'Lanta Life

I've been in Atlanta for TWO WHOLE WEEKS. I love it here. At some point, I'm going to get to know the city. So far, I've seen the Buckhead bars, the Sweetwater Brewery, and Piedmont Park for the Atlanta International Jazz Festival. There is so much left to do, I'm hoping we find a chance to get it all done and don't just end up drinking every time we have a free moment. Right now we're kind of like a bunch of borderline alcoholics.

By we, I mean my classmates. There are 15 of us in our class. We spend 9 hours a day together in class at the AT&T corporate campus. It sometimes feels like a weird sort of social experiment. Like someone said, "What would happen if you put 15 people who ran their respective campuses in a competition to be the best?". It's crazy. Everyone wants to be heard, raise their hand first, make the most profound statements, and have the power to direct the rest of the group.

Breaking it down by the numbers:
4 girls, 11 boys
5 people who have sold phones before, 3 of whom worked for AT&T and 2 who managed stores for other companies
1 Asian, 3 Hispanic, 4 white, 7 black
4 Midwesterners, 9 Southerners, 2 West Coast people
3 22-year olds, 4 23-year olds, 2 24-year olds, 1 25-year old, 1 27-year old, 1 29-year-old, 2 32-year olds, and 1 34-year old
3 introverts, 11 extroverts
1 married man, 1 engaged man, 1 man with a girlfriend, 12 single people

So that gives you a snapshot of our little class. It isn't anyone who goes out every chance they get. There are about 8 of us that consistently go out together. It's a fun time, but with such strong personalities and tendency towards leadership with every single person, combined with such vastly different people and backgrounds... things might start to get uncomfortable really fast. I'm holding my breath and waiting for the tension to start building up to where everything starts crashing down. What's nice is that even when that happens (and it will; we spend too much time together for it not to) we will still be spending time together, and so we'll be forced to fix things that we may have just decided weren't worth the effort otherwise.

I love living the 'Lanta life.

I have arrived

I'm here!

I made it to Atlanta, safe and sound.

At the moment, I'm really bored. Boredom leads to thinking, analyzing, then over-thinking and over-analyzing.

This is such an opportunity for me. I have the chance to be literally anything. I don't know anyone here. They don't know me. I can be so totally honest here, undo all my half-truths and leave all my mistakes and miscommunications behind. It's incredibly freeing, but a little terrifying at the same time. I've been the Concordia version of myself for so long. Even when I went to Mexico, that was me. I dragged all that baggage between countries, bringing it to Mexico, adding and subtracting insecurities and perceptions, and bringing what was left home with me.

Now I'm here.

When I say that I can leave all my half-truths and miscommunications behind, I don't mean that I was a liar, or that I made things up. But four years is a long time, especially the four years between 18 and 22. The things that were true at 18 aren't anymore at 22. I don't hate romantic comedies as a genre anymore, and I won't avoid scary movies like the plague. I am much more aware of the difference between being good and being self-righteous, and I have come to realize how badly I need people who will be straightforward and honest with me.

I don't really know what I'll do differently, but I'm going to paint myself as honestly as I know how. These next six months are going to be practice in being a more real and truthful me.

I, Emily Hiestand, am terrible at reading people's feelings towards me. I will always convince myself that people are just trying to be nice, and don't actually like me. I don't know the line between flirting and being nice. I like being warm. When I get really angry, I cry. When I get really sad, I watch TV. Or blog. When I get really excited I make odd noises and do a little white-girl dance. When I'm nervous, I talk too much, sweat, and shake. When I'm happy I want to tell someone about it. When I drink I share too many of my skeletons.

I have the baggage that I've dragged with me all over the world, but it's not going to weigh be down. It's so full of useful information and tools, and most importantly, people I care about who I know care about me. Whatever else happens, there will be Laura, Krista, Josh, Kate, Tichael, Peters, Adam, Taylor, and Zeb. I trust them, all in different ways and for different reasons; but I truly believe that if I really, really needed them, I could count on them to be there. That means more to me than any amount of self-awareness.

