It all started when I was looking for an easy class.
An easy class, something not too difficult and that would require zero skillz. Something that wouldn't exhaust me. Something, perhaps, even... fun.
With these requirements in mind I ruled out class after class until finally, I settled on a class on meditation. I figured it would be easy. I figured it would require zero skillz. I figured that meditating would probably be a lot like sleeping, and if sleeping isn't fun, I don't know what is.
News flash. Meditation isn't like sleeping. Meditation is hard.
The meditation teacher would be like, "Listen to yourself breathing. Can you feel your lungs?"
And I would be like, "Yes. Can we sleep now?" Except only in my head. Because meditation time isn't talking time. It's quiet time. Even I know that.
And the teacher would be like, "Focus on your breathing! Feel the air enter and exit through your nostrils. Feel it fill you! Feel it leave!"
And I would be like, "I feel it, man, I feel it." And I would be pretty pleased with myself for about thirty seconds until the teacher said that the breath was all we could think about for twenty minutes. No distractions. No thinking about what we were going to eat for lunch or our recent friendship entanglements. No thinking about our favorite television shows. No nothing.
"If you do think about something else," the teacher said, "the breath will bring you back. You will remember the breath and then you will let the distraction go. It will float away like a ship on a passing sea."
"Passing sea," I said to myself. "Got it." I settled in to meditate.
I breathed in. I breathed out. I felt my lungs expanding and contracting and felt my breath in my nostrils. Pretty soon, though, I was thinking about missionaries coming home and cooking dinner and the book I'd read the night before and alligators and Phineas and Ferb. Theoretically the breath would have been able to bring me back and then I could have sent all my distractions shipping down that sea. The problem was, in order for the breath bring me back, I had to remember I was supposed to be thinking about the breath. Unfortunately, I was way too far gone for that. If remembering breathing was a place in North America, my thoughts were somewhere off the coast of Australia, frolicking with some marsupials.
Thus I learned the truth. Meditation isn't easy. Meditation does require skillz. Meditation is perhaps not as fun as sleeping.
It is, however, very useful.
After the meditation session the teacher went on to bring out all these slides about brain activity. Over the course of the class, we learned about how meditation can affect the brain.
The top way meditation affects the brain? It helps you become an adult.
Allow me to explain in laymen's terms. When something upsetting happens to you, be it a bear attack or a suspicion that your crush likes someone else, it wires a response in a place in the brain called the amygdala. The amygdala sends all these signals to your hormonal centers, telling you to freak out. So you freak out, and you initially freak out just as much as about the crush thing as you would about a bear attack.
There are, of course, other parts of the brain that realize that your crush not liking you is not as big of a deal as the bear attack. These are the inhibitory parts of the brain. Their job is basically to keep you from being a fool. When they realize that you're freaking out over something that doesn't put you in actual danger, they help you to stop freaking out. However, the connections to those parts of the brain aren't as strong, especially in generally anxious people. Or people who are young. Or people who are young and anxious aka teenagers and college students.
When a person meditates, the inhibitory parts of the brain activate. They get exercised, and they become easier to use. This helps meditators to consciously shut down overactive emotional responses, if not react more moderately in the first place.
As soon as the teacher told us this, I could almost feel my ears twitching. Having emotional responses that don't overwhelm=maturity=being a real adult and not someone who has the age requirements of an adult but is otherwise a fraud.
Okay, okay, I'm not exactly a fraud. It's not like I'm totally irresponsible or anything. It's just that sometimes I experience strong emotions. As I've gotten older and older, I've become better at dealing with them in adult ways. In some instances, though, they seem too strong for me. And then a tsunami of feelings sweeps over me. And sometimes I do things I regret or act in a way that does not befit my true self. Which is not pleasant, but which becomes a bigger problem when people I care about get dragged into that tsunami.
If meditation could help, then I would meditate my face off.
Every day. Twenty minutes of sitting still and 'being mindful." I was supposed to only think about the now.
"Note the now," the teacher would say. "Breath in, breath out. Feel the breath. Feel the carpet beneath your feet."
One breath, two breath. It feels scratchy. Three breath...
"Feel your heartbeat."
What color is this carpet? Isn't it... ah, no! Breathing. That's all. Six breath. Seven breath. Just the now.
"What do you hear?"
I hear -ten breath. Eleven- a dog barking.
"Hear the sound. Don't think about where it's coming from. Just hear it."
I mean... I hear barking. Well, if I'm just hearing it maybe I shouldn't put a name to it...
"Feel the breath."
So... I hear a noise... and it sounds like... that.
"Don't name sounds. Just follow them.
...what does that even mean?
"What are the distractions that come into your mind?"
Do I listen to what she's saying, or just follow it? If I'm focusing on what she's saying, can I really be mindful?
"What distractions are coming into your mind?"
Does interpreting her words take away from the now?
"Just let them go by."
...the now... after this I can get lunch.
"Let them float away."
Tacos. Homework, baklava, workplace policies.
"They are not part of you. They just are."
That one time senior year when the band went to Disneyland and we got to go in the back of Toon Town and everyone had a Disney crown and mine had Tinker Bell on it... ahhhh. NO. Why aren't we being mindful, brain?! We're supposed to be maturing!
"If you can't focus, don't judge yourself," said the teacher. "Just love yourself. Go back to the breath. It will bring you back to mindfulness."
Yes. Yes. The breath will bring me back. Let's count the breaths. One, two, three... hmmm, Pinterest recipes....
And so it went. Every time I meditated, at the end of the session I always found myself spaced out for the last five minutes or so. Instead of exercising the inhibitory parts of my mind and learning to de-tsunami-ize my emotions, I was thinking about Christmas or examining my biceps or singing a Beatles song in my head.
...I'm never going to become a real adult, am I?
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Idea X
I invited Baby Sister to help me write this blog post, because Baby Sister is perhaps the most dazzling and wondrous person on the face of the Earth. Always I use her to make me look more brilliant than I actually am.
Once I had to make a final project for my eighth-grade science class, a comprehensive one aka a project about everything we'd learned that year. I like to make videos, so I decided to make a video. Baby Sister was the star. She talked all about science and at the end she threw a pie at Little Sister's face.
Well, it wasn't actually a pie. Pies are too expensive for an eighth-grader's movei-making budget. It was a pie tin filled with shaving cream so that it looked like a pie. And Baby Sister didn't actually throw it. Pie tins filled with shaving cream are too light to go far. We filmed her about to throw it and then we filmed it hitting Little Sister in the face from about four inches away. With the right editing, it really looked like Baby Sister had thrown it.
It was beautiful. But I knew my A wasn't from my ability to edit jump-cuts. It was because of Baby Sister. She shone like a sparkling thing in that eighth-grade movie, and as she's gotten older, she's shone even more.
