stretch armstrong

Sometimes there are some holes in my stories.

Sometimes I stretch the truth a bit. Especially on here.

It's not that I lie, necessarily. It's more that I don't share all the pieces. Maybe I share the emotion, but not why I'm feeling it. I share the story, but not why it's significant to me. I share the questions swirling around, but not why I'm asking them. Sometimes I tell the story that's easier, that's safer to tell than the one that's real. Because the real story? That story can hurt to tell. That story can bite you in the butt.

But I think I owe you (honestly, I owe myself) the truth: It's not that I haven't had anything to write over the past months. It's that everything I've started writing has been too real. Too honest. Too better-keep-those-feelings-hidden-you-crazy-girl. And, so, I did. I've kept it to myself. I relegated it to my journal. Safe away from any need to actually own up to it.

So here's what I haven't been saying: I'm not necessarily good at vulnerable. I try to laugh things off when I can. I default to sarcasm and indifference. I poke fun at myself to show that I'm not hurting. When I fall down (which I tend to do a lot), I jump up, scrape off my knees and get back in the action. I act like I'm okay and hope eventually I will be. After all, I'm strong. I can take this. At the end of the day, though, I'm a girl. And a girl, despite how tough she may seem on the football field, is often more fragile that she likes to admit.

And I've been struggling. Struggling with what makes me unique. With what makes me someone anyone should find lovable. What makes me worth it.

Struggling with what I'm supposed to be doing. Struggling with the notion of working to live vs. living to work. There are days when I feel like I couldn't have a job better suited for me. Where I'm flying high. And then there are days where I enviously eye the receptionist, thinking how great it would be if the biggest problem I had to solve today was how to handle two calls coming in at once. Umm... Can you hold, please?

Struggling with what defines me. Are those the things I want to define me necessarily? And if they're not, how can I change that?

Just struggling. And vulnerable. And not myself.

So there. That's it. That's what I haven't been saying. That's what has been blocking me for three months. That's the big secret.

And now I can try to move on. Move up. Just move.

the best laid plans

I've said it before (and I'm sure this won't be the last time), but I'm a "planner". Almost to a fault. I'm not good at relaxing. I'm not okay with 'nothing going on'. And I'm even worse at sitting still. I just always want there to be something to do. Something to look forward to. Somewhere to go. I hate a blank calendar. Especially when there's so many opportunities to fill it.

I know this isn't always the most desirable quality for those around me. I think I tend to drive my roommate, my friends, my family and pretty much anyone on my email contact list crazy with my constant wanting to be doing something. Add to this that I'm restless. I'm anally organized. I'm all kinds of type A personality. And when you throw all of these wonderful traits together and you have on your hands the perfect combination for one high-strung girl.

But I'm working on it.

And most of the time, I think I'm getting better. Sure, you won't find me hanging out on the couch for hours on end on a Saturday or Sunday, but I have stopped inundating whatver email inboxes I can get my hands on with all sorts of requests to do this or that with me. I even made it my New Years resolution last year not to send more than one mass email a quarter. And while I think that lasted maybe until May (if I'm lucky), the point is I'm trying.

But then there's the past eighteen hours where I booked 3 flights for the fall which 'required' sending about a million emails to my college roommates about a trip to Denver, a hundred-thousand emails with my Chicago gals about grabbing our cowboy boots and heading to Austin and about eight-hundred texts with Suzzle about the IU/OSU football game. A huge search for the perfect Non-Book Book Club July event - a movie in the park. And to top it all off, a massive email to all my Chicago friends trying to coordinate a country concert in August.

It's like I'm an addict slipping back into a relapse. I can't help myself.

And just when I think I'm making progress.

Someone better take away my planner and my access to gmail.

dot dot dot

Leave it to my favorite TV obsession (or maybe second favorite, next to Criminal Minds), The Bachelorette, to provide me with just the right bait to lure me out of my month+ blogging hiatus. I may be less than inspired these days, but there's just something about Bentley that makes me (and just about every girl in America) want to comment. And by comment I mean scream you're a jerk! every time he opens his mouth.

Now, I'd be withholding some incriminating evidence if I didn't admit that I pre-picked Bentley from ABC's website as my personal favorite before the season began. (What? It was important for our office pool!). I mean look at this seemingly innocent and rough-and-rugged face:

So, I guess I understood a bit when Ashley, despite being warned that Bentley was on the show for the 'wrong reasons' (my favorite over-used phrase in Bachelor(ette) history), started to get all over-the-moon for Bentley. In a situation where 24 guys were fighting for her attention and professing their love-at-first-sight for her, Bentley was the challenge. Bentley was the wild card. Bentley, therefore, was the one she wanted to win over.

I'd like to shake some sense into her if I wasn't guilty of the same thing more times than I'd like to admit.

Well, minus the 24 guys vying for my affection part.

It was clear to we, the TV viewer, though, very early on that Bentley was indeed not there for Ashley. He didn't give a hoot. But that didn't stop him from enjoying her woo-ing all over him at every chance she got. I guess when it comes down to it, we all like attention. Even if we don't necessarily like like the person we're getting it from.

Difference is the rest of us usually feel a little bad about it. Or at least don't brag about it. On national TV nonetheless.

But Bentley does.

Fast forward through countless you're a jerk! comments and you get to the first good, nobel decision we've seen Bentley make: to leave the show. Only instead of confessing that he's not feeling an ounce for Ashley of what she's feeling he decides to blame his leaving on the fact that he misses his daughter. Sick-o.

