Top Nine Things That Happened in 2007

It's that time of year again, the time when people release top ten lists of movies, music, world events, funny quotations and zomgwtf moments from 2007. Since I never made my "I'm grateful for" list on Thanksgiving, I decided to incorporate it into my very own top nine list. Because I have to be different like that.

Top Nine Things That Happened to Me in 2007

9. Spoke at my college graduation

I have two regrets from high school: I never tried out for Once on This Island, and I never auditioned to speak at my high school graduation. I remember watching whoever did speak drone on and on, tossing out tired cliches one after another, fuming all the while that I could have done a better job. I decided I would do what I could to fix that in college. I spent months writing my speech, having professors look over it, listen to it, and forcing roommates to overhear me practicing it in the shower (just after they got over listening to me practice Twelfth Night in the shower for the previous three months). Finally, I got the chance to audition in front of a committee that ever-conveniently included my speech teacher and my creative writing teacher. Frankly, if I hadn't been chosen, it would have been their fault, but I digress. I will never forget getting the call from Mary Reynolds and running around Seager Lot. I told a few people like Abby and Alec, and kept it relatively quiet otherwise in case I accidentally rubbed it in the face of someone who'd tried out.

Speaking in front of those thousands of people - fellow students, professors, family, administrators - was the biggest rush I'd ever gotten. I wasn't worried about stage fright, but my heart pounded the entire time. I remember sitting back in my seat and watching the rest of the ceremony with a sort of dazed expression. I remember half-listening to Senator Chuck Hagel, our keynote speaker, giving his speech which actually included several of my talking points. As my brother said later, it was a good thing I went first.

After the ceremony, I had people I had never met before - parents of people I had never met before - coming up to me to tell me how incredible my speech had been. I got emails from professors whose classes I had never been in asking for copies. Professor Mary Jean Lynch even asked for permission and used part of my speech for the freshman class orientation. People told me that they had been to years and years of graduations, and my speech had been the best by far. When I started my job that summer, one of my coworkers (who had graduated in my class but we'd never met) knew who I was from the sound of my voice and quoted by speech back at me. Even now, whenever someone new starts, Anthony will bring up me speaking at graduation. It was a beautiful experience.

8. Played Viola in Twelfth Night

Not often is someone presented the opportunity to play her dream part. In college, it happened to me three times: Boy Gets Girl, Barefoot in the Park, and Twelfth Night. I got the part in Boy Gets Girl, absolutely blew my callback for Barefoot in the Park, and prepared for almost a year for Twelfth Night. Shakespeare was something I'd always loved but had never performed. It was something I had resisted in high school, embraced in college, and plan to have a torrid affair with for the rest of my life. I had the monologue from Troilus and Cressida taped behind a sheet of plastic on the inside of my shower from August to March (Hard to seem won, but I was won, my lord, with the first glance that ever--). I took Acting III. I knew it would be difficult to get a part at all, considering there were only three women's parts in the whole show and my being too short to be mistaken for any of the guys. Luckily, Carin took a chance on me, and I got to live in an honest-to-goodness heroine's shoes, if only for a few months.

7. Got a 4.0 in my Communicative Disorders classes

I did have to study for the first time in my life. I actually had to call someone and ask them how to make flash cards. However, I didn't study that much, considering I had full time classes at NIU, took a Tuesday night Sign Language class at the church, worked nearly full time, and drove out to Evanston to see Mark whenever I could. I have a learning condition - I shy away from the idea of calling it a disability - where I either get something right away or never grasp it. Luckily, speech-language pathology is something I "get."

6. Got closer to my brother, James

I'll never forget the day I came home with a new haircut, and James told me that he felt like I was getting farther and farther away from him in age. We'd never been super close as siblings; the term "sibling rivalry" is probably illustrated with our pictures in this year's OED. I'm five years older than him, which is just close enough that we compete for the same kind of attention from our parents and far enough that we don't quite understand what it's like to be the other. He doesn't get that I didn't get away with a quarter of the things he's allowed to do, and I can't understand what it's like to have something to live up to. He doesn't get that I was his age once, and perhaps I have forgotten some of the things I felt at his age. But we've bonded over some serious conversations (that is to say, the topics were serious even if we are incapable of going more than a few minutes without making a joke), and our differences - age, gender, interests - aren't keeping us as far apart as I had thought.