Last year I was supposed to make a comprehensive final project for a Nameless Utah College Honors Program class. Again, film was my medium of choice. The idea behind the project was that I was supposed to talk about what I'd learned that semester. However, I knew that it would sound a million times better coming from Baby Sister than from me. So I told her what I'd learned, and then she talked about it. I captured it on film. I edited it. I brought it to school.
I showed the video to my Honors professors as my final project. Of course, they loved it. They loved her.
One of my professors said, "You say that's your sister?"
"Yes," I said, both because it's true and because I'd have to be a fool to not seize an opportunity to bask in a bit of Baby Sister's light.
"And you all thought that you could think deeply!" the professor exclaimed to my classmates. "Awkward Mormon Girl, tell your sister that she's welcome in this classroom any time."
"Okay," I said. I went home and told Baby Sister that. She didn't even seem surprised, but why should she have been? When you're naturally amazing and everybody loves you, being invited to take college classes way before you are old enough probably isn't surprising at all. I'm sure it happens to Baby Sister all the time.
Such is her power.
Today, Baby Sister has promised me an amazing and world-shattering blog post that she has entitled "Idea X." So far, this is it.
Wait. Now she is saying words of wisdom:
"Seek, learn, and treasure."
"Did you know there's a day celebrating left-handed people?"
"If it is to be, it is up to you."
"Crazy. Wait."
"Crazy, meaningful, not on drugs."
"Blue. Rodents, dogs, and horses. Walk to the park and then be bored."
Ladies and gentlemen, there you have it. Idea X. Bow down before the wonder that is Baby Sister.
Once I had to make a final project for my eighth-grade science class, a comprehensive one aka a project about everything we'd learned that year. I like to make videos, so I decided to make a video. Baby Sister was the star. She talked all about science and at the end she threw a pie at Little Sister's face.
Well, it wasn't actually a pie. Pies are too expensive for an eighth-grader's movei-making budget. It was a pie tin filled with shaving cream so that it looked like a pie. And Baby Sister didn't actually throw it. Pie tins filled with shaving cream are too light to go far. We filmed her about to throw it and then we filmed it hitting Little Sister in the face from about four inches away. With the right editing, it really looked like Baby Sister had thrown it.
It was beautiful. But I knew my A wasn't from my ability to edit jump-cuts. It was because of Baby Sister. She shone like a sparkling thing in that eighth-grade movie, and as she's gotten older, she's shone even more.
Last year I was supposed to make a comprehensive final project for a Nameless Utah College Honors Program class. Again, film was my medium of choice. The idea behind the project was that I was supposed to talk about what I'd learned that semester. However, I knew that it would sound a million times better coming from Baby Sister than from me. So I told her what I'd learned, and then she talked about it. I captured it on film. I edited it. I brought it to school.
I showed the video to my Honors professors as my final project. Of course, they loved it. They loved her.
One of my professors said, "You say that's your sister?"
"Yes," I said, both because it's true and because I'd have to be a fool to not seize an opportunity to bask in a bit of Baby Sister's light.
"And you all thought that you could think deeply!" the professor exclaimed to my classmates. "Awkward Mormon Girl, tell your sister that she's welcome in this classroom any time."
"Okay," I said. I went home and told Baby Sister that. She didn't even seem surprised, but why should she have been? When you're naturally amazing and everybody loves you, being invited to take college classes way before you are old enough probably isn't surprising at all. I'm sure it happens to Baby Sister all the time.
Such is her power.
Today, Baby Sister has promised me an amazing and world-shattering blog post that she has entitled "Idea X." So far, this is it.
Wait. Now she is saying words of wisdom:
"Seek, learn, and treasure."
"Did you know there's a day celebrating left-handed people?"
"If it is to be, it is up to you."
"Crazy. Wait."
"Crazy, meaningful, not on drugs."
"Blue. Rodents, dogs, and horses. Walk to the park and then be bored."
Ladies and gentlemen, there you have it. Idea X. Bow down before the wonder that is Baby Sister.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
People Skillz or Lack Thereof
Some days are like a dream. On those days I go out somewhere with lots of people and I work the crowd flawlessly. I always know where I'm going. I always know what I'm saying. My words and my presence are as highly in demand as season two of Legend of Korra.
Then there are days like yesterday.
PERSON: So what did you think of today's lesson?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Uh...
PERSON TWO: So where are you from?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Uh...
PERSON THREE: So what's your name?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: UH...
PERSON FOUR: We should do something sometime!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yeah, that would be really, uh, we could be, um, that should only... you know, I'm an English major, so you think I would be good with, uh, with--what are those things called again?
PERSON FOUR: ...
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh. Oh yeah. Words. They're called words.
PERSON FIVE: Did you do anything fun for your sister's birthday?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: We went to the cemetery.
...yeah. If anybody needs me, I'll just be in my room, making no noise and pretending I don't exist.
Then there are days like yesterday.
PERSON: So what did you think of today's lesson?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Uh...
PERSON TWO: So where are you from?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Uh...
PERSON THREE: So what's your name?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: UH...
PERSON FOUR: We should do something sometime!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yeah, that would be really, uh, we could be, um, that should only... you know, I'm an English major, so you think I would be good with, uh, with--what are those things called again?
PERSON FOUR: ...
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh. Oh yeah. Words. They're called words.
PERSON FIVE: Did you do anything fun for your sister's birthday?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: We went to the cemetery.
...yeah. If anybody needs me, I'll just be in my room, making no noise and pretending I don't exist.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
The Windows Do Not Clean Themselves
Once I read this story called "The End Sings Itself." By the denouement of the story, the apocalyptic setting is suffering from an epidemic that makes it impossible for people to sing. So the end has to sing itself, because there's no one else around to do the job.
I've never been able to decide if I find that title clever in a lyrical way, or just really, really pretentious. Among other things, it's a story, not a song, and why does the end have to be sung anyways? Answer: Because that's the way things are done in Writer Land. And Writer Land also has a fine balance between cleverness and pretentiousness.
Pretentious or clever, the end sings itself. You know what don't sing themselves?
Windows. And they sure don't clean themselves, either.
Okay, okay. Lots of things don't clean themselves. Dishes. My family's house. My hair. All those things have to be cleaned. So I clean them... some more than others.
The reason windows are way more frustrating than dishes or a house or my hair is because they are impossible to clean.
No joke. The other day I saw a dirty window. I cleaned it. Both sides, all nice with Windex. I finished the job, stepped back, and-
-it was still dirty.
I got more Windex. I scrubbed harder. Good? Nope, still dirty.
I looked at the window from several distances and angles, making sure I took note of every little smudge. Then I sprayed those spots with a ton of Windex and scrubbed hard enough to descale a reptile.
In spite of all the reptiles that would have lost their scales under my hands, the window still retained its dirt.
I ask you, how is this possible? Is window dirt super-specially-resistant? Does Windex make it multiply? Does window glass regenerate its smudges every time someone endeavours to remove them?
