolved around 30+ pages of research papers and poems that, despite being remarkably short, require all day to interpret them.  My eyes have become perpetually bloodshot, from devouring too many unpronounceable words and living on four hours of sleep every night.  I continue to pull myself through a full-time job, too.  Balancing these responsibilities has been tricky and I haven’t had much motivation for pleasure writing.  My deepest apologies.  
 
Does it sound like I’m complaining?  After all, I’ve replaced the latest season of 30 Rock with sociological documentaries.  My nose has been stuck within the complexity of Hemingway rather than the escapism of Janet Evanovich.  My wine consumption has increased – because, well, studying and wine just go together, yes? – but, quite frankly, you can’t put a negative spin on having to drink more wine.
 
No matter what it may sound like, I’m having The. Time. Of. My. Life.  What exactly does “The. Time. Of. My. Life.” look like?  It’s late nights, sipping espresso on Capital Hill - curled into the red velvet chair at City, O’City  - and, even after my eyes become heavy and the clock strikes 11, I’m reluctant to close the pages of Tennyson and Byron.  It’s Saturdays, rushing up the escalator of the Denver Public Library, anxious to claim my favorite desk on the 3rd floor, where I breathe the scent of leather-bound books.  It’s Tuesday nights, curled up in my delightfully empty apartment, reading about brand new things.  It’s Thursday nights, curled into the same spot, reading about old things in new ways.  It’s every day, seeing the world as never before.
 
But, I must confess that The. Time. Of. My. Life. didn’t happen smoothly.  On August 16th, 2010 – the first day of the fall semester – I held the syllabus for each of my classes in shaking hands.  I sat cross-legged on my living room floor, in complete darkness for melodramatic appeal, and sobbed until I got the hiccups.    
 
“I can never do this!” I cried to my vaulted ceiling.  The reading, the writing, the research.  Tasks beyond my capabilities, surely.  I sniffled, overwhelmed.  
 
Today, December 8th, 2010 – one day before the end of this fall semester – I’ve still got a few tears left.  These tears, however, are of accomplishment.  I did it.  Not perfectly.  Not without frustration, doubt, exhaustion, and fear.  But I did it. 

I convinced myself not to quit.  Not because of self-confidence, determination, or any other “good” stuff that you’re supposed to have.  Instead, I relied on old-fashioned denial.  “Sunny,” I told myself.  “You don’t need to know how you’re going to get all of this done.  You just gotta finish the first assignment, then move on to the next one.”

Denial can be positive, in the right frame of mind! 

During the difficult moments, enmeshed in academic journals that I couldn’t interpret, I’d ask myself, “How am I going to get through this?”  My answer was always the same, “You’ll figure it out, just keep moving forward.” 

I’ve learned that simply moving in the direction that feels right, without obsessing over an ultimate destination, is all that’s necessary.  The details will figure themselves out.
 
During my studies of really old literature this past semester, I was especially moved by Tennyson’s words in Ulysses:  “I am part of all that I have met / Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough / Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades / For ever and for ever when I move”.  Here the speaker of Tennyson’s poem, Ulysses, realizes the impossibility of returning to his kingdom, because his travels keep bringing him to yet another place – then another, and another.  A beautiful bouncing from one adventure to the next.  For him, to stop is to no longer exist.  
 
I am Ulysses.  Well, minus the whole Trojan War part.  You are Ulysses.  Maybe we aren’t all traveling the seas, lamenting on a return to a place called Ithaca.  We are, though, traveling through life.  And, if you’re anything like me, you lament quite a bit, too .  But are you travelling unencumbered by maps, compasses, and all of the answers?  Are you bouncing beautifully into unknown possibilities?
 
I can’t give you a bullet list of how to build The. Time. Of. YOUR. Life.  I can’t tell you how to bounce.  We’re all different, and what works for me, isn’t going to work for you.  Even Ulysses, as much as I love his disgruntlement in Tennyson’s poem, can’t convince me to travel the world every day – because I’m a Colorado girl, in love with her spot next to the mountains.  What I can do, though, is tell you about my own bouncing.
 
I am going to present a bullet list, but this one outlines how my very first dream - moving to Colorado – has led me on a completely unexpected path.  By the way, if I’d been told this would become my life, I’d have laughed and cringed simultaneously.  I’m the kinda girl who needs to be blindsided.
 
-   I moved to Colorado.
-   I fell in love with the mountains (I knew THIS would happen).
-   Falling in love with the mountains made me fall in love with hiking.
-   Hiking made me crazy about photography.
-   My love of photography brought me to a photography forum, which introduced me to people throughout Denver.
-   Someone from the forum introduced me to a Dining in Denver club, which then introduced me to delicious food, fun friends, and awesome wine tastings throughout the city.
-   The Dining in Denver club lead me to a Cocktail Club, a Coffee Club, and a Brunch Club.  More eating, more friends, more wine.  
-  Exhausted from the über activity (and from spending way too much money on these things), I decided to invest in a Netflix membership and discovered the fine art of the At-Home Retreat.
-   As part of retreating at home, I spent hours upon hours reading books that I hadn’t had time for while living in Florida – or during my first year of living in Colorado, when I ran around my new home state like a crazy person.
-   My reading made me realize how much I love books, learning, and education.  I became compelled to go back and finish college. 
-   I’m now a college “kid”.
-   What’s next?  How can I possibly know?

Sometimes I regret all of the time, money, and energy that I’ve spent on the bad decisions of my past.  The years I spent not being true to myself.  My miserable existence in Florida, the fancy dinners, the expensive stilettos, the wrong men.  But when I’m reasonable (which isn’t often), I realize that I absolutely CANNOT regret any of these things.  My time in Florida makes me appreciate Colorado.  Those fancy dinners make me relish the simplicity of picnics in Washington park.  My sneakers are much loved after years in uncomfortable patent leather heels.  Without my mistakes, my life’s bullet list would be disjointed.  A link would be missing and I wouldn’t be where I am right now.
 
Realize that every event, good and bad, can have purpose if you make it so.  Realize that today’s hardships are tomorrow’s reason to open yourself to opportunity and action.  Be open to everything, because you never know where each experience, each bullet point, will lead you.  Try something new!  And, for heaven’s sake, don’t think too much about it.  You don’t need all the answers, the pros/cons, or a final destination.  No matter what you THINK is going to happen, it won’t, anyway.  You’ll get blindsided, just like me.  And, lemme tell ya, traveling blind is the best part. 

Hm… Suddenly I’m reminded of Oedipus.  Don’t worry, I’ll save him for another post.