5. Started running

I know. My motto before all of this was that there was no need to run unless you were being chased. I get it. But those few times when I ran with Abby did ultimately feel... Good isn't the word. Accomplished. I did something. It costs nothing to go running, it's great way to sort out my thoughts and grab some quality time with myself (which is just about as hard as you'd think when you're living with three guys who prefer to stay in and play video games than go out and do whatever guys do), and my body responds well to exercise. Sure, I have to remain consistent, and it hurts like hell because I always push myself harder than I probably should, but I've always been a fan of reaping what I sow. In theatre, I could work harder than anyone else preparing for a part and still not get the part. With running, my body has no bias; it responds exactly to my input, keeping me honest and disciplined. It has fallen to the wayside with the cold weather, but I've started again recently, and I have every intention in the world of sticking to it.

4. Met Mark

This one is a no-brainer, although many reading this will be surprised that it's not higher on the list. For years, I was worried I'd die alone, and it wasn't just a passing "no boys like me" phase. It was a series of failed almost-relationships after leaving a long-term relationship feeling worse about myself than I ever had in my entire life. And considering my high school experience, that's saying something. I was certain that while I may have caught men's (or boys' as the case may be) eyes for a moment, I was ultimately too disappointing, obnoxious, untrusting. I talked too much, tried too hard, cried too often for anybody to want my company as a romantic partner. The only reason I did not sink into a very real depression, which is a condition that runs in my family, is because I was together enough to be comforted by the "fact" that while I was probably going to be a decrepit old cat lady, I would never lose the love of my family and friends. I didn't dismiss love; I simply stopped believing in romance. As Elizabeth Proctor said in The Crucible, "I counted myself so plain, so poorly made, no honest love could come to me."

It's weird, because this relationship is going really well, but it's not like I'm planning our wedding (yet). Sure, we clicked, and we clicked fast, but as the song goes, "This can't be love: I get no dizzy spell; my head is not in the skies." I had butterflies on our first date, and now - three months later - I still get butterflies when I open my eyes to see him smiling at me, when he rubs his thumb along my hand while we sit at a restaurant, when he laughs into my hair. I know, I know, three whole months and the spark's still there - what an accomplishment. But he seems to actually enjoy my company, is happy to hear my voice when I call, and has an incredible instinct for when he can make fun of me and when a subject is too tender. I'm happy in this place where we haven't named our kids and started constructing our white picket fence life, but we're past the place where "Does he like me? I think he likes me. Maybe he's just being nice. Maybe he's just desperate," runs through my head every moment we're together. He's one of the best things to happen to me this year and in my entire life.

3. Lived in an apartment

You can never appreciate your mother or cafeteria food as fully if you don't live on your own for a while. You will be surprised by how much everything costs, by how quickly those rent payments sneak up on you, by how expensive cable and heat are, and by how rewarding it feels to call a place yours. True, I share my place with three other people, but I have my own room, and no RA can go into it. I can burn candles whenever I feel like it, I can prepare food (limited only by my own admittedly dismal cooking skills), and I never have to go to another floor meeting ever again. On the downside, there's no one there for me if I wake up confused and convinced there's a vampire in my closet, I can't complain to the RA if the douchebags next door are blasting their music, and - considering my budget and physique - I can't just run out and buy prepared food whenever I feel like it. It takes planning and self-control and discipline like I've never had to exhibit before in my life to live in an apartment.

2. Figured out what I wanted to do with my post-college life

Unfortunately, it's not what I did my undergraduate work in, but I did figure it out. Speech-language pathology just fits, like when I discovered theatre. It's diagnostically interesting - I feel like I'm on an episode of House every time we study a stuttering client - in terms of critical thinking, but it also requires memorization. It's easy for me to be better than my classmates (sorry, but it's true - my 4.0 wasn't born from blood, sweat, and tears), because I am good at both of those things.

Sure, I had to do the college victory lap, but it doesn't feel like a fifth year taken because I didn't get my shit together in undergrad. I have my theatre and English degree; I'm just taking a year of extra classes to prepare myself for graduate school in SLP. After I put in a few more years of hard work, I'll be able to work pretty much anywhere, at a job that doesn't force me to live paycheck to paycheck, and I will be happy to head into work instead of slugging in as late as possible just to make ends meet.