Anyone who comes across me in the next few days may well hear me muttering to myself, "Windows, why do you always have to be so difficult?" They'll either conclude that I'm insane because I'm talking to an inanimate object or that I have a rather frustrating, but completely unrelated-to-housework, problem with my computer's operating system.
I've never been able to decide if I find that title clever in a lyrical way, or just really, really pretentious. Among other things, it's a story, not a song, and why does the end have to be sung anyways? Answer: Because that's the way things are done in Writer Land. And Writer Land also has a fine balance between cleverness and pretentiousness.
Pretentious or clever, the end sings itself. You know what don't sing themselves?
Windows. And they sure don't clean themselves, either.
Okay, okay. Lots of things don't clean themselves. Dishes. My family's house. My hair. All those things have to be cleaned. So I clean them... some more than others.
The reason windows are way more frustrating than dishes or a house or my hair is because they are impossible to clean.
No joke. The other day I saw a dirty window. I cleaned it. Both sides, all nice with Windex. I finished the job, stepped back, and-
-it was still dirty.
I got more Windex. I scrubbed harder. Good? Nope, still dirty.
I looked at the window from several distances and angles, making sure I took note of every little smudge. Then I sprayed those spots with a ton of Windex and scrubbed hard enough to descale a reptile.
In spite of all the reptiles that would have lost their scales under my hands, the window still retained its dirt.
I ask you, how is this possible? Is window dirt super-specially-resistant? Does Windex make it multiply? Does window glass regenerate its smudges every time someone endeavours to remove them?
Anyone who comes across me in the next few days may well hear me muttering to myself, "Windows, why do you always have to be so difficult?" They'll either conclude that I'm insane because I'm talking to an inanimate object or that I have a rather frustrating, but completely unrelated-to-housework, problem with my computer's operating system.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Texts from Jamonte
In the not-so-distant past, Little Sister came into the kitchen with a dilemma.
"I got a text from a wrong number. 'Uncle James,'" she read from her phone screen, "'it's monte need to holla at u.'"
Immediately my ears perked up. So did the rest of me.
"Little Sister," I said, "the Snuggie Texts."
Mom said, "Just text back and tell them they have the wrong number."
I said, "Text back something ridiculous!"
And Mom said, "Don't have a conversation with this person. Just say, 'wrong number.'"
Little Sister looked at both of us with uncertainty, trying to decide which path would bring her to happiness and sunshine.
Either Little Sister has gotten better at following the sibling hierarchy or my path sounded happier and more sunny, because later Little Sister waylaid me and read me the conversation from her phone.
Unknown Number: Uncle James it's monte need to holla at u
Little Sister: Kay holla away
Okay. Well, that wasn't ridiculous, but it was funny. I told her so.
"Then," Little Sister said, "he tried to call me."
"Uh... what?"
"Don't worry. I didn't answer."
Monte: Tried to call u twice call me!!!!
Little Sister: It doesnt say u called me
Little Sister: Its not working just text me
"Then," Little Sister said, "I got this text from another number."
"...a what from a what?"
Unknown Number #2: Jamonte said call him.
Monte: My phone is dead call my gurls phone if you wanna make this paper
Little Sister to Monte: is this monte?
Unknown Number #2: Where are yall
Little Sister to Unknown Number #2: grabbin some food
Monte: Yes this is monte call me
Little Sister to Monte: My phone was dead.
"So then," Little Sister said, "I called him-"
"You WHAT?"
"-and I turned it on mute and acted like the phone was broken."
"You WHAT?"
Monte: My phone is charging now Sally asked u about those things I'm down here if you wanna dump them let me know if grab them if not just let me know I ain't trying to sweat u
Monte: I've tryed calling from her phone and mine
Little Sister to Monte: i don't know why u cant hear me if its on mute i dont know how to get it off. U can come grab them.
Monte: From where unc
Monte: Where I gotta meet u
Little Sister: I think u have the wrong number
Monte: Is this uncle James
Little Sister: Is this jamonte?
Monte: Yes.
Monte: This is jamonte
Monte: Why can't u call me ??????????
Little Sister: My phones about to die.
Little Sister: Plus this isn't uncle james. Sorry. Best of luck
Monte: Then why didn't u say that
Little Sister looked might pleased with herself as she related this all back to me. And just then, I realized something:
I may be ridiculous, but Little Sister is terrifying.
Not too long after that, Little Sister received the following picture from the second unknown number:
In return, she sent this picture of one of her friends:
Her friend asked, "Are you bonding with these people?"
Little Sister's response: they're now in her phonebook as My Nephew Jamonte and Jamonte's Gurl Sally.
"I got a text from a wrong number. 'Uncle James,'" she read from her phone screen, "'it's monte need to holla at u.'"
Immediately my ears perked up. So did the rest of me.
"Little Sister," I said, "the Snuggie Texts."
Mom said, "Just text back and tell them they have the wrong number."
I said, "Text back something ridiculous!"
And Mom said, "Don't have a conversation with this person. Just say, 'wrong number.'"
Little Sister looked at both of us with uncertainty, trying to decide which path would bring her to happiness and sunshine.
Either Little Sister has gotten better at following the sibling hierarchy or my path sounded happier and more sunny, because later Little Sister waylaid me and read me the conversation from her phone.
Unknown Number: Uncle James it's monte need to holla at u
Little Sister: Kay holla away
Okay. Well, that wasn't ridiculous, but it was funny. I told her so.
"Then," Little Sister said, "he tried to call me."
"Uh... what?"
"Don't worry. I didn't answer."
Monte: Tried to call u twice call me!!!!
Little Sister: It doesnt say u called me
Little Sister: Its not working just text me
"Then," Little Sister said, "I got this text from another number."
"...a what from a what?"
Unknown Number #2: Jamonte said call him.
Monte: My phone is dead call my gurls phone if you wanna make this paper
Little Sister to Monte: is this monte?
Unknown Number #2: Where are yall
Little Sister to Unknown Number #2: grabbin some food
Monte: Yes this is monte call me
Little Sister to Monte: My phone was dead.
"So then," Little Sister said, "I called him-"
"You WHAT?"
"-and I turned it on mute and acted like the phone was broken."
"You WHAT?"
Monte: My phone is charging now Sally asked u about those things I'm down here if you wanna dump them let me know if grab them if not just let me know I ain't trying to sweat u
Monte: I've tryed calling from her phone and mine
Little Sister to Monte: i don't know why u cant hear me if its on mute i dont know how to get it off. U can come grab them.
Monte: From where unc
Monte: Where I gotta meet u
Little Sister: I think u have the wrong number
Monte: Is this uncle James
Little Sister: Is this jamonte?
Monte: Yes.
Monte: This is jamonte
Monte: Why can't u call me ??????????
