I didn’t intend for it to take this long. I dropped out of University within a month, spent far too long in community college, and then went back to University.  I changed majors and took semesters off.  Mostly, it just took me forever to decide what I wanted to do.  

These six years have been frustrating, intense, and just a little rewarding.  But I’m done.  I’m done with being in college.  This is unfortunate because I still have a year to go, but I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I’ve been thinking, though, about my behavior during these six years.  I’m not proud of all of it, but whatever, I was ages 18-23 and what the hell does anyone ages 18-23 know about anything?  Except, of course, where to find and consume cheap alcohol.  I could fill books, PLURAL, with my knowledge of cheap dives around Tucson.  But I digress.

I’ve mostly enjoyed myself these past six years, but there is one thing I wholeheartedly regret.  My cousins and are around the same age and, as such, we experience the same milestones around the same time.  My cousins and I are very close and they are essentially siblings to me.  There was a period when a particular cousin and I had a bit of a falling out.  I said some things I didn’t entirely mean and I know I hurt her feelings.  Why would I say these things?  Because I felt like she was pulling away from me and the rest of the family.  I felt like she was being selfish and exclusive.  In reality, she was working hard to finish up her nursing degree and (rightfully) shutting out the rest of the world so she could finish.  I was not empathetic at all and I said and did cruel and hurtful things.  

Now that I am in the midst of finishing my degree and am having to make many of the choices I assume she made (less contact with friends and family so I can finally finish my shit), I am empathetic.  Years after our falling out and the repair of our relationship, I finally understand where she was coming from.  I am fortunate that she and the rest of my family are supportive of me even when I’m being a tremendous, what’s the word I’m looking for? oh yeah, dick face.  I did not extend the same kindness to her and for that, I am sorry.  I am so sorry.  I hope you can forgive me and will still give me CPR if I ever stop breathing because I don’t know how to do that shit and you’re a nurse so I’m assuming you do.  

I hope that next time my empathy will come sooner.

So, I’m going to get rid of it.  Come January 1 (or 2 or whenever my stylist goes back to work), I’m chopping off the lot of it, donating it, and making my peace with my abnormally large head.  The thing is, the more I think about what I would look like, the slowly I’m trying to talk myself out of it.  This hair, my Mufasa mane, is a safety blanket.  It makes me feel beautiful and unique.  Most days, it’s my main source of self-esteem.  You don’t see Medusa lopping off her snakes just because they’re all up in her business.  If you’re a woman, sometimes you sacrifice inconvenience for beauty.

Plus it would probably hurt a lot to cut off PIECES OF YOUR HEAD.

What if I look weird?  What if I’m at a bar and I see a girl with stunning, well coiffed hair and I’m standing over here with a buzz cut?  Will Andy still find me attractive?  What if it doesn’t effectively distract from my double chin like Mufasa does?

Then I think about beauty.  I think about what makes me feel beautiful.  I feel beautiful when Andy looks at me and says he loves me.  I feel beautiful when I’ve just finished a tough workout.  I feel beautiful when I’m in the middle of the desert doing archaeology work.  I feel beautiful when I’m with my mother, my cousins, my sisters-in-laws, and all the women I consider beautiful.  I feel beautiful when I have dirt under my fingernails and I’m drinking a beer with my colleagues.  I feel beautiful on a daily basis and most of the time it has nothing to do with my physical appearance.  Oh sure, I feel beautiful when I blow out my hair, put on makeup, and dress up, but those moments are much more fleeting.  I feel beautiful when I am happy.

So I’m not worried about trading in my Mufasa for a Nala.  I’m not worried because at the end of the day, it’s just hair and it’ll grow back.  Or, worse come to worse, I can buy hats.  Lots and lots of hats.

Fancy, party of one!

The words are forever etched into my head.  I barely remember what I did immediately after– I think I went to the restroom and then put my shoes on– but I will always remember the feeling.  I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that type of dread before.  My first thought was an ambulance.  Then Andy in that ambulance.  I thought of him hurt and I thought of him dying.  I thought about spending the rest of my life without him.  I thought about what I would tell his mother and his sister.

I sent him to get us dinner because I didn’t feel like driving.  He took his bike and got hit by a car.  If I just would have driven, this wouldn’t have happened.

Through all the worse-case scenarios my brain was creating, one thought shone more brightly and clearly than the others:  What if I lose him?  It wouldn’t make sense.  He’s so young, in good health, takes care of himself.  The fear spread through my body like a cancer and all I could think of was loss.

I was frantic on my way to the accident scene.  My mom called me to talk about dinner and I blurted out, “Andy got hit by a car.  A car, hit him, and I’m on my way.  Shit.”  Saying the words made it real.  Seeing an ambulance and the fire truck upon pulling in made it more real.  The fear was taking over and it was only a matter of time before I was consumed.