Contents of my coin jar

$0.82 in pennies
$0.80 in nickels
$1.10 in dimes
$2.25 in quarters (not going back in, I might need those for parking)
$0.50 in silver dollars
$4.00 in gold dollars
2 Chinese coins my dad brought back from a business trip
$2.11 in Canada money
12 pfennig, which I think was German currency before the euro
1 rand from South Africa
2.55 euro
$41.90 in Mexican pesos, which would get me like 2 tacos or a capuccino

I want to be like the movies.

I'm ok with being ordinary; ordinary looking, with an ordinary job and paycheck, and ordinary car and an ordinary apartment. Life doesn't need to be extraordinary to be beautiful and valuable.

I've graduated, and I'm getting a real person job. I'm moving 1,360 miles away, and everyone says that it's a brand new adventure, which is totally accurate.

These times of transition always make me feel a little lost. I don't really have an ultimate goal, but I've come to realize that it makes me just like everyone else. I'm just sort of wandering through life, looking at things along the way. If I had a goal of where I wanted to end up, I could maybe formulate a plan with steps, and measurable timetables. I know it's typical Midwest to want a house with a yard, a spouse, kids, cars, and maybe a place to go on the weekends.

I don't know if I want any of that. Do I really want the average 2.5 children? And why is being single bad? I would rather stay single than be divorced before I'm thirty, and I certainly don't need a house so big that I lose my husband and kids in the too-many rooms. Maybe I want some or all of those things, or will want them someday.

Right now, I have different priorities:

I want to sit and eat take-out on the floor of an apartment or house, surrounded by boxes full of yet-to-be-unpacked household items. I want to move in and sleep on a mattress on the floor at first, cause there hasn't been time to go bed shopping yet.

I want to tape paint swatches on the wall and stare at them, and then paint them on my walls with a scarf on my head and a smudge on my nose.

I want a balcony where I can put plants, and smoke hookah, and eat biscotti with my coffee on sunny Sunday mornings.

I want a kitchen I can dance-cook in, one with enough space for me to spin in a circle.

I want to find some sort of exercise that I enjoy. I don't want to be old and fat.

Atlanta is going to be an adventure. Each time I try something new, I understand the direction I'm headed a little better. Will it be perfect and life-altering? I hope not. I don't want cliches.

Icky sicky

I'm sick.

When I was younger (think 13-15) I used to play dress-up in my room. I'd make up new episodes of my favorite shows, M*A*S*H and Hogan's Heroes, and then act them out in front of a mirror. I was always the hero, and I usually got horrifically wounded in some way that saved every single other person in the general vicinity, and then made a magical recovery from the edge of the grave to everyone's great relief and astonishment. Some of those stories involved me pretending to be a boy. I'd wrap my chest up in Ace bandages until I looked like I had pecs instead of boobs. It was always a little difficult to breathe. I usually incorporated that into my almost-tragic story.

I stopped my imaginary life on the battlefield when my real life got busy and I got more friends. Plus there's no way I could pass for a boy anymore. Unless that boy had some serious man-boobs.

My head aches, my nose is drippy, and I feel like I have an ACE bandage wrapped around my chest. And Alan Alda is nowhere to be found.

Oh, you...

Damnit.

Track of the day: Bang Bang by will.i.am
Blue: My foot, I've been sitting on it and it's turning colors.

Negative Nancy

Poor Nancy. I don't know anyone with that name, but that's probably cause everyone just assumes she'll be a Debbie Downer. Get it? Cause I don't know anyone named Debbie either... funny...?

Regardless, there is a ton of negativity happening on my Facebook newsfeed and I'm kinda sick of it.

"But Emily," you say, "Your complaints of negativity are also fairly negative, and I'm pretty sure a couple of your blog posts have been significantly more whiny than uplifting". Fair point, friend. Touche. I know that it makes me a hypocrite to complain about complainers, but I'm not blowing up your Facebook newsfeed on a daily basis with information that's irrelevant to my life about how shitty yours is because you have a cold. 

Life is shitty sometimes. Everyone knows that. 
Anyone who says otherwise is either super drugged up or lacking some of their mental faculties. 