Little Sister: My phones about to die.
Little Sister: Plus this isn't uncle james. Sorry. Best of luck
Monte: Then why didn't u say that
Little Sister looked might pleased with herself as she related this all back to me. And just then, I realized something:
I may be ridiculous, but Little Sister is terrifying.
Not too long after that, Little Sister received the following picture from the second unknown number:
In return, she sent this picture of one of her friends:
Her friend asked, "Are you bonding with these people?"
Little Sister's response: they're now in her phonebook as My Nephew Jamonte and Jamonte's Gurl Sally.
Monday, May 20, 2013
The First Ever (and Worst Ever) Jokes About Recycling
To make up for the complete and utter seriousness of last time's post, today is about nothing but jokes.
I mentioned the other day that nobody jokes about recycling. At first I was being sarcastic. However, upon a quick Google search, it turned out that perhaps I was right. People really do take recycling very seriously.
As a person who thinks that almost nothing should be taken seriously, I have made it my personal mission to kickstart and cultivate this new form of humor. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you THE FIRST JOKES ABOUT RECYCLING EVER!
A hundred and eighty-five compost heaps walk into a McDonald's. The cashier takes their order and asks, "Do you want flies with that?"
Why did a chicken carrying a tin can cross the road? The recycling bin was on the other side.
Scientists discovered a way to generate light using only scrap metal. It was an aluminating experience.
What do you get when you have a glass bottle, some tin foil, and an old notebook? Recycling.
What is more expensive than paper? Recycled paper.
What is more expensive than paper and sometimes has dried flowers in it? Recycled paper that you make when you're in preschool. 'Cause the only thing that can improve paper is flowers.
What do you call a person who hugs trees? A tree hugger.
Your mom loves to recycle. OH SNAP.
Join the movement! Because I just decided that this is a movement. If you have any recycling jokes to share, feel free to post in the comments below. Even if they're not as freakishly amazing as mine.
I mentioned the other day that nobody jokes about recycling. At first I was being sarcastic. However, upon a quick Google search, it turned out that perhaps I was right. People really do take recycling very seriously.
As a person who thinks that almost nothing should be taken seriously, I have made it my personal mission to kickstart and cultivate this new form of humor. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you THE FIRST JOKES ABOUT RECYCLING EVER!
A hundred and eighty-five compost heaps walk into a McDonald's. The cashier takes their order and asks, "Do you want flies with that?"
Why did a chicken carrying a tin can cross the road? The recycling bin was on the other side.
Scientists discovered a way to generate light using only scrap metal. It was an aluminating experience.
What do you get when you have a glass bottle, some tin foil, and an old notebook? Recycling.
What is more expensive than paper? Recycled paper.
What is more expensive than paper and sometimes has dried flowers in it? Recycled paper that you make when you're in preschool. 'Cause the only thing that can improve paper is flowers.
What do you call a person who hugs trees? A tree hugger.
Your mom loves to recycle. OH SNAP.
Join the movement! Because I just decided that this is a movement. If you have any recycling jokes to share, feel free to post in the comments below. Even if they're not as freakishly amazing as mine.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Living with Suicide
Sometimes at a choir concert or at a musical, I see Lydia's brown hair or hear her voice ringing out in the theatre.
"I should go over and say hello," I think. "It's been a while."
But then I see that the sensible hair is the obligatory post-wedding haircut of a college bride. I match up the voice with some gray grandmother in a purple plush jacket. And then I remember.
Lydia killed herself.
This is what the LDS church believes about suicide. It's a message of hope, not despair: suicide surely is a sin, but the Lord is merciful. He will judge these people fairly and pay attention to all parts of their lives, not just how it ended. I'm not too worried about what happens to people who kill themselves. They're with God now, and I have full faith in Him.
What I am worried about is the people who get left behind.
Suicide is selfish that way. It's the non-gift that just keeps on giving. The person who commits the suicide hurts so many, many people, but then doesn't even have to live with it. The people who have to live with it are completely innocent. They're victims. And now they have this terrible burden that has the potential to drag them, too, to the edge of an abyss.
What are the emotions that come with this burden? There's sadness. There's guilt, hurt, and anger. There's darkness. Some people would say darkness isn't an emotion, but I disagree. Darkness is one of the most powerful negative emotions a person can experience.
So you have this burden, and you're suffering, big-time. You want to keep on going, but it's hard. How do you deal?
In all reality, probably you eat a lot of ice cream. You go to counseling. You have a few breakdowns, maybe end up in a mental hospital. If you're lucky you stay alive. If you're not, you go off the deep end too and suicide is non-gifted to all the people in your life. Some of whom were also in the life of the first person to commit suicide. How do they deal?
Therapy and self-help books and maybe some meditation. Hypnotism and extreme sports and perhaps medication. Alcohol. Drugs. Escapism. If they don't end up killing themselves too, they'll probably turn out terribly broken people in some way or another.
Unless they learn to give their sadness, their guilt, their hurt, their anger, their darkness and suffering... away.
You may think that it's stupid for me to say that we should give our suffering away. Wouldn't everyone give their problems away if they could? Well, yeah, you'd think so. But at the same time... have you ever had a conversation with yourself like this?
YOU: I am feeling in pain right now. I am in a lot of pain.
PAIN: You're in a lot of me!
YOU: Yes I am. And I hate you.
PAIN: Then why don't you get rid of me?
YOU: Good point. How do I do that?
PAIN: By feeling something else.
YOU: Like what?
PAIN: Anything else, really.
YOU: But... if it's anything else, then... that means it's unknown!
PAIN: Well, yeah.
YOU: Then forget it. If I don't know what I'm going to feel when I let go of my pain, I don't even want to try. At least I know what pain is. I hate it, but it's familiar.
PAIN: I was hoping you would say that! *settles in for a long, long nap*
Sometimes getting rid of pain takes a lot more effort than we're willing to give. Plus it's scary, especially since we can't guarantee what will happen next.
Or can we?
When I give my pain away, I give it to the Master, Jesus Christ. He lived and died and lived again and made things that seem impossible (like getting rid of pain) a reality for everyone. Now, when I give my pain to Him, I don't know what's going to happen or what I might feel next. Sometimes I feel happy. Sometimes I feel exposed, stripped to the bone and vulnerable. Sometimes I feel a new and different type of pain that I then have to learn how to give away as well. But no matter what else I feel, I always, always feel peace, and always, always feel an assurance that someday, somehow, everything is just going to be okay.
Lydia's memory may haunt me for a while yet. Probably she will always leave a shadow on her family. And even though that's not ideal, it can be survived. With Him, a person can learn to live with any struggle. Even suicide.
"I should go over and say hello," I think. "It's been a while."
But then I see that the sensible hair is the obligatory post-wedding haircut of a college bride. I match up the voice with some gray grandmother in a purple plush jacket. And then I remember.