1. Fell in love

When I say I fell in love in 2007, I'm not referring to Mark, although I am sure that will come along sooner rather than later. I mean, I fell in love with myself. I am a social creature by nature, and as painful as it is to live in DeKalb so far away from all those I love dearly, I'm okay. I can spend time on my own, whether chilling in my apartment or on my half hour commute to work, and I don't wallow. Do things get me down? Sure. Do I not like the way I look or act or feel sometimes? Of course. But I still love myself at the end of the day. I may never reach my weight goal (110), and I will probably never be happy with my squinty little eyes. I can smile and give myself a little wave in the morning, though, because I love the person I've become.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Christmas takes a lot of shit from people for being overcommercialized, for taking over the stores months before its actual celebration, and for ostracizing those who do not have the appropriate religious beliefs. I agree with all of those things: it has become a marketing holiday, it does emerge in stores about five months before it's really necessary, and those who don't believe in Jesus can find themselves on the sidelines of certain traditions. However, with all of this in mind, I can safely say that Christmas is still my absolute favorite time of year.

I begin getting the Christmas itch in mid-September. Because I hate cold weather, I distract myself with the thought that Christmas is around the corner the first time a cool breeze whips past. As I write this, it occurs to me that this will be the first Christmas season I won't be working retail since I was fifteen years old. Many of my jaded coworkers groaned at the first sign of a holiday planogram, but I always got a shot of energy.

After all, Christmas was coming.

There are two types of last minute in-store Christmas shoppers, the psychos and the mellows. The psychos know they want THIS size of THIS shirt and THAT color of THAT appliance. They MUST have it, or WE'RE CANCELLING CHRISTMAS. This may make me a traitor to my sex, but psychos are usually women. They come into my store just after the deadline for guaranteed Christmas delivery.

"What if it doesn't show up by Christmas?!" they screech. "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WOULDN'T HAVE IT ON THE SHELVES! WHAT ABOUT THE CUSTOMER? THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT!" Psychos might be the only thing about Christmas and its associated events that I dislike. They often threaten to tell my manager ("Yelling about me to Mike won't make the fourth season of Everybody Loves Raymond appear on the shelves any sooner, but I can call him over if you'd like."), go to a competitor ("And never come back? Promise?"), or just look at me and simply let their judgment of me as a simple store employee radiate from their beady little eyes. I've always been proud of what I do, but I'd be lying if I didn't have fantasies of stomping on their throats while wearing ice skates.

It's difficult to tell them apart; psychos look and behave like mellows until you say those magic words, "We don't have it." It doesn't matter if you follow it up with: "But I can show you something similar," "I can call another store to see if they have it," or "Would you like my firstborn child instead?" The magic words set off a chain reaction that spells doom for the next ten minutes of my life.

I love the mellows, though. They're usually men, and they come in at about the same time that the psychos do. Again, that's why they're not always easy to discern. They're usually browsing in a single section for a while, sort of looking for something they maybe saw on TV but aren't exactly sold on getting it just yet.

"Do you need help finding something?" I ask, as they hurriedly put a book back into its correct slot. It would do all bookstore patrons well to know that I am a humble customer service employee and not their seventh grade librarian who, evidently, beat them for misplacing books. I am not a violent person; I simply think less of you. But I digress.

"Yeah... well, I need something for my niece. She's fourteen now, and I heard about those Gossip Girl books--"

"Dear, sweet Jesus, don't."

"..."

"I'm sorry. That was abrasive. What I meant to say is that the Gossip Girl books and their wannabe imitators are not only poorly written and demeaning to young women everywhere, but they're also way more expensive than they ought to be. Can I show you something that won't turn your adorable fourteen-year-old into a pregnant fifteen-year-old?"

I may exaggerate on my wording, but I have no problem admonishing people from buying shitty books. If they insist, I do my job and try to move past it. But many people are not only relieved that I have warned them about the dangers of those disgusting books, but they're also impressed that I can recommend a replacement. Although I do often get "How young do they hire here?" from customers, so maybe they think I'm fourteen, so I'd know what they like.

I'll explain that the Everworld series is great for both boys and girls who like fantasy and/or science fiction while something like Break, Blow, Burn is a fantastic way to get people interested in poetry. Got a guy who's got a good sense of humor but doesn't like to read much fiction? Let me show you to the Bill Bryson section, and especially check out A Walk in the Woods. Want a mindblowing mystery that will absolutely blow you away? Brian Freeman's Immoral is the way to go; I couldn't put it down, and the ending was not only legitimate (all of the clues were there), but it totally blindsided me. Your wife will love P.S. I Love You, but if she's wants a dash of humor and mystery with her romance, check out Carl Haaisen and Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series.

