A Trip to the Gym: A Memoir

As part of my college kid, new me shin-dig that I've been doing, I've been forcing myself to make the mile long bike ride (uphill in both directions) to the on campus gym, henceforth to be known as the IMA. You walk through the shiny glass doors, which are evidently thoroughly clean with windex at least a few times a day, you see exactly what you'd expect out of a state-of-the-art workout center; a smoothie bar featuring some obscure kale drink sits to the right of the front entrance, a Welcome Center with a desk that has been painted to make look as if it were built out of mahogany wood stands directly in front, and a college student (who probably believes he should be with his other health-enthusist friends, lifting all the weights) is working the I.D. swipe to allow members enter the rest of the building. 

Once you make it past I.D. boy, you've got a few options. Some people head straight to the locker rooms where they unload their spilling duffle bags into pitiful metal lockers, others head straight to one of three workout rooms, stopping only momentarily to grab a sweat towel or fill up their Eco-friendly water bottle (#Seattle). The gym is usually bursting with wonderfully muscular men lifting larger than life weights, and healthier-than-thou- women working the matted floors. The rest of the beautiful people typically spend their waiting time for their turn at said stations sweating rivers as they pound down on the treadmill, or working those intense looking stair machines. 

And then there's me. 

You can find 4'7" me barely keeping up on the treadmill set at half the speed of the average sized human next to me. I last maybe 15 minutes, if I'm lucky, and chug half my bottle of water (the other half spills all over my face), as I walk to the mats, pausing only briefly to catch the slightly disgusted stare of the girl stretching next to me. My hamstrings are on fire- even though my friend who runs for his school's track team tells me that the calves are the ones that are supposed to hurt. I reach down to touch my toes, holding my breath as I finish my five second count down. Standing up, proud of myself, j notice the girl next to me has switched from an arm stretch to her center splits. As I glance at the mirror I see a man, who looks no younger than 50, doing an ab work out that makes him look like a squirming bug- it looks easy enough so I make the mistake of trying it myself. I do ten and collapse on my back, feeling a pool of sweat collect on the plastic mat below me. As I try to sit up, I attempt to wipe away the sweat with my jacket (that I brought because last time I saw a lot of people on the treadmill still wearing their fleece-lined sweatshirts), but only manage to fall over- something I attempt to disguise as some obscure stretch. 

Next comes the lifting. I approach the boxes of dumbbells and select two purple 15 pounders. After lifting them out of their box I quickly set them down again and exchange them for a far more appropriate set of seven pounds. 20 minutes later, I can't feel my arms and am fairly certain I pulled a muscle in my leg- don't ask me how. But I keep my cool and casually stroll out of the room to approach the water fountain, which I proceed to drain ceremoniously. I proceed to leave the lovely building with thoughts of devouring a taco- after all, I earned it.

And then I remember I brought my bike. We're just going not talk about the 10 minute uphill adventure.

How Cliché

It's astounding how easy it is for us to forget how fragile each of us are.

What I'm doing right now is absolutely crazy. It's hailing and raining and I'm in shorts and a pathetic windbreaker and my heels are bleeding (I should remember to use thicker, longer socks) and I can hardly breath. The neighborhood is mostly deserted, side from the occasional car that passes by and the couple that always do their daily run, regardless of the weather. 

The music streaming through my headphones sounds far away, I guess the volume might be lower than usual- though I'm pretty sure it's because of the excessive water that has soaked through my hood. 

I run in rhythm with the song in my head- something about not doing stupid things; how ironic. My lungs feel like they're on fire and I have to stop of the corner. I try to look up at the sky, but quickly realize that this is yet another stupid mistake and rub my face from where the cold hail has left its mark. This could be a scene out of a movie:

---

The camera zooms onto a corner shot of the drenched girl's eyes showing the water that splashes on her face making her blink dramatically. 

The camera zooms out to show her standing on the corner of the street- the coloring is dark and drab, only sparing the glaring red stop sign of the unprepossessing gray-ness.

The naive, young girl has finally come to understand the cruelty of the world and how stupid she was.  She sighs. She pulls the pony-tail holder out of her hair and shakes her head like some wild beast. She pulls her hair back up, stands tall, and begins to run in the direction of home- ready to face the consequences.

---

How cliché. 

One moment is all it takes to change your mind. Take that moment and make it right- whatever "it" might be.