Lydia killed herself.
This is what the LDS church believes about suicide. It's a message of hope, not despair: suicide surely is a sin, but the Lord is merciful. He will judge these people fairly and pay attention to all parts of their lives, not just how it ended. I'm not too worried about what happens to people who kill themselves. They're with God now, and I have full faith in Him.
What I am worried about is the people who get left behind.
Suicide is selfish that way. It's the non-gift that just keeps on giving. The person who commits the suicide hurts so many, many people, but then doesn't even have to live with it. The people who have to live with it are completely innocent. They're victims. And now they have this terrible burden that has the potential to drag them, too, to the edge of an abyss.
What are the emotions that come with this burden? There's sadness. There's guilt, hurt, and anger. There's darkness. Some people would say darkness isn't an emotion, but I disagree. Darkness is one of the most powerful negative emotions a person can experience.
So you have this burden, and you're suffering, big-time. You want to keep on going, but it's hard. How do you deal?
In all reality, probably you eat a lot of ice cream. You go to counseling. You have a few breakdowns, maybe end up in a mental hospital. If you're lucky you stay alive. If you're not, you go off the deep end too and suicide is non-gifted to all the people in your life. Some of whom were also in the life of the first person to commit suicide. How do they deal?
Therapy and self-help books and maybe some meditation. Hypnotism and extreme sports and perhaps medication. Alcohol. Drugs. Escapism. If they don't end up killing themselves too, they'll probably turn out terribly broken people in some way or another.
Unless they learn to give their sadness, their guilt, their hurt, their anger, their darkness and suffering... away.
You may think that it's stupid for me to say that we should give our suffering away. Wouldn't everyone give their problems away if they could? Well, yeah, you'd think so. But at the same time... have you ever had a conversation with yourself like this?
YOU: I am feeling in pain right now. I am in a lot of pain.
PAIN: You're in a lot of me!
YOU: Yes I am. And I hate you.
PAIN: Then why don't you get rid of me?
YOU: Good point. How do I do that?
PAIN: By feeling something else.
YOU: Like what?
PAIN: Anything else, really.
YOU: But... if it's anything else, then... that means it's unknown!
PAIN: Well, yeah.
YOU: Then forget it. If I don't know what I'm going to feel when I let go of my pain, I don't even want to try. At least I know what pain is. I hate it, but it's familiar.
PAIN: I was hoping you would say that! *settles in for a long, long nap*
Sometimes getting rid of pain takes a lot more effort than we're willing to give. Plus it's scary, especially since we can't guarantee what will happen next.
Or can we?
When I give my pain away, I give it to the Master, Jesus Christ. He lived and died and lived again and made things that seem impossible (like getting rid of pain) a reality for everyone. Now, when I give my pain to Him, I don't know what's going to happen or what I might feel next. Sometimes I feel happy. Sometimes I feel exposed, stripped to the bone and vulnerable. Sometimes I feel a new and different type of pain that I then have to learn how to give away as well. But no matter what else I feel, I always, always feel peace, and always, always feel an assurance that someday, somehow, everything is just going to be okay.
Lydia's memory may haunt me for a while yet. Probably she will always leave a shadow on her family. And even though that's not ideal, it can be survived. With Him, a person can learn to live with any struggle. Even suicide.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Straightfaced
My friend Dostoevsky once told Older Sister, "I am friends with Awkward Mormon Girl because she can say anything with a straight face."
Dostoevsky is Dostoevsky, so he can get away with saying this. It would be utterly bewildering coming from someone else. That being said, I still don't entirely understand why he considers my ability to deadpan my most friendship-worthy characteristic.
But I can say lots of things with a straight face. Which is useful, as I do theatre and specialize in comedy, but which causes me problems in nontheatrical settings.
For instance, someone might ask me something like, "Would you like some potatoes?" And I might respond, just as a bit of teasing, "I hate potatoes." I would say this in an overly sincere tone of voice and with an eyebrow quirk to show that I'm kidding. However, about ninety-eight percent of the time the someone who asked if I wanted any potatoes would say, "Oh."
I would then realize that my delivery was perfect--too perfect. Quickly I'd explain that I was just joking and that I love potatoes. Then, to prove myself, I would proceed to eat so many potatoes it would be scary.
Of the people who initially take me seriously, maybe fifty-one percent quickly realize I am kidding. Then they kind of laugh or roll their eyes or whatever. But the other forty-nine percent are like, "What?" Or, "I thought you just said you hate potatoes!" Or they simply watch my potato eating with a look that says they're very, very concerned.
It's like they've never seen anyone eat six potatoes in rapid succession before.
Potatoes, however, are the least of my problems. I've seriously offended people I care about and chased away many attractive fellows simply because sometimes nobody can tell when I'm joking, and even when I flat-out tell people that I'm joking, half of them don't believe me anyways.
(I had to write that in italics because it's super-important. To me and to you and to the well-being of the world at large and to everyone taking the AP tests about now).
I guess I can understand people thinking that I'm being serious in real life. After all, I have mad theatre skillz which of course means that everything I say in person is automatically terribly convincing. Something like that.
My writing skillz must also be terribly convincing also, because I have an additional problem: sometimes people tend to take the ridiculous things that I write seriously, too.
Back in the day, I had an English teacher named Miss Kantspell. Miss Kantspell ran the school newspaper. That was all I knew about her on the first day of school. If I had known her better, I definitely would have written about recycling when she gave us the assignment of writing a newspaper article. Recycling is a safe topic. It's serious. No one jokes about recycling. Really, no one does. I mean, if right now you tried to think of a good recycling joke you wouldn't be able to.
Go ahead, I'll wait.
See? None. No recycling jokes. Not even Google has any. Recycling is the safest topic in the world to write an article on but, alas! At my tender age, I did not realize that. Nor did I realize the danger that would have made me choose a safe topic in the first place.
What I did realize was that while I liked being published, writing an article Miss Kantspell would consider worthy of publication was not my main goal. I just wanted to write about something interesting, have fun with it, and get the grade. Making people laugh was a plus, too. I've always liked to make people laugh. Publication, however? Eh. Who cared?
Unfortunately, I had zero ideas for this interesting, A-plus-worthy, hilarious article. I went about my usual business with a bit of brainstorming tension. Then, one day before drum line- oh. Yeah. I was in drum line.
Pretty much all my nontheatre friends from school were in the band: Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, Shutterbug, Runner Bean, Porch, and all the rest. Of those, most were also in drum line. I played a bass drum and so did Etch-a-Sketch and Porch.
Best Friend Boy was the lone cymbal player. I don't think he loved playing the cymbals, but he did love the drum major hats stashed away in the band room closet. He would take them out and wear them during rehearsals until one day our director, Mr. Kermit, asked Best Friend Boy if he would please stop playing dress-up with the old marching band uniforms.