It depresses me that this year will be the first year since I was fifteen that I won't be working retail. I work in a tiny little office with no windows, often on weekends when there's no one even in the building. I get paid more, I get to sit all day, and I can choose my hours, sure, but it's lonely. It's not in the Christmas spirit of helping each other, reminding your loved ones how well you really know them with a perfectly selected gift, and seeing the smiling faces of those whose skating competitions, choir concerts, and art shows you've somehow missed the rest of the year. It's not snuggling by the fire, watching heart-warming television specials, sipping hot chocolate or apple cider, and having an excuse to kiss in the snow just like they do in the movies.

So as much as I hate the cold, I do love Christmas.

Body Temperature

I've always been a cold person.

Don't get me wrong. I get along (even like) the vast majority of the people I meet, I make physical contact with almost everyone in almost every conversation I have, and I'm pretty sure I don't have any trust or intimacy issues.

But when it's any cooler than 70 degrees outside, I am miserable.

Miserable, now that I think about it, is probably too strong of a word. Uncomfortable would be more apt, but my desire to find warmth when I'm shivering is so all-encompassing that it doesn't quite seem to fit. So I default to miserable, because that word connotes a constant suffering that need not always be expressed but is universally understood.

It's weird to think that I get so easily cold, as I was a figure skater as a kid, and you'd think that would harden me to the elements. Not so, grasshopper. And what about all those times I was dragged out on camping trips with Dad and Pam and James? Shouldn't that have toughened my skin a little? Evidently not.

However, when it's 110 degrees in the shade (don't make theatre references, you'll only miss NCC more), I am a happy camper. I love the sweltering heat, that layer of disgusting sweat that covers your whole body the second you step out the door. I enjoy laying out on the beach, going for walks at midnight when it's still 75, and lounging under a tree with a good book. So it's not that extreme temperatures as a whole bother me; it's that I have a ridiculously low tolerance for the cold and yet-undiscovered tolerance for heat.

The reason I bring this up is because it was recently brought to my attention that it's the only high maintenance thing about me. As Mark and I were watching Shaun of the Dead last night, I fell asleep. Not that the movie's not great and not that I ever want to waste the short hours I have with him each week, but I was unbelievably exhausted from staying out late the night before. When I woke up towards the end of the movie, he tells me that my constant need to be wrapped in blankets is the only high maintenance thing about me (Obviously, he's never seen me organize a group outing, but that's another discovery for another day.).

Don't worry, he quickly added, kissing the side of my face. It's worth it. I would be lying if I said that those words alone didn't make me need the blankets a little less.

Now that I think about it, being cold all the time isn't so bad. It's a solid excuse to hold hands, snuggle close, and steal all the blankets with no real repercussions. The cold doesn't bother Mark at all; he actually had the A/C going in his car last night which makes me shiver just thinking about it, and he wore just a long sleeve shirt - no jacket, no hoodie, nothing - outside. It sorts of amazes me, really, that someone can be so unaffected, but it just adds to my list of evidence that he's actually a robot with an electrical heating core. Yes, there is a list, and the warmth thing isn't even the most compelling bit.

I've learned to live with the constant chill of being just barely uncomfortable in air conditioning. I can't say I don't notice it anymore, but I've at least stopped complaining about it. As much.

You really can't get too exasperated with yourself over a default reason to pull someone close.

Before 9 AM

I live in an apartment with three other people, men to be precise. I have my own bedroom, my own space where I have all my show posters on the wall, my beloved blankets on the bed, and my music frequently, gently bouncing off the walls. However, true alone time is uncommon.

At any given time, I can either hear the bass of Jeff's music thudding against my north wall, the rapid gunfire from Steve playing Halo 3 drifting under my door, or the strains of Dom playing the guitar on the balcony through my permanently stuck open window. However, the time before 9 AM is my time, when my boys are asleep and, if not for the sounds of early morning traffic, I would feel like the last person on Earth.

I set my alarm for 7 AM every morning, with the understanding that I will get up and cross the room to the phone - my meager effort at forcing myself to get up by placing my alarm across the room is useless in practice - to reset it for 7:15. Then, if I haven't woken up too many times the night before from the neighbor's pounding techno or my own desperate thirst, I grab my iPod, tie my apartment key to my shoe, and head out for my run.

I'd never been much for running. As my good friend Jeff said (not roommate Jeff), a person shouldn't run unless he's being chased. He hates running with a passion and was as close to mortified as it's possible for him to be when I found out he ran on a treadmill. Which I think counts as running no matter what he says.