Hearts Full of Love

I'm walking down from the library to the nearest supermarket after a long day of cross and direct examinations, and note taking, and fighting off the temptation to procrastinate. The air is brisk, and I can feel blisters developing on my feet- that's what I get for wearing heels to try to look taller. A love song begins to play on my iPod, and I begin to notice the couples- hand in hand- walking around me. Their displays of affection are, of course, adorable; but it wasn't until I walked into the supermarket and saw the huge displays of roses of all colors and giant heart balloons that I remembered- today is February 14th; Valentines Day.

There are couples giggling and clashing into each other as they try to walk, and nervous young men waiting in line with a bouquet of a dozen roses. And then there's me. As my music streams through my headphones, I feel like I'm in a movie. Everything is in slow motion, and everyone just looks so wonderfully happy, and I can't help but smile.

Love is a gorgeously beautiful thing- honestly if you think about it, it's one of the most incredible things. Fancy that two completely random people bump into each other and are suddenly filled with an emotion that they can barely describe. Fancy that there is something so incredibly powerful that it can completely change someone's life. Fancy that everywhere, there are hearts just bursting with love.

Fancy that.

Dance Like No One is Watching

The sun bounces off the frosted roads, traffic is slow, and the heat is on high. The volume on the stereo is low, and I try to focus on the road. I get stuck at a red light and avert the glare of the sun. I notice a girl holding one of those signs on the corner of the street. She's wearing at least three layers of jackets and sweaters to keep herself warm, and a cheap pair of earbuds dangle dangerously from her ears. 

She's doing the side step, and nodding her head to the music. She's in a whole other world; her eyes are closed and she occasionally turns in a circle- her feet bouncing on the concrete. My eyes linger on her a moment more, and the light changes. I crank up the volume. My head bounces with the rhythm of the radio, my fingers tap on the steering wheel, and I could have swore she gave me a knowing smile as I drove away.

Music is one of the most powerful gifts mankind could ever receive. For some reason, a collection of random notes (when done correctly) have the power to completely change someone's life. It's almost scary. Scary how easily others can see our feelings, scary how easily those feelings can change.

Everyone has their ways of fighting their dragons and expressing their emotions- music is just one of many ways we can do so; but do pick one. Learn to dance like no one is watching, and sing like no one is listening because one day, it might be too late. <3

"Airports Have Seen More Kisses Than Wedding Halls:" From Sunday, January 19th 2014

It's too early to be awake on a Sunday morning, but here we are at the airport- sipping coffee, watching people in giant sweatshirts drag too-big suitcases behind them. 

A couple is locked in an embrace- their limbs seem to intertwine in such a way that they appear to be of one body. The woman stands almost a whole head shorter than her man; her face is buried into his plaid flannel shirt as she sobs. He is holding her close, rubbing her back as he speaks words of encouragement to her. When the break off, they stand in silence- memorizing each other's faces. 

A teenager is trying to escape the giant embrace of her father, and another is wiping at the tears of his mother. When they're finally let go, the teens walk without ever looking back- the parents can't seem to look away.

A Soldier is standing idle with his bag at his feet. He is looking into nowhere, as if caught in some distant memory. When he picks up his stuff to walk through security, he looks back just once. No one is there to say goodbye. 

My family joins together for one group embrace; my mother is traveling out of the country. She blesses each of us, and gives us a kiss on the cheek. I can't look as she embraces my father. She picks up her stuff, and walks through security- turning every few steps as if to make sure we are still there. We stay and watch her go- we watch until we can't see her anymore.

The Story of our Lives: Another Starbucks Story

His Starbucks cup reads, "Jim," in black, bold letters. A stack of binders, news papers, and journals mark his territory on the cluttered little table, but his leather messenger back is already slung across his shoulders as if he is ready to bolt. He's pushing through a newspaper- glancing around as if he's waiting for something to happen. Finally, he stands up, stretches above the seated crowd and discards his empty coffee cup. He bundles his stack of papers and goes, leaving only a few sheets of newspaper that he didn't care to keep. Gone, not to be remembered. Just like the rest of us.

How many times do we go through the daily motions of life, and can't help but feel we are missing something? Us humans are doomed to an eternity of feeling empty- after all, our entire existence is built upon attempting to achieve an unwritten goal. We don't know where the future will bring us, but we like to pretend that we know what we're doing. Story of our lives.