At a practice around the time he was forbidden to wear the hats, Best Friend Boy commented quite thoroughly on the setup of the band room and also scolded me for not appropriating the proper tone of voice within (sometimes I raise my voice without really meaning to. It comes with being an Obnoxious).
And just like that, I knew what I was going to write about.
I wrote it fast. That thing flew onto the page like it was alive. Satisfied, I looked it over. Right away I knew it was unfit for a newspaper. I mean, first of all, it wasn't news. Also, it was ridiculous. I was a little hesitant to turn it in because it was a bit cheeky, but I'd had teachers who rewarded me for my daring before, and I figured Miss Kantspell would be no different.
She rewarded me all right. Within a few short weeks, my article was printed up all nice in the school newspaper under the title, "Students Must Follow Band Room Rules."
Miss Kantspell had not realized that the entire article was meant to be a joke. She thought this piece of ridiculousness was actually meant to be a legit piece of news. I'm writing in italics again to stress how REALLY important this is. This article cannot be taken seriously. How could anyone take this seriously?!
Miss Kantspell could, because, as I more fully learned later, Miss Kantspell was what we call "mind blind" to sarcasm, meaning that irony and humor were often lost on her.
Now, Hometown High is an oddball, as far as high schools go. The students there have always tended to be a little off-the-wall in their sense of humor, by which I mean they can laugh at anything and everything if it's delivered correctly. A ton of my classmates would normally have appreciated my article under other circumstances. But because it was printed as an apparently serious piece of news, it did not inspire laughter. Instead, it brought forth much confusion.
BEST FRIEND BOY: I saw your article. You do know that I was kidding about that band room rule stuff, right?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I was kidding too! It was a joke!
OTHER FRIENDS: That sure was an interesting article...
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It was a joke!
CLASSMATES: Your article is, uh, well-
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It was supposed to be a joke.
OLDER SISTER: I read your article.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: IT'S! A! JOKE! AUUUUUUUURRRGGHH! *spontaneously combusts*
The End
P.S. Miss Kantspell, if you're reading this, I didn't actually spontaneously combust. It's a joke. A JOKE. A JOKE, I TELL YOU! *DIES OF FRUSTRATION*
...
...
...
(That was also a joke.)
Dostoevsky is Dostoevsky, so he can get away with saying this. It would be utterly bewildering coming from someone else. That being said, I still don't entirely understand why he considers my ability to deadpan my most friendship-worthy characteristic.
But I can say lots of things with a straight face. Which is useful, as I do theatre and specialize in comedy, but which causes me problems in nontheatrical settings.
For instance, someone might ask me something like, "Would you like some potatoes?" And I might respond, just as a bit of teasing, "I hate potatoes." I would say this in an overly sincere tone of voice and with an eyebrow quirk to show that I'm kidding. However, about ninety-eight percent of the time the someone who asked if I wanted any potatoes would say, "Oh."
I would then realize that my delivery was perfect--too perfect. Quickly I'd explain that I was just joking and that I love potatoes. Then, to prove myself, I would proceed to eat so many potatoes it would be scary.
Of the people who initially take me seriously, maybe fifty-one percent quickly realize I am kidding. Then they kind of laugh or roll their eyes or whatever. But the other forty-nine percent are like, "What?" Or, "I thought you just said you hate potatoes!" Or they simply watch my potato eating with a look that says they're very, very concerned.
It's like they've never seen anyone eat six potatoes in rapid succession before.
Potatoes, however, are the least of my problems. I've seriously offended people I care about and chased away many attractive fellows simply because sometimes nobody can tell when I'm joking, and even when I flat-out tell people that I'm joking, half of them don't believe me anyways.
(I had to write that in italics because it's super-important. To me and to you and to the well-being of the world at large and to everyone taking the AP tests about now).
I guess I can understand people thinking that I'm being serious in real life. After all, I have mad theatre skillz which of course means that everything I say in person is automatically terribly convincing. Something like that.
My writing skillz must also be terribly convincing also, because I have an additional problem: sometimes people tend to take the ridiculous things that I write seriously, too.
Back in the day, I had an English teacher named Miss Kantspell. Miss Kantspell ran the school newspaper. That was all I knew about her on the first day of school. If I had known her better, I definitely would have written about recycling when she gave us the assignment of writing a newspaper article. Recycling is a safe topic. It's serious. No one jokes about recycling. Really, no one does. I mean, if right now you tried to think of a good recycling joke you wouldn't be able to.
Go ahead, I'll wait.
See? None. No recycling jokes. Not even Google has any. Recycling is the safest topic in the world to write an article on but, alas! At my tender age, I did not realize that. Nor did I realize the danger that would have made me choose a safe topic in the first place.
What I did realize was that while I liked being published, writing an article Miss Kantspell would consider worthy of publication was not my main goal. I just wanted to write about something interesting, have fun with it, and get the grade. Making people laugh was a plus, too. I've always liked to make people laugh. Publication, however? Eh. Who cared?
Unfortunately, I had zero ideas for this interesting, A-plus-worthy, hilarious article. I went about my usual business with a bit of brainstorming tension. Then, one day before drum line- oh. Yeah. I was in drum line.
Pretty much all my nontheatre friends from school were in the band: Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, Shutterbug, Runner Bean, Porch, and all the rest. Of those, most were also in drum line. I played a bass drum and so did Etch-a-Sketch and Porch.
Best Friend Boy was the lone cymbal player. I don't think he loved playing the cymbals, but he did love the drum major hats stashed away in the band room closet. He would take them out and wear them during rehearsals until one day our director, Mr. Kermit, asked Best Friend Boy if he would please stop playing dress-up with the old marching band uniforms.
At a practice around the time he was forbidden to wear the hats, Best Friend Boy commented quite thoroughly on the setup of the band room and also scolded me for not appropriating the proper tone of voice within (sometimes I raise my voice without really meaning to. It comes with being an Obnoxious).
And just like that, I knew what I was going to write about.
I wrote it fast. That thing flew onto the page like it was alive. Satisfied, I looked it over. Right away I knew it was unfit for a newspaper. I mean, first of all, it wasn't news. Also, it was ridiculous. I was a little hesitant to turn it in because it was a bit cheeky, but I'd had teachers who rewarded me for my daring before, and I figured Miss Kantspell would be no different.
She rewarded me all right. Within a few short weeks, my article was printed up all nice in the school newspaper under the title, "Students Must Follow Band Room Rules."
The Hometown High band room is not only used for band practice. It is also a place where many students hang out before, during, and after school. What most people don't know, however, is that certain things are not allowed in the band room.That's what it looked like, sitting in all its glory smack above Runner Bean's very much sincere piece, "The Band Plays With Power and Passion."
Best Friend Boy, the Hometown High School Band Council Treasurer 200*-200*, sheds a little light on the subject. "No yelling in the band room," he says, then amends, "Actually, no screaming in the band room."
