Running Away From Your Problems Redux

So one time, I was thinking about going on a mission.

I knew a couple of people who were very dear to me but were really struggling. There wasn't much I could do to help, but both Older Sister and Best Friend Boy were on missions, and I could see how through their missions, they were able to help others with similar struggles. I'd never wanted to serve a mission, but I was suddenly overcome with a desire to go so that I could help people.

I wanted to finish school before looking into going on a mission (because I was pretty sure that if I quit school, I would never find it in me to go back). So I had a few years to think about whether to go. I did mention it in passing in a letter to Best Friend Boy, who responded some weeks later by saying that I should pray about it to see if that's what Heavenly Father wanted for me.

I was really annoyed by this. I was planning to pray about it, just not yet. It was a few years away!

However, being so annoyed, I decided I would pray right then and there, just so that I could write back to Best Friend Boy and let him know that I had. I was the only one home, so I knelt right down in the living room, and—

It was one of the most unmistakable prayers I've prayed in my life. I asked if I should go on a mission after graduation. I felt sickish and headache-ish. Well, what about right now? Still sickish and headache-ish.

Lovely. I asked a couple other questions, and I immediately felt pushed in a direction that didn't entirely make sense to me but that felt right. So be it.

A couple of years passed, and I found myself deeply entrenched in the path that had felt right. Only everything was going terribly. I was so frustrated and wondered if I'd interpreted what I'd felt correctly. Maybe I just wanted to walk down this path so badly that I'd manufactured feelings of confirmation. Madam President seemed to think so. Shortly before we were called to the Relief Society presidency, her serious boyfriend broke up with her. She hadn't been able to get over how badly she wanted to get back together with him until getting a blessing from a General Authority that she knew. The blessing laid out a different path for her life than she'd hoped. Then, ta-da, she got a job and got married and everything worked for her, and she was happy! She gave me the General Authority's number and recommended that I get a blessing from him, too. I knew she was hoping that my blessing, too, would tell me that I'd been wrong about the direction that my life was going to go and that I should do something else. I sat on the number for a year and then I decided to find out for myself.

The blessing was lovely, but it was also frustrating. It basically said that I could do what I want. It cast no aspersions on the path I'd been walking, which meant I was free to keep walking it if I so chose. Before the blessing, the General Authority also told me that I wouldn't get an answer before making a decision but that I should choose and then start moving forward with the choice. Then I'd get my answer.

Once again, lovely, but how to choose? I went straight from his home to a semi-solo trip where I pondered my options. I wrote a list of pros and cons and I studied and I thought.

In the end, I decided that whatever had (or hadn't) happened since then, there was a reason why I stayed, and it would be better not to throw that away. Once again, I choose to stay, and I'm glad I did. The following year was incredible. So many of the things that frustrated me righted themselves. Things were really looking up. In fact, the reason I felt I should stay seemed to be finally coming to fruition.

In December of that incredible year, I was stepping into the shower when I suddenly had a thought: "If you wanted to go on a mission, this thing will wait for you."

A third time: lovely. But I was honest: I didn't want to go on a mission now. Things were finally going well for me. Once again, I chose to stay.

I never felt like it was a mistake to stay. The thought was fleeting, anyway—not persistent the way important thoughts tend to be. However, over the next six months, my life got wild. So many things went wrong, and my reason for staying eluded me yet again. My eyes turned toward a mission once more, but it didn't feel right. I told my bishop as much shortly before he extended the calling of Relief Society president to me.

Everything was hunky-dory for a few months. Then came an Interpersonal Crisis that was literally one of my worst nightmares.

The great thing about the Interpersonal Crisis was that it eliminated one of the things I would have felt I was missing out on by going on a mission. Ah-ha! Almost immediately I began to wonder if now, at last, this was the time to go. Almost everything else in my life was going wrong, too, so it seemed like it was all screaming that I had nothing to lose by leaving. I thought about it, then talked to my bishop, then set a date to make a decision.

The date rolled around, and...found me recovering from appendicitis. Whoops. Obviously not a good time to make life-changing decisions, so I forewent it, but even after I recovered, I didn't know what I was feeling. At work, at home, in the temple, in San Diego—no real answer seemed forthcoming.

My stake conference came around, and with it forced interaction with the person with whom I was having an Interpersonal Crisis. Some time had passed, so—well, I don't know what I was thinking except that I knew this person was a good person and didn't believe they would double down on the way they'd treated me. But they did double down on it. I felt like I'd been slapped, and I left the building in a daze. All of a sudden, it became clear that if more of this treatment was in store each time I saw this person, I couldn't stay here. I remembered about what the General Authority said about making a decision and getting confirmation after moving forward. So be it. Every time I'd chosen not to go on a mission, things hadn't really worked out. What is it they say: that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Time to do something different. I rushed to speak with my bishop the next day.

My bishop, a wise man whom I very much look up to, thought I would make a great missionary. We agreed to officially start the mission papers. However, he also said: "Don't go on a mission to run away from your problems."

Easier said than done. No matter the other reasons, the sole thing that allowed me to feel free to pursue a mission was how terribly my life was going. Those problems would be a catalyst regardless of anything else. I worked to resolve them as much as I could to make the decision-making process clearer, but they refused to resolve.

Meanwhile, as I filled out my mission papers, I felt terrible. I felt a sick feeling similar to the one I felt the first time I prayed about it. I didn't like talking or thinking about the mission even as I prepared in earnest. I knew in my heart that this wasn't right, but I was so tired of choosing to stay yet being so unsuccessful.

Things came to a head, and blessedly I was able to take a step back and say, "What am I doing? This doesn't make sense." I was just a few steps away from completing my mission papers, but I decided not to do so. The sick feeling went away. I knew I'd made the right decision. I wish I could say that things got better, but they're still pretty up in the air. I'm hoping for a couple of miracles, but in the meantime, I at least feel stronger and more able to deal with some things.

And that's how I almost ran away from all my problems.