“Listen,” my mom said. “You have to be strong for him.  Be there for him.”

Those words put the fear back in check.  This isn’t about me.  This is about making sure the one person I never want to lose is okay.  This is about minimizing the damage, not embracing it and making it a spectacle.

I pulled into the parking lot where Andy was standing.  The fear tried it’s hardest to break through, inch by inch.  Andy’s bike was laying haphazardly on the ground next to the car that struck him.  The fear inched.  Andy talking to an EMT.  The fear inched.  Andy describing when the car hit him.  The fear inched.  Driving to the ER and sitting in the trauma bay.  The fear inched and inched.

We were ushered almost immediately into the trauma ward where Andy changed into a hospital gown and was hooked up to monitors.  He was lucid and calm, but the longer we waited for doctors and x-rays and pain medication, the more anxious we both became.  Late into the night in the trauma center in University Medical Center, I let the fear in.

I watched Andy’s pain meds take over and I stopped trying to fight the fear.  I could have lost him.  The thought of physical harm happening to him was terrifying, but it was something more than that.  Andy has etched out a space in my life.  It’s a shape that’s specific to him and a shape only he can create.  He’s become a part of my life that I never needed before, a part I never even really wanted until I met him, and now that this shape is there I can’t imagine filling it with anyone or anything other than Andy.  The fear was not just over losing him, it was over realizing that I needed him.  I wanted him.  I chose Andy over all others, but what would happen if the day came where he wasn’t there to choose anymore?  I let the fear overwhelm me because it was a reminder.  A reminder of what I stand to lose and what I stand to gain by letting another person carve out a piece of me and replace it with themselves.

I got up from my chair and walked over to Andy’s bed.  I laid my hand on his head, kissed his forehead, and said, “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

His hand held mine and the fear eased.  We made jokes about his pain meds and made references to movies and the fear eased more.  We got the news that nothing was broken or sprained, and the fear was finally calm.

“I’m going to take us home now,” I said gently helping Andy to the passenger seat of my car.  ”I’m going to take care of you.”

It’s been two weeks since the accident and, thankfully, Andy didn’t suffer any serious injuries.  The fear still lingers but only mildly.  It is a reminder of the loss that could have been but wasn’t.  It is a reminder of how deep an impact humans hold on one another.  Most of all, it’s a reminder that the fear doesn’t get to win.  Not today.

Here is my problem with scary movies:  I really love them in theory.  I like the idea of being scared and having someone to hold on to.  I like the idea of facing the things that scare me in a safe, secure environment.  But somewhere between “I bought us tickets to see this movie and it’s going to be so fun!” and when the lights in the theater go down, I come to realize something: I hate being scared.

This is not a new realization.  I come to this “epiphany” every time I see a horror movie or go to a haunted house or try to use the bathroom without checking behind the shower curtain.

Murderer's Paradise

By the time I start to second guess my life choices, it’s too late.  Last night was no exception.  The lights dimmed and the previews came on.  Specifically this preview.  If you’re smart and didn’t click on the link, it’s an exorcism movie.  One that looks particularly terrifying.  Being raised Roman Catholic, exorcism movies are usually more than I can handle.  That preview set me on edge just in time for the feature presentation.  Hooray.

My anxiety scale and internal monologue generally evolved as follows:

15 minutes in: Minimal anxiety, but still on alert. Okay, this isn’t so bad.  Imaginary friends can be okay sometimes.

30 minutes in: Fair anxiety. I feel nervous and stressful, but I haven’t had to pretend to fix my contacts yet in an effort to avoid watching what’s happening on the screen.  There’s some weird things happening and I’m getting nervous!

45 minutes in: Moderate anxiety. Andy’s hand becomes my personal stress ball. Little girl in the movie, didn’t your parents ever teach you NOT to do ‘Bloody Mary’?! I tell Andy I have some concerns about my blood pressure.

60 minutes in: High anxiety. A man a few rows back yells, “Fuck that!” after a particularly jumpy part; I wholeheartedly agree. What the hell is going on? How is everyone in this family just sleeping through this?!

70 minutes in: Off the charts anxiety. Watery eyes and nervous laughter ensue. YOU STUPID WHORE WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF?! 

The movie was pretty much what you would expect with some jumpy scenes and a lot of “what the hell just happened?” thrown in for good measure.  I make a resolution to myself after every scary movie that I don’t want to watch any more again, but like most resolutions, I never keep them.  This is especially true when Halloween is around.  It’s like a moth to a flame.  A very nervous and shaky moth, but a moth nonetheless.