But you- with your constant complaints about schoolwork being overwhelming, and your unfortunate allergy symptoms- you're bringing everyone who sees your whiny status DOWN. They're having a perfectly decent day, and then:

BAM!

This beaut of a status:

"When I get emotional, I get cold, when I'm cold, I get the shivers, which makes my shingles worse (don't ask me why, cus idk). -rough night for various reasons..."

This particular Facebook-er has a pretty consistent habit of incredibly depressing statuses. If the writer is reading this, know that you have been stricken from my newsfeed for your status that make me want to smack you and ask you the following:

Are you trying to make people feel sorry for you?

Are you trying to bring everyone down to your emotional level?

Is there a reason you needed to broadcast this rather than texting your mom so she can say, "Oh poor baby" at which point you can cry a little bit to yourself and then get on with your life?

Maybe your thought process is, "I'm just being honest about what's happening in my life right now". To which I would counter,

REALLY??

Is that the ONLY thing that's going on in your life right now?

Is today actually the worst day of your life because you woke up late and forgot to finish that term paper?

It makes me feel like this:

My one suggestion to you is that you consider this: Emotion is contagious. Empathy is what makes humanity incredibly and wonderfully humane. Your statuses are going out and contaminating the bright, emotional palettes of others with nasty shit-colors. Don't be the smallpox of the emotional world. Be that awesome kind of radioactivity that makes people into superheroes so they can join the Avengers.

I want to know about your life. I want to know what beauty you saw in the world today, and what struggles you've overcome, and if you need help overcoming a struggle I'd be glad to help you out. But if your cry for help is your Facebook status, know that  you won't be taken seriously. It's Facebook, where people post Instagram-ed photos of their Starbucks cups.

And I will disable any notifications from you. :D

Feet in Heels>Feet and Heels

So I have this thing for feet. Not like a fetish, that’s totally normal. You tell people you have a foot fetish, and they’ll probably just ask you for a foot massage. 

I hate feet. 

I don’t just dislike them, I hate them. I don’t want to see yours, I don’t want you to see mine, and if yours come near me or you come near mine, so help you, I will knee you in your goddamn nose. 

The thing about feet, is that they’re these extensions of your limbs that are a lot like really fucked up hands. They’re like hands where they shouldn’t be. And that makes toes like fingers that never grew right, which creeps me out. 

And what’s worse, is that they’re stuck in shoes all day. Shoes aren't breathable, friendly fabric like freakin' under armor or wool or cotton. Imagine wearing wearing an all leather suit. Your body would be marinating in its own sweat conglomerations by the end of one hour of walking, even at like a normal obese American pace. Like I said, I don’t wear all leather suits, and I’m guessing you all don’t either. But your feet wear leather suits ALL THE TIME. So your feet are always just sitting in puddles of their own juices. 

That’s like peeing  in your pants and then wearing them the rest of the day anyway, just hoping they dry out on their own. 

I hate feet, but I love shoes. So there’s always this inner conflict about the awesome gorgeous magnificence of those things that go on your feet (and believe me, the things on my feet are certainly magnificent), and the horrifying knowledge of what goes inside them. The only thing keeping shoes from being as awful as feet are the 3mm of cotton that keeps them from touching, and the fact that no one will ever try to massage my shoes. 

Also, these: 

Aren't they just amazing? Got them on ModCloth.

Blue thing of the day: My spectacular heels.

Track of the day: Great Day by The Lonely Island
Watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WRu_-9MBpd4

Surprises

While I was in Mexico, I was often super confused.

I spent a semester in Mexico, and during that time a dated a guy who lived there. I liked him a LOT, which probably helped me overlook the numerous ways he was kind of a total asshole. Not that I'm bitter.

Anyway, asshole or no, he took pretty good care of me while I was there, made sure I didn't get into any trouble and that I got to see a little bit of the country other than the city, where I was staying. I hung out with him and his friends most of my free time. That's where the confusion comes into play. I got pretty good at keeping up with their Spanish, but every once in awhile I'd understand something slightly wrong.

For example: Pulque is a super Mexican alcoholic beverage. It's basically tequila and sweetened condensed milk, with some flavoring mixed in. It's incredibly weird, and I tried it within my first few weeks in Mexico. 