But when I moved to DeKalb, I had no friends, no idea of the layout of the town, and a determination to just do well in school long enough to get out of this corn-surrounded hellhole. Without theatre, my life was significantly more hollow, and I wondered about all those testaments that I loved theatre but couldn't go into it as a profession. Could I live without the constant anticipation of the next audition, the callback, first day of rehearsal, opening night, closing night? Would it be possible to breathe knowing my evenings would be full of studying rather than rehearsal, that I may never have to memorize lines again, do warm-up activities or feel the strongest emotions possible in a human being?

To get rid of that strange ache in my stomach and to knock off the thirteen pounds the height-to-weight ratio chart said I should as a good representative of the 5'1" people, I started running. My brother James had been a runner for the first three years of high school and only quit when the running coach/health teacher that had been creepy to all of the girls turned out to be an asshole to all of the guys as well. My best friend Abby (No, don't think about Abby, it'll only remind you how far away she is) swore by running. So I gave it a shot.

So every morning, I run 2.5 miles (I traced my path in my car) and end up back at the still-silent apartment to enjoy full run of the shower. After participating in the passive aggressive fight I currently have going with my roommate Jeff over the location of the shower head, I slink under the warm spray and pretend I'm under a warm waterfall somewhere in the tropics where there's no fucking corn.

After a shower, it's back to my room to pack my bag with the day's classes - a light bag for Monday, Wednesday and Friday, a medium bag for Thursdays, and a holy crap that's heavy bag for Tuesdays. This time is also when I check out my usual morning sites - CNN.com, Penny Arcade, Ctrl+Alt+Del, the infamous Facebook, Fark.com, and MSN.com - and talk online to my friend Mandy in France. The time difference makes trying to catch each other pretty difficult, but my time before 9 AM serves me well.

The phrase is overused, I think, but appropriate in this context. Early morning hours are "me" time. It's not like I sit at my poetry book and pour out my soul, but I would be lying if I didn't say I lie in bed a while and reflect, dampening my pillow with my cold, wet hair. For example, I had an absolutely fantastic day yesterday. I got a 98 on my Hearing Science test, an exam I thought I was doomed to get a C on; my yellow Chucks came in the mail, bringing me another step closer to completing the collection; my washer was fixed, ending a stint of dressing in too-formal-for-classwear; I was able to watch House, one of the last few decent shows on TV; and there were still pickles in the fridge with my name on them. Sure, it would have been nice if the boyfriend had called, but one cannot have everything or one will become a spoiled little princess. Or more of a spoiled princess, as the case may be.

At about this time, I look over notes for upcoming tests and check to see if I've printed out the day's lectures. It's getting close to the time where I'll hear Jeff's alarm through these lovely, paper-thin walls, and I shall no longer be empress of my own domain.

As I descend the throne, I throw on my sweatshirt, untie my keys from my running shoes and reattach it to the monstrosity that is my keyring, and head out the door to greet my people.

Inaugural Post

Years ago, when I was in a very dramatic summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school, I started a weblog. It was on Livejournal, as many weblogs in the early 2000s were, and it began as an audience to replace the family and friends that just didn't "get" me.

In short, it was a typical outlet for a typical 16-year-old.

Over the years, it evolved into a place where I made friends who shared interests, a place where I shared my own fiction and occasional poetry, and where I wrote passive aggressive posts in hopes the right person would read it and feel bad for me. The journal wasn't for me anymore. I guess that sounds silly, considering I was publishing it on the internet in the first place, but there you have it.

I kept it up somewhat faithfully throughout the rest of high school and the first few years of undergraduate level college work. I found myself turning to post in it dozens of times a day when I was at my lowest, whether my content was only somewhat rhetorical cries for understanding from a God I doubted existed or song lyrics with essential portions pertaining to my miseries highlighted in basic HTML-glory. Other periods during those five-odd years, I would go weeks without posting, only to come back with a breathless apology and update that I had been having the time of my life.

My final post was the summer after my junior year of undergrad, right before I left to travel Europe.

I am giving this another go, mostly in an attempt to give myself a more healthy outlet without resorting to the attention-whoring of Facebook or the cesspool of pedophilia and suicidals that is MySpace. I probably won't hand this URL out to many, in an effort to preserve myself from those passive aggressive posts from teenage years past.

My best friends live in California and Michigan, so listening ears are always willing but not always available.

So, Self, enjoy the journey.

--Jana