Surprised?

I try to update my blog as often as possible, but sometimes, quite honestly, I just don’t have anything to say. So for the past few days I’ve been racking my brain, trying to find something I want to talk about, something that needs to be said.

Through all my frustration, I kept coming back to the same concept, one that has been prevalent in my life as of late: I love to be surprised.

And I’m not just talking about my knight in shining armor showing up on my doorstep with roses and chocolate… lots of chocolate. I love it when people do something small, something they probably don’t even notice or consider significant, and it helps restore your faith in the kindness of others.

My ex-boyfriend broke me physically and mentally. By the time I was emotionally ready to leave him I was certain that he had ruined me for all future men. I had no self-esteem, I didn’t trust anyone new and I was sad… really sad. He had broken my spirit.

I had no idea how to recover and I wasn’t sure I ever would. As I’ve written previously, I finally reached a point where he was not a thought in my mind. I allowed myself to go through a grieving process, although I think I spent more time on the anger stage than necessary.

I finally realized that there was no magic remedy except to just sit back and allow myself to heal. I just had to live my life and do things that made me happy. And trust me, it didn’t take much back then. I was like an attention-starved puppy, every small gesture seemed golden.

And then, as luck would have it, I found happiness again. I regained my strength, got my life back together and focused on being happy.

Once you’ve been beaten down, the journey back to life feels like childhood - everything is shiny and new and the possibilities seem endless.

So what restored my faith in the kindness of people?

(pause for dramatic effect) That is a story for another time.

Blogging for Inspiration

Since I entered graduate school a year ago I've met some amazing people, all from different backgrounds and all with their own story. One of the women I met has become particularly inspiring to me.

She and I began blogging at the same time (as a class assignment) and even though that class ended long ago, I have developed an addiction to reading her blog. I fiend for more information and get the shakes if there is any length of time between posts.

Her blog touches my soul in a very strange way and I think it is because we share a lot of similarities. She told me once that she was sure we were sisters separated at birth. I concur.

The stories she tells focus on the trials and tribulations of her life, which are extremely powerful in and of themselves. Add to that her fluid writing style and it's easy to see why I'm addicted.

But the reason I'm inspired is because she writes the truth, no matter how embarrassing or difficult.

I'm struggling to do the same. There are so many events in my past that I would like to write about and honestly, it would probably help me develop some closure. There is just something therapeutic about seeing your past in writing, seeing those words glaring up at you. It forces you to come to terms with the situation at hand, for better or worse.

For some reason I just can't bring myself to air my dirty laundry because my issues and problems naturally involve other people. So in my mind, if I air my dirty laundry then I am airing theirs as well, and that's not my place.

Maybe one day I will get to a point where I can share very specific situations, but for now you're going to have to get back on minimal wit and maximum charm. You're welcome.

Peter Pan and a Glass of Wine

There comes a point in every writer’s life when they have to ask themselves a difficult question – what do I want to tell the world with my writing?

After much soul searching, contemplation and wine, I have come to the conclusion that I have no freaking idea what I want to tell the world. I’m 23 years old, I haven’t exactly lived a life full of experience yet, so what could I possibly have to say that would be worthwhile?

The irony is not lost on me. I am writing in an open forum (i.e. my internet driven blog) on a weekly basis about how I don’t know what to say. I get it, but just go with me here.

If you follow this blog then you’ve probably noticed I’m slowly becoming bitter about writing marketing jargon. But I also don’t love creative writing either -- hence my conundrum.

I’m not going to be an award-winning novelist. I could be, but the chances are slim. And I can’t market houses and golf courses forever because clearly I would become “that girl” at work if I did. You know the one I’m talking about, don’t act like you don’t.

It’s times like these that I ask myself a question much more important than any other – why the heck am I paying $30,000 a year to get my master’s in writing if I don’t know what I want to write about?

Sure. I will probably figure that out throughout the course of my studies, but that’s a rather expensive risk to take, don’t you think? My bank account certainly thinks so.

But I suppose I should look at it like this. I’m going to be in graduate school forever (or until March 2013) so why not utilize this opportunity to be Peter Pan? I can drift and try new things, perhaps find a gang of lost boys along the way -- could be fun.

It’s safe to say these will be the only years of my life that I’m given license to do whatever I need to do in order to get wine in the glass… I mean put pen to paper.

So I think the answer I’ve been searching for is the one I found – I don’t know what I need to say to the world. But if I allow myself to relax and play Peter Pan for a bit then I might just find the words.

Ode to Marketing Jargon

I love my job - really, I do. I'm good at marketing real estate. I could sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves. But there comes a point in every person's career when they've done too much of the same thing. Today is my day.

If I write the words feature, accentuate, accent or encompass one more time today, I might scream.

I live in a downtown apartment with street parking and bars on the window, so pardon me if I don't care about your powder room featuring Onyx, a crystal backlit sink and a custom-cut mirror all accented by crystal and copper fixtures. My apologies.

After a long day of marketing moderately to insanely priced homes, I don't care to describe how your melodious laughter resonated through the winding, marble tile hallways onto the covered lanai. Sorry.