Pulquerias sell pulque.

Peluquerias cut your hair. 

Pelo is hair, peluchin is hairy/fuzzy, so the word does make sense.

What doesn't make sense, is trying to figure out why your friends are discussing getting their hair cut by people who sell sweetened condensed milk-tequila. It seems incredibly counterproductive and risky to get your hairs cut in a place of drunken debacles. 

Anyway, I felt like I was usually playing catch up. It was a lesson in humility, or would have been if playing catch-up wasn't partially due to the fact that they were definitely just making life up as they went along.

Life in confusion was fine, but what really bothered me was never knowing how to dress. If we were going to be going out to the clubs I should wear one thing, if we were going to a house party I should wear something else. If we weren't doing anything at all, I'd wear something else entirely. This was partially due to vanity, I won't pretend otherwise. It's nice to be dressed appropriately. But there's also the case that in Mexico (and probably other places? I wouldn't know) you have to be dressed up all schnazzy to get into clubs, let alone feel like you sort of fit in there. House parties require more layers because it gets cold at night, and houses in Mexico City don't have heating. Appearances matter.

I hated ending up dressed for the wrong thing.

It made me feel even more out of place (as a ginger in Mexico) and was often uncomfortable (brrr).

The guy I was dating didn't understand why I always had a zillion questions about our plans for the weekend.
I just didn't like to be unprepared.

On my last day there, he had planned an outing to a famous plaza. He didn't tell me what we were going to do until early afternoon, "Because you don't like surprises"

Like hell I don't!

I'm moving to Georgia in less than a month, and I have no idea where I'll be living or what my life will be like when I get there. I'm doing this willingly. I do like surprises, gaddamnit. I am all the spontaneity.

But never knowing what was going on certainly made me better at layering, and planning out multi-purpose outfits. So in the end, looking like a slob at the clubs did pay off.

Blue: My weird European corduroy shirt that Ola left when she went back to Poland
Track of the day: Restless Heart by Matt Hires. This song makes me feel like I could be singing it, and have it sung about me. Just all of the winning.

Cactus

Cacti are all prickly on the outside and soft and edible and whatever on the inside. They're often used as analogies for people, surly people who are just guarded because they've had unpleasant experiences, but are really genuinely nice people when you get to know them.

I'm probably the opposite of a cactus. I'm not prickly at first. I don't really know how I come across, but I doubt it's as someone who has a lot of pent-up secrets and anger.

The truth is, I'm pissed. I'm so mad at the universe, at God, at Fate, Destiny, whatever random series of events that brought me to this place of fear. I'm so scared, all the time. I overanalyze every single thing that is said to me, because I feel like maybe this time I can guess what's going to happen next, and stop it. Maybe this time I can predict the future, prevent it, and save myself from further harm. Being scared is exhausting. There is no relaxation when you're ever vigilant. My nerves and emotions are shot. I sometimes think I should ask for help, but asking for help makes you so vulnerable. It's admitting that you're too weak to do it all on your own, and weaknesses can be exploited.

I've explicitly asked for help with my current situation twice. Once to an old friend, who made me feel like asking for help was a sign of strength. He gave me hope. He's one of those people who does so much more than he  realizes, just by being  himself and being inexplicably wise for his years. The second time I asked for help I was brushed off. I probably picked an inconvenient time to ask, or maybe phrased it incorrectly; but the response of, " Well... you don't have to deal directly with the problem for much longer" was not what I needed to hear. I just wanted a little bit of support. I only needed her to tell me that if I had to, I could call her, or that she was behind me on this one. It would be so much easier if I wasn't doing this by myself.

I honestly don't know where I'm going with this. I'm not writing this for anyone but myself, in the hopes that putting this out there in the world will make it less like a nightmare that can only be changed by waking up, and more like a problem that I can solve with objective reasoning and logic. If you're reading this, don't misunderstand it as a cry for pity. I don't need that, or even your sympathy. If you're reading this, take the time and ask someone close to you how they are doing, really. Ask them if they need help. Everyone needs help sometimes, but not everyone is good at asking for it.

I'm going to be ok, I know I am. I'm tough and this will make me tougher.