Book Recommendations

From time to time, people ask me about my favorite book. The truth is that I have fifteen favorite books. They're not the only books I recommend to people, but they're often the first ones I recommend.

They are (in no particular order):

Danny the Champion of the World, by Roald Dahl: This might be the only children's book Roald Dahl wrote that has no magical hi-jinks. It's all stuff that conceivably could happen in the real world, including a vivid scene of teacher-child beating taken straight from his own life. (The teacher is basically a more violent version of Severus Snape.) The main plot of the story has nothing to do with teachers; it's about a boy named Danny who lives with his father just outside of a small British village. His father is a very exciting person and, it turns out, secretly a poacher. (Almost everybody in the book is secretly a poacher.) They concoct a mad plan to make a statement by poaching every single pheasant from a nearby wood. The plan involves raisins and a baby carriage. It doesn't involve Danny's friend Sidney, who does almost nothing the entire book except exist unnecessarily. IT'S A GOOD BOOK, THOUGH.

The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy, by J. R. R. Tolkien: I know, I know. Cliché, but I do love 'em. They are far, far better than the live-action versions in every conceivable way. The Return of the King might actually be my favorite book of all time. Except that the ending has always been difficult for me to swallow. Although just recently, I've started to accept it.

Harry Potter, books one through seven, by J. K. Rowling: I've talked quite a bit about Harry Potter on this blog, so you should all know my feelings. My favorites are the first and the fifth. The fifth book is amazing. So intricate. So many good jokes. So much Luna.

Romeo and Juliet: Together (and Alive!) at Last, by Avi: I actually kind of hate Avi, but this book is comedic gold. Well, it was before I read it 10,000 times. It's about a group of students who decide that the only way their friends will confess their love for each other is if they star in a production of Romeo and Juliet. Combine all the awkwardness of elementary school crushes with all the cringeyness of student-directed productions, and voilà.

Bloomability, by Sharon Creech: This one's about a girl named Dinnie who has been overlooked her entire life. She ends up studying abroad in Switzerland, and...well...this book has some complex ideas about people and political conflict and language and all sorts of interesting things. It really makes you think.

Sleeping Freshmen Never Lie, by David Lubar: This book is also pretty complex. It features an aspiring teenage writer named Scott Hudson who's just trying to figure out high school. It raises some interesting questions about being true to yourself no matter how much you may not fit in and why treating other people well matters, even (especially) when they have nothing that benefits you. There's also a lot of English language cleverness in general. No one that I've recommended this book to has ever disliked it. After Best Friend Boy read (well, listened to) it, he was inspired enough to take me to see a movie that had a similar story (called Tim Timmerman, Hope of America). Good stuff.

Grace

A few months ago, La Petite turned to me and said something like, "It seems like for you, the last couple of years have been nothing but bad things. I wouldn't blame you if you just felt like giving up."

And Best Friend Boy said, "Something good has to happen to you soon."

But God said, "Haha no." Repeatedly.

I just went to a campout for my stake. At that campout, it seemed like almost every speaker's sermon was for me. One of those speakers was a well-known LDS teacher named Brad Wilcox spoke. He mentioned that my generation may be the most anguished generation to date. Then he talked at length about grace.

He said that grace is a divine power, and it's how God engages with us. He said it's not what we call tender mercies, and it's not when we receive an answer to a prayer (unless, I suppose, we're praying for grace). It is, however, a product of Christ's Atonement.

Then he said a few things that struck me. He said, "Strength too easily won is not strength."

He said, "Change without challenge is not change."

He said, "Time is the medium for the power of the Atonement."

Somehow, right then, I got a tiny flash of what God is up to. Have I not asked for the power of Christ's Atonement in my life? Have I not asked for the circumstances to change? Perhaps the only way is fraught with difficulty and takes time.

The Time Of Our Lives

Context: This post is about the third day (and second day in the city) of my third New York City trip.

Lots of people assume that I love Fraggle Rock for nostalgia purposes. In reality, I actually barely saw any episodes when I was a kid. I started getting into it through YouTube clips when I was seventeen.

You might remember that my junior year of high school was a tough time for me. I was held afloat by a combination of many things, one of which was my religion, one of which was my friends (especially Best Friend Boy), and one of which was Fraggle Rock. When you are completely and utterly depressed, why wouldn't you want to spend a lot of time in a place where cute fuzzy creatures dance and sing to banish their worries and cares? When you feel like most of your troubles come from not being able to connect with other people, how would it not be helpful to study a world where a different interpersonal conflict is studied in nearly every episode? Ya feel me?

Once I was properly introduced to the show, I glommed on to the precious Fraggles hard. They delighted me. That delight helped me feel better, and sometimes during hard things in later years, I would still turn to an episode that reflected my feelings or my situation.

Life after high school was always a bit precarious for me. I faced a lot of things I didn't feel prepared to face. But I was proud of myself for pulling through it without drifting back into clinical depression. I figured out what I needed to stay on top, and I sought it out as required.

Last year, though...I had a lot of difficult things happen really quickly. Some of them I couldn't talk about to protect other people. Some of them I didn't want to talk about because I was afraid of burdening other people. And some of them I knew no one would understand. So I just clammed up and kind of did the opposite of what I needed to do to take care of myself. I guess I figured that after being so vigilant for so long, and having gone through way worse stuff than what I was going through then, I was pretty invincible.

Ha.

Within a few months, I was...I don't know if I want to say clinically depressed again. I know clinical depression, and this wasn't really like that. I'd say it's more like situational depression, which the Internet tells me is a kind of depression people experience after a major life change. It involves a lot of the feelings of clinical depression, except it apparently doesn't usually leave you completely unable to cope for long periods of time like clinical depression does. When I was clinically depressed as a teen, I couldn't make myself do my homework most days or sometimes even brush my hair. But this time, I didn't feel that kind of listlessness or apathy; I did everything I normally did and more. I was productive yet felt terrible.