Andy has this down pat.  We started playing a game where you combine two movie titles to make one compound movie title.  Example: Spider Man in the Iron Mask.  I’m proud (that’s the right word, right?) to say we kept this game going via text message for about an hour.  Below are our movies:

Deep Blue Sea Biscuit
Animal House Party
Harry Potter and the Hendersons
A Dark Knight’s Tale
The Truman Show Girls
Man on Fire Starter
Blood Diamonds Are Forever
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil Dead
American History X Men
Muppets in Space Jam
Things You Do In Denver When You’re Dead Alive
Flash Dancer in the Dark
Nightmare on Elm Street Before Christmas
Independence Day of the Dead
Dawn of the Dead Man Walking
The Lion King Kong
The Day the Earth Stood Steel Magnolias (Ed note: Andy reached for that one, but I’m still counting it.)
Captain American Beauty
The Invisible Man on the Moon
How Stella Got Her Groove Back to the Future
Black Christmas Story
Party Monsters Inc.
The Princess Bride of Frankenstein
Requiem for a Dream Girls
Sugar and Spice World
There’s Something About Mary Poppins
Singin’ in the Rain Man
Lady in the Water World
The Sixth Sense and Sensibility
A River Runs Through It Happened One Night
Super Star Wars

All in all, I’d say a pretty good Monday.

The women in my life are mind-numbingly repetitive.  They talk about the same things only with interchangeable nouns.  So-and-so moved in with so-and-so before they were married and now they’re both living in sin.  That one over there?  She got pregnant out of wedlock.  Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that happening to my son; of course, he’s gay.  Rinse, repeat.

The women in my life are overwhelmingly opinionated.  There is never a choice not met with aunts, mothers, grandmothers, and sisters having something to say about it.  You do not, repeat do not, even think about doing something they wouldn’t approve of.  It’s often times just not worth the headache.

The women in my life are inexplicably loyal.  They will put you on blast for acting like an idiot, but they will always be there to pick up the pieces without saying I told you so.  They will listen empathetically when you cry, they will stroke your hair when you tell of your latest mistake, and they will look you in the eye and mean it with their entirety when they say, “We’re here for you.”

The women in my life are strong.  We have all endured familial hardships.  Births, deaths, malpractices, weight-gains, coming-outs, abandonment of faith, and living at home into your mid-twenties.  They pick themselves up every time.  Even in the times when it’s not worth it to keep fighting, they do it simply because it needs to be done.  There is little fuss, just a task that needs completing and the knowledge that they have the strength to do it.

The women in my life have presented me with the most challenging and complicated relationships of my life.  The relationships that are sometimes hurtful and cruel are also the ones that are my strongest and most cherished.  The relationships that are occasionally frustrating and obnoxious are the ones that constantly encourage me to evolve.

I must not jump to conclusions about the women in my life.  They are full of secret characteristics that make them the people I hold most dear.  Yes, it is sometimes frustrating, but they are my lifeline.  They remind me of what I stand to gain by working hard at my relationships with them.  They are a reminder of the blood that runs in my veins.

They are the women who are teaching me how to be a woman.

Day 13: A Song That Is A Guilty Pleasure
“She’s My Winona” by Fall Out Boy

Yeah, you read that right: Fall Out Boy. They started out on my running playlist and then one thing led to another and, well, I might know all the lyrics to this song.  Hey!  Get off me!  It’s a guilty pleasure song; anything goes.

Day 14: A Song No One Would Expect You To Love
“Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad” by Meat Loaf

Truth be told, if you know me, this is not a surprise.  I mostly had this song stuck in my head and wanted an excuse to listen to it again.

Day 15: A Song That Describes You
“Wake Up” by Arcade Fire

At this point in life everything is changing for me.  I am evolving into a person I don’t recognize, which is not bad, just challenging and sometimes stressful.  This song, with the lyric, “I guess we’ll just have to adjust”, describes the attitude I’ve reluctantly fallen into.  Also one time I saw them in concert and cried when they played this song.  I still get made fun of for that.

Day 16: A Song You Used To Love But Now Hate
“Killing In The Name” by Rage Against the Machine

My buddy Dave and I used to be all about this song.  We were angry kids with a rage only Zack de la Rocha could properly capture.  We even made the trek to Coachella the year Rage reunited and had a blast.  Somewhere along the line, though, I lost the anger and now I just can’t listen to this song.  It’s not that I hate it, I just usually skip it when it pops up on my iPod and make a mental note to call Dave more.