Another thing not allowed in the band room is taking a nap where the trumpet players sit. At least, "I wouldn't recommend it." This limitation is for students' own good as trumpet players do tend to produce a certain amount of spit that ends up on the band room floor.
Many other things are also not allowed in the band room, apparently including but not limited to the drum line cymbal players wearing fancy drum major hats. Best Friend Boy personally does not support this rule but respects the fact that the band teacher, Mr. Kermit, has nixed it. Best Friend Boy says perhaps someday he will make a list so more people can be aware of what is and what is not allowed in the band room.
Miss Kantspell had not realized that the entire article was meant to be a joke. She thought this piece of ridiculousness was actually meant to be a legit piece of news. I'm writing in italics again to stress how REALLY important this is. This article cannot be taken seriously. How could anyone take this seriously?!
Miss Kantspell could, because, as I more fully learned later, Miss Kantspell was what we call "mind blind" to sarcasm, meaning that irony and humor were often lost on her.
Now, Hometown High is an oddball, as far as high schools go. The students there have always tended to be a little off-the-wall in their sense of humor, by which I mean they can laugh at anything and everything if it's delivered correctly. A ton of my classmates would normally have appreciated my article under other circumstances. But because it was printed as an apparently serious piece of news, it did not inspire laughter. Instead, it brought forth much confusion.
BEST FRIEND BOY: I saw your article. You do know that I was kidding about that band room rule stuff, right?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I was kidding too! It was a joke!
OTHER FRIENDS: That sure was an interesting article...
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It was a joke!
CLASSMATES: Your article is, uh, well-
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It was supposed to be a joke.
OLDER SISTER: I read your article.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: IT'S! A! JOKE! AUUUUUUUURRRGGHH! *spontaneously combusts*
P.S. Miss Kantspell, if you're reading this, I didn't actually spontaneously combust. It's a joke. A JOKE. A JOKE, I TELL YOU! *DIES OF FRUSTRATION*
...
...
...
(That was also a joke.)
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Excitement and Things Like It
Excitement makes me want to throw up.
It didn't used to be that way, you know? I used to just feel good old, plain old excitement. No need to upchuck. No hyperventilating. No worries about possible spontaneous explosion. Just an emotion as frothy and as delicious as the fizz of a soda.
Nowadays, though, my excitement is inexplicably linked to the way my stomach feels. The more excited I get, the more my stomach just wants to toss back everything I ate.
Excitement isn't the only thing that makes me want to throw up. Nervousness makes me want to throw up. So does concern. So does food poisoning. So does the flu.
Sometimes I get ticked off with myself. Because although I can't always avoid getting food poisoning or the flu, I feel like I should be able to avoid getting so excited or so nervous or whatever. The scolding part of me thinks that if I was really mature, I wouldn't get so ridiculously emotional over anything.
The generous part of me, however, thinks differently. It thinks that feeling things strongly is good. It thinks that it doesn't matter how emotional I get, as long as those emotions don't cripple me or hold me back. It thinks that being mature is learning to cope with strong feelings, not avoiding them altogether. After all, feeling stuff is part of being human.
Still. Sometimes I wish I were a little less human. It might be nice, for instance, to be a sofa. I'm sure sofas never get overly excited or nervous. They probably never get the stomach flu, either.
It didn't used to be that way, you know? I used to just feel good old, plain old excitement. No need to upchuck. No hyperventilating. No worries about possible spontaneous explosion. Just an emotion as frothy and as delicious as the fizz of a soda.
Nowadays, though, my excitement is inexplicably linked to the way my stomach feels. The more excited I get, the more my stomach just wants to toss back everything I ate.
Excitement isn't the only thing that makes me want to throw up. Nervousness makes me want to throw up. So does concern. So does food poisoning. So does the flu.
Sometimes I get ticked off with myself. Because although I can't always avoid getting food poisoning or the flu, I feel like I should be able to avoid getting so excited or so nervous or whatever. The scolding part of me thinks that if I was really mature, I wouldn't get so ridiculously emotional over anything.
The generous part of me, however, thinks differently. It thinks that feeling things strongly is good. It thinks that it doesn't matter how emotional I get, as long as those emotions don't cripple me or hold me back. It thinks that being mature is learning to cope with strong feelings, not avoiding them altogether. After all, feeling stuff is part of being human.
Still. Sometimes I wish I were a little less human. It might be nice, for instance, to be a sofa. I'm sure sofas never get overly excited or nervous. They probably never get the stomach flu, either.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Sushi Problems
Remember how even though I'm European-Jewish-Slav aka ethnic white, I'm secretly also an Asian? I know this because I crave Asian food way more than I crave European, Jewish, or Slav food. And everybody who doesn't live under a rock knows that the type of food you crave aligns with your racial background. It's genetics, people. Even monks who spend all their time growing pea plants know about genetics.
One of the Asian foods I crave most often is one called sushi. There are many great things about sushi. Sushi is Japanese. It usually involves seafood. It's delicious. But. There are dreadful things about sushi, too. I have compiled a list of the ones that bother me the most.
Problem #1: You have to use chopsticks to eat sushi.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why is that a problem for someone who's secretly Asian, like you? Aren't you a chopsticks-using whiz?"
And I'm thinking, "Excuse me? Don't you know anything about genetics? Genetics clearly prove that secret Asians can't use chopsticks. When secret Asians try to use chopsticks, we look like schmendricks. Schmendrick being a Yiddish word that here means, 'more like a European-Jewish-Slav aka ethnic white than like an Asian.'" But in addition to the wrong genetics, I have other problems when it comes to chopsticks.
Once upon a time when I was in elementary school, I was unable to hold a pencil properly. Yes, that's right, I was unable to correctly use a pencil, one of the simplest utensils in the world. I don't know how I managed to accomplish this feat, but I did. In order to make it possible for me to use a pencil, my mom had to buy me this little doohickey:
Behold, the corrective pencil grip. Mine had little diagrams and stars engraved in them to guide me in proper finger placement. Eventually, I was able to hold a pencil the right way without deep thought and major confusion, but it took years of the pencil grip, the training wheels of writing instruments.
Aside from pencils, I was also unable to hold scissors properly. Sadly, there are no corrective grips for scissors, so that's something I struggle with to this day. Now you know my shameful secret: I can't fulfill the basic dexterity requirements of kindergarten. Also, I can't jump rope.
Using chopsticks is kind of like using a pencil. Or maybe more like using scissors, because there are two chopsticks in a set just like there are two blades on a scissor. Except scissor blades are attached, and chopsticks aren't. Each chopstick does something different yet works with the other in harmony. It's very confuzzling to my poor, uncomprehending fingers, who have the wrong genetics and just aren't good at this kind of thing anyways.
Problem #2: The world is divided into people who love sushi and people who are afraid of sushi.