I got things back under control again, and all was mostly fine for a few months. However, around Christmas, the terrible feelings came back, and as I was hit by more big life changes (interpersonal crises, major surgery, and more) and other things completely outside of my control, they settled in to stay. I was not okay with that, so I surged forward to fix it. And whaddaya know—there's been improvement, and I now feel completely, absolutely fine for days at a time. But when I don't...

It's not a desirable situation.

But hey, you know what seemed like it might help? A delightful jaunt through an exhibit devoted entirely to Muppets, particularly Fraggles. It was the old medicine, the old relief, come back again in a newer and more potent form.

What I'm trying to say is that when Little Brother and I grabbed pastries from Starbuck's and headed for the subway to ride uptown to the Museum of the Moving Image to Astoria, Queens, I had very high hopes for the Jim Henson exhibit.

I'm happy to report that I was very much not disappointed!

Astoria turned out to be a quiet, cute neighborhood where people lived in actual houses. Tiny houses, but houses all the same. There were even yards! We walked around while we waited for the museum to open. I could tell that Little Brother was already enjoying himself much more than he was the day before. Score. Eventually we joined the other nerds at the museum (I was wearing my Wembley Fraggle shirt, obviously), and first thing we went to the Jim Henson exhibit.

Boy oh boy! That thing was pure joy. Pure. Joy. It was interactive, with video and audio and hand puppets to film a short clip with and a Sesame Street Anything Muppet to dress up. There were fascinating notes and bits of scripts and doodles and posters. And the puppets! I could tell you about them, but I'd rather just show you.

This was the first display (well, first after a cute little intro video). Kermit was sitting all lonely in this case opposite another case with a bunch of other puppets. It was like he was being shunned at a party.

Remember when we saw Carroll Spinney live? He had Oscar with him, but not Big Bird. Now we've seen them both!

My favorite!

Nigel, the original host of The Muppet Show.

Statler and Waldorf. It's funny that the museum is in Astoria since Waldorf's wife's name is Astoria.

The Swedish chef (with fake hands added since the puppeteers use their own hands).

Koozbanians! The Koozbanian pups are SO CUTE!!!

Zoot.

The sign that Gonzo pops out of at the beginning of the show!

And that's just a sampling of what this trove of wonders had to offer! This may surprise you, but we weren't even the biggest nerds at this museum. Most of the people were older folks or parents who didn't seem to know much about Jim Henson but who were trying to entertain their little kids. However, there was a group of college-aged guys who lingered for, like, ten minutes at every display case and spouted facts, figures, and trivia.

We definitely were the biggest Fraggle Rock nerds, though. Not even those guys lingered at the Fraggle Rock displays as long as we did. We examined every inch of those three puppets.

Cantus Fraggle, the wise wandering musician. Cantus is one of the two Fraggle Rock characters played by Jim Henson. The puppet of his other character, Convincing John, was totally creepy-looking, but I didn't get a photo of him.

The one, the only, Gobo Fraggle as he appears from Season 2 on! He looks so lifelike.

Uncle Travelling Matt!

We were fascinating by the hole in the back of Cantus's robes for his tail and by the instruments tucked into the folds. We were excited by the Doozer stick's in Gobo's vest pocket and by the details of his guitar. We examined Uncle Travelling Matt's baloobius and debated whether it was the same throughout the show or whether they used a different baloobius during Scared Silly. We also discovered that all of the Fraggle hair is made from ostrich feathers, even the tiny bits that we thought was fluff!

This talks about the many themes of Fraggle Rock. Notice that "hats" was added at the bottom in handwriting. There literally is an episode of Fraggle Rock entirely about a hat.

Doozers!

Cotterpin Doozer!

A piece of puppetry equipment from The Dark Crystal. STEVE WHITMIRE'S piece of puppetry equipment from The Dark Crystal.

From the opening day of MuppetVision 3D, one of Disney's funnest attractions!

After we'd toured the exhibit very thoroughly, we checked out the rest of the museum. There was an exhibit about YouTube as an artform and about special effects and costumes and merchandising and all kinds of film-related stuff. Little Brother used an interactive stop-motion display to capture a masterpiece involving a rainbow and two Shakespeares rising out of a troubled sea.

Once we'd seen everything else, though, Little Brother said, "Should we go through that exhibit again? Just to say goodbye?"

So we did! (And, yes, said a very reluctant goodbye to the Fraggle cuties.)

On our way out, we raided the gift shop. We scored some expensive chocolates, a magnet, a pin, a children's book, and a key chain.

Wembley is hard to draw right, but he looks pretty good here! Little Brother also bought the a chocolate bar with a Boober wrapper. We opted out of the Red on because it had coffee. :/

Ecstatic, we went in search of a lunch just as perfect as the Jim Henson exhibition. We ended up at Joe Asian & Sushi, where we threw down an amount of money equal to what I'd just blown at the MOMI gift shop. Worth it, though!

These crab wontons were SO GOOD!

Also this miso soup.

The sushi was yummy, too, but we overestimated how hungry we were and only ate about 2/3 of it.

After dropping our treasures back at Older Sister's place, we lazily made our way downtown to Wall Street and the 9/11 Memorial. Too lazily, as it turned out. We'd spend so much time in Astoria that we were waaaaaay behind schedule, so we spent an abbreviated amount of time at the museum and memorial. We had to go, though, since it was non-negotiable for Little Brother. (You can read more about my impressions of the museum here.) I was glad that we did; the solemnity was just right after the giddiness of the morning.

Then we met up with Older Sister. I'd basically told her, "When we're hanging out with you, we'll do whatever you want." And what did she want to do? She wanted to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge and take pictures. So that's what we did. Older Sister's phone has a special photography mode that makes every picture look like it's been Photoshopped 1,000 times. Which meant that the photos turned out really, really well.

When we had enough pictures to satisfy Older Sister, we went into Dumbo (the Brooklyn neighborhood, not the elephant) and had a delightful dinner at Shake Shack! I had my very favorite chicken sandwich with herb mayonnaise (not pictured) and a delectable chocolate concrete.