In his attempt to "console" (if I can call it that) Ashley, he insisted that they leave the goodbye with a "..." instead of a "." You're a jerk! While this "..." meant for Bentley that he 'wouldn't mind hooking up with her every now and then' to Ashley it meant that things were unfinished. Feelings were unsaid. There was still hope.

And hope, I unfortunately know, isn't always a good thing.

I've come to realize that in this crazy world of dating and boy-and-girls and love and things-that-feel-sort-of-like-love, there isn't anything worse than the "...". It's not fair to give them out in hopes of sparing someone's feelings. And it sucks, quite frankly, to have them handed to you. Only, the worst part is, it doesn't suck at the time. At the time you want anything but a period. Anything but something definite. Anything but the end.

Only later, when you're living in the "..." do you realize how bad it really is.

Wikipedia (yeah, I realize that comes out of left field) says that "when placed at the end of a sentence, the ellipsis can also inspire a feeling of melancholy longing." Melancholy longing. Emotional purgatory. Frankly, it's the pits.

So while you annoy me about 85% of the time, Ashley, I can't help but commiserate with you on this. Bentley, of all people (you'll realize when you watch the show yourself, girl), didn't need to leave you with a "...". Everyone deserves better than that.

But, man, I'm going to miss that Bentley commentary...

Yes, that "..." is intentional. After all, I'll be longing for it every Monday night.

the young and the restless

I've cleaned out my closet 3 times in the past two months. I bought two new mascaras. And seriously considered dying my hair. If I lived alone (and had the space to actually to do so), I would have rearranged the furniture in my apartment at least once.

I'm restless again.

Do you ever have those days? Those weeks? Those months? Where you’re looking around at your life and thinking something has to change. Maybe not a big thing, necessarily. Then again, maybe so. But maybe it's just something tiny. Something in the everyday details.

Part of me feels like I'm living in this worn-out, over-sized, old sweatshirt. I'm comfy and cozy. I generally like where I'm at. I like who's around me. I like what I see when I look out my window. It's familiar. It's safe. It's nice.

But then part of me doesn't feel comfortable at all. Feels like it's time to shed that lazy lounge wear and get my butt in gear. Part of me wonders when comfort becomes complacency. And complacency is just not something I'm comfortable with. I just can't deal with the idea of settling.

And so there's restlessness. One of the very worst feelings. It's just dull and boring and itching and twitchy. It's like you're just waiting for the heat of something to pull you towards it. Waiting for the passion to move you in the right direction. Just waiting.

I generally like to get where I'm going.

I walk too fast. I tend to drive just a little over the speed limit. I pay my bills ahead of time. I get that assignment due Friday done on Wednesday. I don't do well with the slow and scenic route. If I know that there's a destination, I just want to get. there. already.

So waiting? And restlessness? Not really my cup of tea.

I want to move. I want to do. I want to be calling the shots. I want to be in control.

And yet I'm back in the antsy mode, wondering what comes next.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one, wild and crazy life? - Mary Oliver

i know you are, but what am i?

They say as a writer (so I'm assuming as a blogger) you're supposed to write what you know. You know, write what you're feeling. What you're experiencing. What's real. And maybe that's why I haven't written much lately. I'm not sure what I know at the moment. Things I thought I knew just don't seem as steady as they did before. And so I've got nothing to write.

So maybe instead of what I know, I should reach out to what I don't know...

I don't know how to hang on to an umbrella for more than 2 months. An El train. A cab. A restaurant. The salon. All of these are obstacles that stand in the way of me actually owning an umbrella for any length of time. Why those bad boys don't come with some sort of strap to hang around your wrist or something... Oh wait...

I don't know how to use our coffee pot at work. I don't think it's that it's particularly fancy or top-of-the-line or anything. It just sits there on the counter, looking all intimidating. Taunting me every morning. If it were my own coffee pot, in the safety of my home, I might just give it a whirl. But who wants to be one to blame when everyone is complaining about the coffee around your 9am meeting? Not this girl. And so, every morning, I get to work early. And wait. Wait for someone else to come in and start up the pot. God bless you, brave soul.

I don't know how 27 and 3/4ths is supposed to feel. Older? More responsible? More grounded? And I better figure it out fast because 28 is quickly approaching and I certainly don't know how to be 28.I don't know how to get from here to there. Here, of course, being now. Today. The present. To there. The future. Where I'm supposed to be. What I'm supposed to be doing. Who I'm supposed to be.

I don't know why it's April 18th and it's snowing. And, for that matter, I don't know why I live in Chicago in the winters.

I don't know how in the world the Indians are leading the AL Central. I don't know how they're above .500, much less 12-5, for that matter. And, while we're at it, I don't know if I could name more than about 5 players on this years roster. And I call myself a fan...

I don't know how two people ever fall in love in this world. I just don't know how it ever happens. That they're at the same place at the same time. That one of them actually gets up the idea to go talk to the other. That someone feels a spark. That they actually meet up again. And again. And again. And the timing's just right. (Or at least not horribly wrong.) That they both like each other enough to give it a shot. And when they do, that they both fall in love... It's just mind-blowing to me. How does it all work out?

I don't even know how to be a girlfriend.

I don't know how to walk into lululemon and not spend at least $100 dollars.

I don't know.

I just don't know.