My favorite quotation is this: Your journey has molded you for your greater good. It was exactly what it needed to be. Don't think that you've lost time. It took each and every situation to bring you to the now, and now is right on time.

Make-up

Today I put on makeup. Normally I stick to just mascara and a little bit of eyeliner, but I went ALL OUT. I put on some creamy foundation stuff to hide the bags under my eyes. It sorta made me look like Anne Frank. Sorry if that's offensive, but really... I can't be the only one that's noticed that she looks like she has two black eyes in like every picture of her in existence. Besides that, she sorta looks like my littlest sister. Anyway, I made it look less like I'm a professional drug addict, and then I made myself less pale. They don't make foundation white enough for me, every kind I put on looks like bronzer. It's my fake Irish showing through. Then I went really hard core and put on not one, but two different colors of eye shadow, in the hopes that it would make my eyes look bigger, and consequently make me look more like Zooey Deschanel. I don't look even a little like Zooey Deschanel, even on my best days. Finally, I put on my customary eyeliner and mascara. Except I put on more than usual, and used the little dealio that looks like a torture device, but is really to make your eyelashes stick up more than out.

Today then bluest thing about me was my eyes. But not as blue as Zooey Deschanel's. Damn her.
Track of the day: "Fine By Me" by Andy Grammar

Anyway, makeup is way more trouble than it's worth. That all took me like 15 minutes. That's at least 10 minutes too many. And besides, if I'm not comfortable with how I look without makeup, then I'm not going to ever really have a scrub day again. I'd be paranoid about being ambushed by people I know and stuff.

So, makeover complete. Now I look like this:

Where I am.

It's obviously been awhile, but I have no subscribers and therefore no one to apologize to. It's better that way. I'm currently sitting on the floor of my bathroom, which is one of my favorite sitting spots. It's not THAT weird because I'm the only one who uses it and it's heated. What is a little weird is that I'm wearing my senior prom dress.

I graduate at the beginning of May. Well, technically I graduated in December, but I walk in a few weeks. It's the end of an era, so because I'm a girl and stuff, I'm trying to decide what to wear. In found my senior prom dress, and since it's been altered, it's actually a solid choice if I want to save some money. But now I'm all nostalgic and stuff. This really is the end of an era, just like senior prom marked the end of the last era in my life.

Four years ago I was getting ready for AP tests and show choir finals and the pops concerts for both band and choir. I was 18 and about 20lbs lighter (not that anyone's counting, right?) and I had long-ish frizzy blonde hair. I was not concerned about college, because I hadn't ever seriously failed at anything. My biggest worries were my freedom (or lack thereof, I'm still bitter about how strict my parents were about my social life) and my love life, which was in a much happier place than it's been since then.

I recently met up with some friends from high school over a rare weekend that we all happened to be home at the same time. We talked about how much life has changed for all of us since then. Several of my friends have been with the same person for years now. Others are just as determinedly single as me. Some are moving on to graduate school, finishing a masters program, or part way through a professional program. I want to say that we never would have dreamed that we'd be where we are, but that's totally untrue.

I am sitting on my bathroom floor in a prom dress. I have a job in an office, I have a cubicle with a plant and a nameplate tacked to the outside with my name on it. I live in a nice house, I have a nice car, and I can afford to pay all my expenses and still travel. I can't say that I never dreamed I'd be here. This is exactly what I dreamed I'd have, no more and no less.

My high school friends told me I'd changed the most out of all of us. I say it's because I had significant, mind-binding experiences that I never expected. Some of you out there know what I mean. If I had anticipated everything, or if those things had not happened, I would not have changed so dramatically. Would I still have a job, and a place to stay and a car? I'm sure of it. It's what I was raised to work for. Would I still be sitting on my bathroom floor in a prom dress? Probably, who doesn't like playing dress up every once in awhile?

I guess what I'm trying to say is, it really is the journey that matters, not the destination.

Shade of blue: my prom dress, of course. Tom was my prom date. Tom, if you ever happen to read this... I had a blast. I still think I could not have enjoyed it more. I hope you had fun, too :)

Track of the day: "Triumph" by Pitbull.