After that, we were all very tired. We took the subway back to Older Sister's apartment, where I fell asleep feeling lighthearted, perfectly content after a nearly perfect day.

Another Yuletide Over

Guess what? I Christmassed again this year!

Christmas version 2017 included such traditional delights as:

-Lunch with sisters! The weather was pretty bad, so we ended up at the same restaurant we lunched at last year. Which is against the Little Sisters' Annual Christmas Eve Lunch rules, but we already broke the rules by letting Older Sister come last year and this year (since she no longer lives in town and we don't see her much). Plus Baby Sister wasn't here, so we just broke rules all over the place like a slap in the face of the tradition founders. Who are us. So we basically slapped our own faces. Ouch.

-Christmas Eve dinner with my mom's family! Each family unit exchanged small gifts and Christmas cards before dinner started. This year, I got a lot of chocolate and some popcorn and my own personal bottle of Martinelli's. I loved that, but it was a little awkward to be given my own gifts because, being unmarried, I don't consider myself to be my own family unit, so I didn't bring anything for everyone else. I just piggybacked on my parents' gifts. Someday, though. (Fingers crossed.)

-Presentation of the nativity story! The older cousins round up the little cousins and persuade them to dress up as sheep or shepherds or wisemen. This year, Dino Cousin's mom encouraged Dino Cousin (who is four years old) to join the nativity. We asked Dino Cousin what she wanted to be: a sheep or a shepherd or a wiseman? Without batting an eye, Dino Cousin said, "Jesus." We always have the newest baby or a doll play Baby Jesus, but we weren't about to refuse Dino Cousin, so we said okay. When Dino Cousin's mom came to the rehearsal area, she asked Dino Cousin who she was going to be. Dino Cousin promptly said, "Jesus Christ." It was equally adorable and amusing.

(P.S. If you ever wonder why I have such a prodigious amount of cousins, it's because not only do I have quite a few first cousins, I also know many of my parents' cousins (my first cousins once removed), their kids (my second cousins), my first cousins' kids (also my first cousins once removed), and my second cousins' kids (my second cousins once removed). Many of us see each other regularly.)

-A slideshow review of the year! There are ~five pictures of each extended family member in the slideshow, and since the family keeps growing, the show just keeps getting longer and longer. (Re: prodigious amount of cousins.)

-Waking up really early on Christmas morning and annoying our parents! We then gather in a line (age order, youngest to oldest; this year Mr. Little Sister was between me and Little Sister) and rush into the living room to open our presents from Santa and each other. (Yes, we all still get presents from Santa. Santa is legit, and no one will ever convince me not to believe in him.)

We also had a few novelties this year:

-Christmas Eve was on a Sunday, something that hasn't happened for years. The Little Sisters' Annual Christmas Eve Lunch was therefore held on the 23rd and not the 24th. (P.S. I found out that Valiant and her six sisters all get lunch together on Christmas Eve, too! How interesting.) My ward had one hour of church in the morning combined with some other wards in the stake. The program was mostly music, which was lovely. I sat with Best Friend Boy. He got a real kick out of trying to predict what Christmas hymn we'd be singing next.

-We got to talk to Baby Sister. (Most of the time, missionaries call home only on Christmas Day and Mother's Day.) She's a cutie patootie. Even though her mission is English-speaking, she's learning some Marshallese because of the area in which she's serving. She told us that she was the happiest she's ever been.

All in all, a good day during a good season. Now on to the new year.

This Is How I Do Halloween in My Mid-Twenties

On my way out the door today, my landlord said, "You must be going to a party!"

I then had to explain that I was dressed up to take Baby Brother trick-or-treating. Lots of people in their mid-twenties go to Halloween parties, but not me!

Actually, I did go to a Halloween party, it was just on Friday and not today. It was a church-sponsored Halloween carnival. This year, Baby Brother and I put together costumes to be Greg and Wirt from Over the Garden Wall. We bought Wirt's cloak and Greg's overalls, made the hat and teapot out of a cardboard cone and card stock respectively, and scrounged together other bits and odd ends to make some respectable costumes.

After two years of dressing up as my actual gender, it was back to my usual cross-dressing. This was the fourth year in a row of my dressing as a cartoon character of some type and the second year ever of my dressing as a character played by Elijah Wood.

I wore my costume to the Halloween carnival. Best Friend Boy was there also. He was wearing the costume that he's worn for at least three Halloweens: a quarterback costume comprising a letterman jacket and a football. Best Friend Boy likes to play it safe when it comes to Halloween costumes. I understand why: although putting together a more obscure costume is lots of fun, only the people who are really familiar with the property usually recognize it.

Quite a few people approached me at the carnival. About half of them said something like, "OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH YOU'RE WIRT RIGHT THIS IS AMAZING YOU'RE SO AWESOME!" The other said something like, "So are you a gnome or something?"

To my great amusement, several people had a conversation with Best Friend Boy along these lines:

PERSON: So what's your costume?

BEST FRIEND BOY: I'm a quarterback.

PERSON: ...that's it?

We also had a party at my workplace today. So I guess that technically, I went to two parties. However, the night itself was spent on the streets of Hometown with Baby Brother and Ginger Cousin.

It was pretty chilly even though two days ago we had an exceptionally warm night. The rule in Utah is that on Halloween night the temperature always drops, regardless of logic or science. Even though my cloak was usually stifling, I froze quite a bit during the hour we were out. But—all in all, a good night.

In Which I Am Deformed

The day following Little Sister's wedding, I got out of bed and almost fell over. It hurt to stand. It hurt to walk. My ankles throbbed no matter what I did. The Achilles tendons seemed to be swollen and sore.

I figured, "Hey, I spent most of yesterday walking around in high heels. It's only natural that my feet would hurt." Never mind that that was hardly the longest period of time I'd spent on my feet and in heels. It seemed like a good explanation.