Day 17: A Song You Hear Often On the Radio
“Down On Me” by 50 Cent and some other dude

A couple weeks ago, I had a dream that I was dating 50 Cent and we lived in a hotel room with one of my aunts and some cousins.  Since then, I’ve discovered I have a crush on 50 Cent.  I made the mistake of telling Andy and now he makes fun of me whenever a 50 Cent comes on in my car, which is more often than one might think.  As a result of said crush every time I hear this song, I think to myself, “Oh 50, my second greatest love.”  I might be a little creepy.

For example, today I:

- sang acapella to Meat Loaf’s “For Crying Out Loud” when my iPod cut out
- waved at a bird
- adjusted myself no less than 3 times (if you’re a lady and have ever had to wear your back-up bras because you haven’t done laundry lately, you know what I’m talking about)
- accidentally hit the “door lock” button when I stopped at the Border Patrol check-point instead of the “windows down” button, causing the Border Patrol guy to eye me suspiciously
- stopped and took a picture of a cow for Andy
- accidentally erased the picture of the cow, forcing me to take my second cow picture of the day
- made up words to songs on the Spanish station I didn’t know the lyrics to

Yeah, so I think I need company on my drives, then I remember I’m a horrible road trip partner.  If I’m not singing obnoxiously I’m napping in the back.  You really do not want to be alone with me in a car.  Unless you like to make up routines to songs on the radio, in which case you and I need to hit the road!

Things are going well and while I can’t speak for Andy, I am over the moon about it.

The problem is I’ve put on a little love weight.  There are dinners with Andy, lunches with Andy, snacks with Andy, shakes with Andy, Indian tacos with Andy, and on more than one occasion, and entire pizza with Andy.  Coming from two cultures that appreciate food, we do not play around when it comes to eating.

I didn’t think much of it at first because I’m always losing and gaining the same few pounds and Andy has never said a disparaging word about my weight.  Then it happened.

Andy and I made the trip to the Indian reservation to meet Andy’s family.  I was really excited to get to see where Andy grew up and things were going well.  I wiggled my way the hearts of Andy’s family by making margaritas and we were all sitting around visiting and drinking.  Things were lovely and normal.

We had brought some pictures of the two of us for Andy’s mom and upon seeing one picture she asked when it was taken.  Before I had the chance to answer, Andy’s uncle chimed in with, “Well, it must have been a while ago because she was slimmer then.”

Oh damn. Burn.

I laughed it off while Andy put on his dagger shooting eyes.  Nothing like getting verbally bitch slapped by an uncle you just met.

Since then, I’ve been making an effort to keep myself in check.  My efforts thus far have included running (okay, okay, speed walking) a 5k and starting a new training plan for an 8-miler in September.

Love weight in action; Andy, myself, and our buddy Batman (L-R)

You know what makes trying to lose weight challenging?  Summer.  You know what makes it even more difficult?  Summer in the desert.  Everyone knows you don’t go outside between the hours of 10am – 5pm in the summer unless you want a sunburn or it’s to get a Popsicle.  And it better be a pretty big Popsicle.

However, one cannot just forget being inadvertently called a fatty.  So the running plans are going forward.  Wish me (and Andy and Batman, since misery loves company) luck!

I had to debate with myself for this one.  See, there is one particular “artist” (and I use that term in the loosest possible sense because I believe kindergarten finger painters are more talented than this person) who I hate.  Just hearing this person’s name uttered aloud fills my already Grinch-sized heart with rage.  I cannot stand this “artist”.  I hate them so much, I don’t even want to put them on my blog, lest someone searching for them stumbles upon it.

For this 30DSC, I can without a doubt say the #1 “artist I hate” is Ke$ha.  

I honestly just lost a little piece of my soul by subbing in the letter “s” for a dollar sign.  I will not embed her videos on this blog because I don’t want to soil it with glitter and what I imagine smells like day old jizz and stale beer.  No, thank you.

Now, to be fair, I have to applaud the girl for making a career out of being someone who I would regularly mistake for a hobo.  Really, you brush your teeth with a bottle of Jack?  Really?  Well, I hope you enjoy getting dentures at the ripe old age of 27.  It’s really not her fault, she’s just a scapegoat for me.  I’m so tired of the party-girl pop or whatever the hell you call it.  The stupid valley girl voice, the glamorization of being a drunk, irresponsible ass hat.  It’s all so contrived.  Remember when you were in high school there was always a kid who tried to be more badass than they actually were?  They convinced you they spent every Friday night getting kicked out of bars and slutting it up when really they were babysitting their little brother and desperately looking for that lost retainer.  They watched too many movies and they figured the key to being cool was to just not give a shit, but they were too scared to actually not give a shit so they made up stuff to make them seem like they didn’t give a shit, which really just makes them lamer.

Yeah.  I think you see where I’m going with this.

Ugh.