If you don't believe me, go and watch the news. They're always covering the Great Sushi Divide. And if they're not, they should.
Whenever I talk to people about sushi, I almost always get one of two reactions: "I love sushi!" or "I've never tried it." And the people who've never tried it cite their fear of raw fish, or of seaweed, or of wasabi, and so on, all of which clump together into one big fear, the fear of sushi. Sushiphobia.
Why does it matter that like half the population suffers from sushiphobia? It matters because in the sample size of my friends, like half of them suffer from it also. So when I want to go grab some sushi, I can't just call up a bud. I have to call up one of my buds who isn't a sushiphobe, like Porch or Viola. Porch and Viola, though, aren't always available. That seriously inhibits my ability to get sushi as often as I would like.
And no, I can't go get sushi by myself. On account of The Neediness. Getting sushi while suffering from The Neediness is like putting butter on a burn: it's a terrible idea. And it just makes things worse. And what about all the mashed potatoes you could have made with that butter if you hadn't rubbed it into your skin? Bet you didn't think about that, didja?
Problem #3a: Sushi is expensive.
It's very expensive. A plate of sushi costs some serious moolah.
Now, I am more than happy to spend money on food. I love food. There are some types of food I would never get if I didn't buy it myself, of which sushi is one. However, I am less hesitant to spend that food money on, say, some coconut chicken kurma at an Indian place or some honey walnut shrimp from a Chinese one than I am to buy myself some spicy tuna or Vegas rolls at a sushi establishment. The reason?
Problem #3b: Sushi isn't very filling.
It comes in small portions. In order to get full, I'd have to spend a fortune. And I'm a college student. A fortune is something I simply don't have.
One fine summer evening, my BFF Viola and I went for sushi together.
VIOLA: (looking at menu) This is pretty expensive...
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: How many pieces do you think we should get?
VIOLA: If we get three rolls, that will give us each twelve pieces. That's enough, right?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Definitely.
Talking and laughing, we ate our sushi, savoring each bite and sopping up every last bit of spicy mayo. It was truly delicious, and happily I only dropped my food, like, six times.
The check came to the equivalent of one dollar per piece of sushi.
VIOLA: It's totally worth it, though.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: For sure.
VIOLA: I feel pretty full, don't you?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh, yeah.
We paid the bill, left a tip, and drove to the nearest Arctic Circle, where we then proceeded to blow ten more dollars on shakes and value menu chicken sandwiches.
One of the Asian foods I crave most often is one called sushi. There are many great things about sushi. Sushi is Japanese. It usually involves seafood. It's delicious. But. There are dreadful things about sushi, too. I have compiled a list of the ones that bother me the most.
Problem #1: You have to use chopsticks to eat sushi.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why is that a problem for someone who's secretly Asian, like you? Aren't you a chopsticks-using whiz?"
And I'm thinking, "Excuse me? Don't you know anything about genetics? Genetics clearly prove that secret Asians can't use chopsticks. When secret Asians try to use chopsticks, we look like schmendricks. Schmendrick being a Yiddish word that here means, 'more like a European-Jewish-Slav aka ethnic white than like an Asian.'" But in addition to the wrong genetics, I have other problems when it comes to chopsticks.
Once upon a time when I was in elementary school, I was unable to hold a pencil properly. Yes, that's right, I was unable to correctly use a pencil, one of the simplest utensils in the world. I don't know how I managed to accomplish this feat, but I did. In order to make it possible for me to use a pencil, my mom had to buy me this little doohickey:
Behold, the corrective pencil grip. Mine had little diagrams and stars engraved in them to guide me in proper finger placement. Eventually, I was able to hold a pencil the right way without deep thought and major confusion, but it took years of the pencil grip, the training wheels of writing instruments.
Aside from pencils, I was also unable to hold scissors properly. Sadly, there are no corrective grips for scissors, so that's something I struggle with to this day. Now you know my shameful secret: I can't fulfill the basic dexterity requirements of kindergarten. Also, I can't jump rope.
Using chopsticks is kind of like using a pencil. Or maybe more like using scissors, because there are two chopsticks in a set just like there are two blades on a scissor. Except scissor blades are attached, and chopsticks aren't. Each chopstick does something different yet works with the other in harmony. It's very confuzzling to my poor, uncomprehending fingers, who have the wrong genetics and just aren't good at this kind of thing anyways.
Problem #2: The world is divided into people who love sushi and people who are afraid of sushi.
If you don't believe me, go and watch the news. They're always covering the Great Sushi Divide. And if they're not, they should.
Whenever I talk to people about sushi, I almost always get one of two reactions: "I love sushi!" or "I've never tried it." And the people who've never tried it cite their fear of raw fish, or of seaweed, or of wasabi, and so on, all of which clump together into one big fear, the fear of sushi. Sushiphobia.
Why does it matter that like half the population suffers from sushiphobia? It matters because in the sample size of my friends, like half of them suffer from it also. So when I want to go grab some sushi, I can't just call up a bud. I have to call up one of my buds who isn't a sushiphobe, like Porch or Viola. Porch and Viola, though, aren't always available. That seriously inhibits my ability to get sushi as often as I would like.
And no, I can't go get sushi by myself. On account of The Neediness. Getting sushi while suffering from The Neediness is like putting butter on a burn: it's a terrible idea. And it just makes things worse. And what about all the mashed potatoes you could have made with that butter if you hadn't rubbed it into your skin? Bet you didn't think about that, didja?
Problem #3a: Sushi is expensive.
It's very expensive. A plate of sushi costs some serious moolah.
Now, I am more than happy to spend money on food. I love food. There are some types of food I would never get if I didn't buy it myself, of which sushi is one. However, I am less hesitant to spend that food money on, say, some coconut chicken kurma at an Indian place or some honey walnut shrimp from a Chinese one than I am to buy myself some spicy tuna or Vegas rolls at a sushi establishment. The reason?
Problem #3b: Sushi isn't very filling.
It comes in small portions. In order to get full, I'd have to spend a fortune. And I'm a college student. A fortune is something I simply don't have.
One fine summer evening, my BFF Viola and I went for sushi together.
VIOLA: (looking at menu) This is pretty expensive...
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: How many pieces do you think we should get?
VIOLA: If we get three rolls, that will give us each twelve pieces. That's enough, right?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Definitely.
Talking and laughing, we ate our sushi, savoring each bite and sopping up every last bit of spicy mayo. It was truly delicious, and happily I only dropped my food, like, six times.
The check came to the equivalent of one dollar per piece of sushi.
VIOLA: It's totally worth it, though.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: For sure.
VIOLA: I feel pretty full, don't you?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh, yeah.
We paid the bill, left a tip, and drove to the nearest Arctic Circle, where we then proceeded to blow ten more dollars on shakes and value menu chicken sandwiches.
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