Only the pain didn't go away. It would recede for a while, but then it came back, no matter how many times I iced my feet or how much I stayed off them.

And then after that, summer began. Baby Sister left on her mission. Her presence in our family became a series of weekly emails, typed in her trademark frenetic style. Occasionally, something physical would come in the mailbox. Such as:

Seeing Baby Sister off was a good (but sad) part of the summer. It was one of just a handful of tolerable memories.

Things I want to remember about summer 2017: Starting Zombies, Run! with Baby Brother. Watching fireworks in Dr. Godfather's backyard. Conversing with the ward activities co-chair, Flower Child, on our way to and from activities. Dancing with Best Friend Boy to "Can't Stop the Feeling" at stake dances. The smell of the mountains. Marvel movies with my brothers. The multicultural fair at the end of the summer.

Things I want to forget about summer 2017: everything else.

There was the panic of almost having to move, the loss of Steve Whitmire as a Muppeteer, and a host of personal problems. Although I received a priesthood blessing on Mother's Day that helped eliminate most of my migraines, my right eye continued to swell up on and off. And through it all, my ankles were hurting madly.

Shortly before summer's end, I finally went to see a sports med doctor. The doc asked me to stand. He asked me to walk. He asked me to squat.

I did all of those things. I overthought them because under observation, but I did them. Except I couldn't really squat. When asked to squat, I became distressed to realize that I didn't really know how.

The doc then took an ultrasound of my ankles. He then informed me that it was quite concerning for a casual runner in her mid-twenties to have this kind of pain. He then informed me that I was deformed.

He didn't say it like that, but that was the gist. Apparently, my hips and legs are misaligned, which causes me to walk on my feet funny. It also causes the muscles in my hips and upper parts of my legs to be weaker than they should be. When I run, most of the pressure goes to my Achilles tendons. So my Achilles tendons are super swole, but they shouldn't be. They shouldn't be working that hard.

The doc told me to go to physical therapy to strengthen my legs and hips and to stop running for a while.

That did not sit well with me. Do I have time for physical therapy? No. And, with all the other issues I'd gone through in the preceding weeks, I didn't feel like my emotional health could handle not having the release of running.

It was one more trouble in a long line of troubles. I tried to trust in God that everyone would work out, but honestly, I was feeling pretty low.

When I told Baby Sister, here's what she said:

Cutie. I couldn't decide if that made me feel better or worse.

My Funeral

I don't mean to be morbid, but there's something that's been bugging me for a while. I think it started a couple years ago when I bought life insurance, and it was only reinforced when I was promoted and got a ton more life insurance. I started thinking more about how if I suddenly died (which I have no plans to do, but nobody plans to suddenly die; if it were planned, it wouldn't be sudden), then there would probably be a funeral. I have concerns about this funeral. I'm worried that without me there to supervise it, it's going to turn out all wrong.

I've been meaning to write this post for a while, but over the past year or so, many of the people around me (and myself, come to think of it) have lost loved ones. It seemed terribly blasé to be giving out funeral plans in the midst of such things, so I've waited, and now I finally think it's a good time. And I'm posting them online, so that everyone knows what I want at my funeral so that everyone can be held accountable for it going off correctly.

Location and Music: These things are tied together, in my opinion. I kind of want music that's not church music at the funeral. Like, there can be some church music, but I really like Jim Henson's memorial where his friends sang a medley of his favorite songs. I'd rather have that. But that would mean that the funeral couldn't be held in an LDS chapel. That would mean extra hassle for my parents, and also my experience with funerals is that another venue might not be large enough. So I guess that's really up to my family and whether they would find church music more comforting. But for the record, my favorite song is probably "Pukka Pukka Squeetily Boink."

Speakers: I've decided that for speakers, Viola, Best Friend Boy, and La Petite should speak, in that order. Following that, a church leader of my parents' choosing should speak.

Other Funeral Requests: Everyone attending the funeral should write a letter and put it in my casket. Please and thank you. I'm going to be at my funeral in spirit, and I'm going to read everyone's letters over their shoulders so that I can find out everything they ever wanted to say to me but didn't. So this is very important.

Headstone: I have especially particular opinions about headstones. Here's what should be on mine: 1) my full name, 2) my exact birth and death dates, and 3) a quote. A good quote that encompasses my life or my personality or something. I know that having words on headstones is expensive, but there's no use having a headstone with no quote so there better be one.

Food: Please, for the love of all that is holy, no funeral potatoes at my funeral. Funeral potatoes are disgusting. You'd think it wouldn't make a difference to me because I'd be dead, but it does.

That's it. Those are the most important things that cannot be messed up. Hopefully, nobody will have to worry about this because I plan to live for a long time. I've never even been kissed, for crying out loud, so I have to at least do that. But just in case, these plans are readily accessible should they be needed.

Total Eclipse

Heeey everybody,

So in case you didn't already hear from LITERALLY EVERYBODY, there was a solar eclipse yesterday.

Everybody else was all excited and chatty and making special plans.

And I'm just kind of in the corner like, "What? What is this? Why is this a thing and why does anyone care?"

Kind of an accurate representation of every social event I've ever attended, actually.

My workplace even held a party with ice cream and fruit salad. Granted, my workplace celebrates everything, but still. Still.

And then all the news outlets were like, "The solar eclipse is the only thing that can bring the divided nation together."

And I was like, "That's Fire Nation propaganda! The four nations are meant to be separate."

Speaking of the Fire Nation, I tried really hard to get someone to commit to invade with me.

First I hit up Little Sister and Little Brother. Little Sister seemed down with it but then I never heard back from her, probably because she's married so she can't commit to bringing down an empire and having a husband.

On the morning of the eclipse, I wished Best Friend Boy a happy half birthday. Then I lied and told him the eclipse was his half-birthday present and asked if he wanted to invade the Fire Nation. He said it was too late of notice to plan an invasion.