And mostly, I'm tired of thinking of ways to spin an article so it sounds more interesting than it is. Why can't I just write about things that are already interesting? Is this a test of my abilities? I hope not, because if it is, I'm ready to tap out.

So marketing jargon, I beg of you - leave my soul alone, let my vocabulary expand and allow me to write about things that matter. But until you release your grasp on my mind, I will continue to taunt you with brilliant ideas and slightly snarky phrases.

End rant.

Outsiders

I've recently spent quite a bit of time back home in North Carolina visiting family and exploring a new relationship prospect. The issue that has arisen is that I'm not used to spending so much isolated time with people from back home - it's a whole different animal up there.

What I have discovered is that my friends and family from back home are incredibly influential in my decisions, but even more so when I'm there in person. It's very easy to disregard opinions when they're coming to you as a voice on the phone from 4.5 hours away. It's a little harder to disregard when it's staring you in the face.

But the other discovery I made is that there are a lot of opinions from back home that I need to disregard. I live my life in a very different way than most people there, especially when it comes to relationships.

I'm not the type of girl that gets bend out of shape because of unreturned text messages or dates cancelled due to perfectly legitimate reasons. Those are just not things that bother me. Disappoint me? Sure. But not bother me or make me mad.

But the longer I was home the more bothered and angry I began to feel about things that would have never bothered me before.

So this is all I have to say: Get out of my head! You're psyching me out here!

I leave you with a song I stumbled across this weekend that is hilarious. I give you "Soft" by Kings of Leon. You're welcome in advance.

Bitter, Bitter Bitches

I spent two years of my life in a terrible relationship. Perhaps it wasn't the greatest dating decision I've ever made in my life, but now I am a lot happier, stronger person.

Phrases like "but I learned something" and "I'm a stronger person because of it" always remind of the losing sports teams that get cited for having "lots of character." It's a nice way of saying that you lost.

But, of course, not in my case, right? I have tons of character. Anyway, I digress.

I survived situations I could have never imagined in my wildest dreams and because of those experiences I now know that I can do anything I put my mind to.

Once I was able to safely leave the relationship I immediately moved away to avoid any emotional relapse. I failed (cue more character growth). For at least six months after I moved I continued to be in his life, I continued to be his crutch.

But as the months went on I began to feel bitter and angry at both myself and him. Yes, he treated me like I was disposable, but I allowed him to, hell I enabled him to.

The more bitter I got, the ruder I became until one day I knew I couldn't talk to him anymore. I had to cut him out of my life completely because if I didn't and I continued to be bitter and rude toward him then I would be desecrating any resemblance of the caring relationship we once had.

And yes, caring is a relative term.

The day I decided to let him go from my life was the happiest I've ever been. I felt so light, physically and emotionally, as if years of stress were sloughing off, leaving me a new person.

If I had chosen to keep him in my life then I would have been choosing to stay bitter and angry. Sometimes the greatest therapy is separation. Being bitter would only have hindered my life, not his.

I would have been carrying the burden of his choices, rather than making my own. People should check their baggage at the door and just enjoy their lives.

Yoga Pants and a Cheap Watch

For the past few months I've finally been fulfilling my seemingly apocalyptic New Year's resolution... from the past six years. What can I say? I've been busy.

But anyway, the resolution, drumroll please. I've stuck to a workout routine... finally.

These whole-hearted workouts have wreaked havoc on my laundry routine, given the fact that even though I'm an ex-athlete I only own three pairs of gym shorts. Sad, I know.

I'm sure you're wondering why I didn't just go buy more gym appropriate shorts and shirts. Well that's precisely where today's lesson spurs from.

I didn't go buy new stuff because I am a stage in my life where I can accept myself as I am. And I am the type of person who says they are going to workout, does so religiously for a week and then feigns a pulled muscle as an excuse to quit.

Clearly not a sensible investment. So being the logical person that I am, I decided to wait it out and see if this time I actually stayed with it prior to purchasing the entire athletic wear department of Target.

Good new friends. Three and a half months later, I'm the proud owner of my first pair of spandex yoga pants, a cute microfiber tank top and a shiny new (cheap) sports watch.

I think you can see where I'm going with this. But maybe you don't, so I'll spell it out for you.

For the first time I accepted myself for my flaws and then low and behold I subsequently finished something I started... finally.

In honor of this achievement, I will leave you with a funny commercial about yoga pants. Enjoy!

The Single Memo

Here are the solid facts: I'm 23, I'm single and I'm happy.

So why do I always feel like everyone is trying to set me up? At the Fourth of July celebration I attended yesterday, there were no less than three eligible bachelors... and everyone made sure I was aware.

They were all very nice guys, each with their own great qualities. I wouldn't have minded going on a legitimate date with any one of them (one more so than the others, but that's irrelevant).

But the issue comes down to the fact that I'm the last of the women in my family generation to be single. It apparently makes people think I'm desperate, which I'm far from.

I would love to meet a nice guy - hell, I met three last night which is a good start - and have a nice, healthy relationship, but I'm past the stage where I want to force it to happen. I'm perfectly content with letting fate have the reins.

Apparently everyone else hasn't received the memo.