All I can say is that I hope everybody enjoyed staring at the sun when they could have been TOPPLING THE FIRELORD.

How Do I Love Thee?

Since this post, a lot has happened.

Baby Sister is gone! She's in the MTC. The night before she left, I stayed over at my parents' house. So did Little Sister and Mr. Little Sister. Baby Sister said that she wanted all of us in the house with her so that if she woke up in the middle of the night, she could come round and look at us.

I don't know if she actually did that, but she did "tuck us in" the night before. She stopped by everyone before we went to sleep. I'm not sure what she said to everyone else, but she told me to tell you that she said words so wise and deep that they cannot be repeated.

When we dropped her off, we took our new minivan. (Our Mormon Assault Vehicle aka Moby Dick aka the 14-passenger van perished in the fall. I won't embarrass family members by saying how the van perished, but I will say that my fear of sneezing while driving has been completely justified. Why did we even have a 14-person van when there are only eight of us, you might wonder? Because minivans generally stop at seven seats, and if you have too many people for a minivan you have to buy a humongous monster van instead. Both Shutterbug and Best Friend Boy's families, of eight and nine people respectively, also had 14-person vans.) Unlike our Mormon Assault Vehicle, the minivan had a back window that I could actually see out of. I took advantage of this innovation by watching Baby Sister as long as I could as we drove away.

I miss her, but not as much as one might think. First, she's off doing something we both believe in, and that's good, so how can I be sad about it? Secondly, almost immediately after she left, I ran off to go camping with my ward. I haven't even had much time to miss her.

While on this camping trip, I thought a lot about love. I thought about all the different ways a body can love someone and the meaning of those ways. For example, on this camping trip we were accompanied by the counselor's wife whom I referenced in this post about the ward book club. (Update: she's now the bishop's wife! Because the counselor became the bishop...not because she changed husbands...I just wanted to clarify that.) That book club meeting was pretty frustrating for me. I went running afterward, and then following my run, I went back to her house, late at night and unannounced, and told her why I was frustrated. And she just rolled with it. She was so nice to me even though I'd just broken all 75,847 rules of normal social engagement. And then we became friends, which seems unbelievable, just because I feel like a real actual adult mother who isn't my real actual adult mother should be put off by my quirks and personality, not embrace them!

She was so kind to me this entire campout even though I was in a terrible mood, and I was reminded of the power of friendship love. Which is a very important love! Yet it's very different from the love I feel for Baby Sister and my other younger siblings, which in turn is different from the love I feel for Older Sister, which is again different from the love I feel for my parents. All those loves are different from the kind of affection I feel for my roommates. Those loves are different from the people I often see whom I have a vague sort of fondness for but don't know well enough to love. And all of those are again different from the loves I've felt for the boys I've cared for as friends and beyond. And all of that is again different from the love I feel for God and Christ.

All of these thoughts were so much more eloquent and deep inside my head, but now I'm essentially just vomiting all my thoughts and have lost track of the purpose. I don't know what I mean by this. I don't know. It all made so much more sense when I was camping in the mountains and staring at the stars.

St. Valentine's Day

As a Perpetually Single Person, I'm apparently supposed to hate Valentine's Day. However, I actually really like it...and have pretty much my whole life.

See, to me Valentine's Day is about all love. In certain South American countries, they actually call it El Dia de Amor y Amistad, otherwise known as the Day of Love and Friendship. I'm all over the "and Friendship" part, and I don't really feel like I'm missing much on the Love part. But maybe that's a blessing of being a Perpetually Single Person instead of a Sometimes Single Person: I've never had a romantic Valentine's Day, so I don't really know the difference.

I have a lot of fun Valentine's Day memories. When I was in first grade, my mom made me take Valentine's cupcakes to an elderly neighbor I didn't really know. He was (weirdly, I thought) touched, and he kissed me on the cheek. Then, late that night, he and his wife came by with three Beanie Babies! Apparently they knew that my parents had a bunch of little girls, and they'd heard Beanie Babies were all the rage for little girls. And that was how I (and Older Sister and Little Sister) got my very first Beanie Baby!

Another, less fun Valentine's Day memory is the year that I was in fourth grade. I was so excited for Valentine's Day that I made decorated envelope mailboxes to put on my sisters' and parents' bedrooms. Then, the night before Valentine's Day, I put valentines in everybody's envelopes. What fun!

Apparently I'd just assumed that everybody in my family would be on my same brainwave. To my severe shock and disappointment, there were no valentines or treats of any kind in the envelope bearing my name. I was crushed. My parents, belatedly realizing how very seriously I was taking the whole thing, quickly announced that we wouldn't look in our envelopes until that night. Sure enough, when I went to bed, there was a lollipop, a Valentine's Day pencil, and at least one valentine in my envelope. I felt better, but I'd had a rude awakening that not everyone was like me. Not everyone wanted an excuse to shower people and be showered in tangible emblems of love.

This year was nowhere so dramatic, but it was oh-so-fun! Among other things, I bought French macarons from Rosebud to give to friends and family.

Cute, huh?!

A little plug for Rosebud's macarons...they are great! And maybe it's just that the only other places I've bought macarons are California and New York City, where everything is tres expensive, but I thought these ones were very reasonably priced.

I also got roses from my parents!

Yellow roses...the kind I've always wanted someone to give to me! Plus red, pink, and orange. Little Brother helped my mom pick them out.

The Seamstress made brownies and wrote notes for me and Pepper, and Pepper gave me and the Seamstress necklaces and homemade cards.

Earlier this week, Best Friend Boy and I were talking about gifts. He said of people who give me gifts: "At least if it's Harry Potter related they can probably rest assured that you liked the gift."

All in all, a great day! I'm sad that we have to wait a whole 365 days to do it again.

P.S. One upsetting thing did happen...I brought my family their valentines in the morning, before  went to work. Baby Brother wasn't home, so I left his valentine on his bed. When I returned to my parents' home that evening, I asked Baby Brother how he liked his macarons. He said, "What macarons?"

Baby Brother had never found the valentine on his bed...and he had apparently gone all day thinking that I'd brought valentines and macarons for everyone in the family but him! He handled the perceived snub pretty well, but I kept having flashbacks to empty envelopes.

It Seems Like a Lifetime Ago

I often get nostalgic at this time of year. The last musical that I was in took place in January of my senior year of high school. I was also in pep band, so for two or three weeks straight, when I wasn't at performances or rehearsals, I was playing my clarinet at a basketball game.

There's one night in particular stamped in my memory. After that night's basketball game, Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, and I went to a Wendy's. Some other band members were there, including Runner Bean. (This was shortly after this disaster.)

There's a picture of us on my bedroom bookshelf from that night—Etch-a-Sketch and I on one side of the table, Best Friend Boy on the other. Our food is pictured too: Best Friend Boy bites into a sandwich; Etch-a-Sketch puts a chicken nugget in her mouth. The sandwich that Best Friend Boy kindly purchased for me sits unwrapped before me.

Runner Bean isn't pictured, but he was the focus of my evening. I remember how that one of the girls in our grade sat next to him. She was chatting at him...stealing his fries...at one point, she even ran her fingers through his hair. I remember how I felt then. What was an otherwise great evening soured, and a sick feeling condensed into a deadweight ball sitting in the middle of my stomach.

I wasn't that girl. I wasn't the fun, flirty girl who stole fries and ran her fingers through a boy's hair. I was too earnest and too intense for that. No guy I knew ever said that the thing they hoped most for in a girl was earnestness and intensity. Thus I quickly became discouraged not just about Runner Bean, but about all of my future romantic possibilities...or rather, what I feared was the lack thereof.

Yes, I know, it seems a silly thing to let one evening cause me to question the nature of my entire existence. But like I said...intensity.

The next day, as I changed into my costume and put on my makeup for that night's performance, I found that I had an unsolicited text from Best Friend Boy.

Best Friend Boy: I'm sorry Runner Bean is liked by so many girls. But he's liked for very good reasons and that is why I think he may be worthy of a daughter of [God] such as you.

That text left a deep impression on me...as you can probably tell due to the fact that I recall it at all. So much has happened since then that it feels like it happened to someone else, and I merely heard about it from a friend or read about it online somewhere. However, if my sporadic records of text messages I received in high school are to be trusted, it really did happen.

It's strange how you simply can't forget some small, seemingly insignificant things, isn't it?

The Grateful (Not-)Dead

We just had Thanksgiving, so it's time to talk about what we're grateful for! Which is very cliché, no? However, let's start off by talking about some not-grateful things first.

This isn't quite where I imagined being at this point in my life. I really did think that I'd be married by now and maybe have a kid. Now, I don't think that my value is defined by my ability to find a romantic relationship, but the fact of the matter stands that having a family is the most worthwhile thing I can of to do with my life. That's where the sadness at my current circumstances comes in.

Some months ago, it was my birthday. It just so happens that the Seamstress and I have birthdays on consecutive days. I proposed having a joint birthday open house. Not a party, mind you. I didn't want to have any planned activities. I just wanted to be free to talk to people and not have to worry about entertaining them. (Don't worry; we did provide dinner so that our friends got something out of it.) I invited all of my lifelong friends. Most of them were able to come.

At one point during this birthday open house, I paused and looked around at what was happening. There was the Seamstress; there was Pepper, each talking to different guests. A friend from our ward was coloring in coloring books with Etch-a-Sketch while Mr. Etch-a-Sketch tended to his and Etch-a-Sketch's infant. I was chatting with Best Friend Boy while La Petite, curled up around Mr. La Petite, was deep in conversation with Viola. Some of these people had hardly met each other before this evening, but all of them were joined by the common bond of caring about either the Seamstress or about me or about both.

In that moment, I had an epiphany. I have made a family of my own in my adult years. Not a biological family, no. But I have collected all of these people, and they make up an interim family to serve between stepping away from my parents' family and heading a family with my future husband. This interim family is one of the things that I'm most grateful for this year.

That really is cliché, I know! Yet it's also very true.

In Which I Gain Another Mother

It's catching up to me.

My penchant for over-scheduling, that is. It's catching up. Nay, it's caught up, and it's keeping apace of me.

Since I moved out, there have been four times where, instead of buying groceries and then cooking my own food, I have spent the week's grocery money on a large quantity of food at a Chinese or Indian restaurant, which I then eat all week long.

The first time was a year ago. The other three times...have all been in the last two months.

I'm working on making time to do normal things like cooking and grocery shopping, I swear. Things are working out so that hopefully I can actually have free time. As soon as next month, I expect to be able to do things like write stories, bake blueberry muffins, clean my room and the apartment shower, and put all of my photos from 2015 on Facebook. You know. The good stuff. But I'm not there yet, so yesterday after work I went to Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant.

I am a frequent visitor at Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant. The manager knows me on sight although (as I think I've mentioned before) Etch-a-Sketch and I bear a passing resemblance that confuses some. Etch-a-Sketch used to go to this restaurant with Best Friend Boy fairly often, then she and I started going there together occasionally, and Best Friend Boy and I went there together shortly after he got home from his mission. This has caused the manager to seemingly mix up me and Etch-a-Sketch somewhat. No matter, though—whether he thinks I'm me or whether he thinks I'm Etch-a-Sketch, he's always happy to see me and greets me warmly.

He was the one who took my takeout order yesterday. First I ordered a sweet and sour pork combo, a dish I often get there because it's delicious not as expensive as my favorite dish. The manager knows that I often order the pork, so he didn't seem surprised, but when I also ordered a combo with lemon chicken he jokingly said, "Who's that for?"

"Me," I said.

He seemed taken aback.

"I don't have time to cook this week," I explained, "so I'm buying food instead."

"Are you sure you don't just want to come back tomorrow?" he said doubtfully.

I said it was all right, and then I also ordered a strawberry chicken combo.

"Who's that one for?"

"Also me," I said. I felt like I might be blushing. He just seemed so concerned that it was making me feel embarrassed.

Doubtfully, the manager rang me up. He asked if he could at least put the sauce on the side so that the food wouldn't get soggy. I told him that was fine, and I paid for my meal. When I got my change back, I noticed that I'd been given a small discount.

As I was waiting for my food, the manager approached me again to ask if I was sure I wanted all that food.

"Have you done this before?" he asked.

I told him I had. I assured him that I had some vegetables at home to eat with the food, and that I'd be all right. Seeming mollified, he headed to the kitchen.

A minute later, he came out with a styrofoam box. He flipped up the lid and showed me the contents.

"Steamed vegetables," he said.

"Yes," I said, unsure of what was going on.

He told me that he was going to put the vegetables with my order, if that was okay. I thanked him, a little amused and completely astounded.

When my order was up, I noticed an extra takeout container in the bag. Sure enough, when I got home, I found not only strawberry sauce and steamed vegetables on the side, but also extra fried rice.

 

I was charmed. I had been, dare I say it, mothered to death, and it had been adorable. I'm a big girl who can take care of herself, but it's from time to time it's nice to have someone unexpectedly look out for me.

On the other hand, my days of living off Chinese takeout are apparently over. I can never order three dishes from Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant again if it's going to grieve the manager so. Next week, I'm going to have to start cooking again like a real adult.

Fragments of Unfinished Posts

Sometimes it takes me months or years to write a blog post. More often than that, though, I start and then never finish posts that I don't feel right about for one reason or another.

Last night, I was going through drafts of unfinished posts and thought I'd share.

First, a fragment from a Christmas post that I eventually restarted and finished. It took me a good two years to write up what I was trying to say. Here's how part of the beginning originally went:

"Right this way," said the hostess. She started to take us to the fun part of the restaurant, where little wooden dividers separate everyone from everyone else so it's like being alone in a jungle of neon lights and plastic booth seats. And in that jungle, you can feel free to be yourself because it's just you and the people sitting with you. Also the waiter. Your secrets are safe with the waiter.

I also found a post titled "My Life as a Hobbit." It was a post trying to explain why I love hobbits so much. Also why I prefer the animated version of The Return of the King to the live-action movie. It was scattered, at best. The two memorable lines that I want to preserve are:

On a perilous quest to find my SAT scores in the depths of my bedroom, I stumbled across an unevenly cut piece of paper covered with my pre-teen scrawl.

and

If you like dragons, dwarves, and the white pony wearing sparkly armor, then you should not watch this movie. There are no dragons in this movie. No dwarves. And no sparkly-armor-clad ponies.

I also started a post called "The Road Goes Ever, Ever On." That's more hobbit stuff, for those of you unfamiliar. It was a post explaining why I decided to leave the country a few years ago. I will probably use that title eventually for a travel post, but it will be markedly different from the draft I stumbled across.

There was also a post about why my family loves Disneyland so much. That one just did not come together very well. I may try again at some point. I'd share a bit, but it's not that good.

Penultimately, I found a post called "Adventures in Book-Selling." This post was meant to describe my brief stint of unemployment during my last year of college. I'd felt like I should quit my fast food job but not look for another job for a little while. Strange as that was, I went ahead with it. In the two months where I didn't work, I tried to sell my textbooks on Amazon. Selling textbooks on Amazon would have been a lucrative career...if I hadn't been in college (the textbooks had to be mailed within a certain number of hours after the order was placed, which conflicted mightily with my school schedule) and if I'd had an unlimited supply of packaging (sometimes packaging and shipping cost more than the profits I made from the book).

This post didn't get very far, but here's what I opened with:

It's one thing to be in the grips of The Neediness. It's another thing entirely to be under the shadow of The Nothingness.

If The Neediness is when you care too much and feel extremely insecure, The Nothingness is when you don't care enough and are so self-satisfied you can't imagine changing whatsoever. The Neediness is unsteady, but The Nothingness is stagnation.

It probably would have been a real chipper post.

The last thing I found lost in the annals of Blogger was actually not a post. It was a draft that I filled with text messages copied off my phone. That way, I could delete texts off my phone to make room while still having a copy of the ones I wanted to remember. Such as:

Best Friend Boy: No problem. It was very nice to catch up. :)

And there we have it. All of the unfinished stuff floating around on Blogger. Hope you're gladdened by being able to see it, even if it's not in the originally intended form.

Of Irritation and Sheet Music

The day before I started high school, I went to band camp, where I met the other members of my high school band for the first time. That night, I wrote: I think I will actually learn a lot in Band this year.

I was right, but not in the way you might suppose.

There were three other girls and eight boys in the clarinet section with me. They all seemed like decent musicians and fine people. I had no problems with any of them...except for this one boy.

It's hard to explain why I disliked him so much. He was cute, he was well-dressed, he seemed smart and he seemed kind. But there was something about him, something...something...

Irritating. He was irritating.

He talked to everyone, even people he just met, as if they were old acquaintances picking up conversation right where they left off. I didn't like the pretense of this. He raised his hand during Algebra and asked the teacher to explain the problems again. Such interruptions slowed down the lecture portion of the class considerably and cut into the schoolwork portion. During clarinet sectionals, he offered words of advice and encouragement to the other players. I was stymied; nobody asked for his opinion, and I didn't understand why he felt the need to share it.

All of these things irritated me—maybe because I am such a guarded person. I keep myself closed and wrapped up tight, and I am naturally suspicious of people who seem likely to try to pry me open. At fifteen, I was especially adverse to those sort of people. Therefore, I was especially adverse to this boy. If he had talked to me like I was an old acquaintance, I would have spent the conversation thinking, "You don't know me, so stop acting like you do." If he had asked for my help with a math problem, I would have given the briefest explanation possible and quickly bent back over my work. If he had tried to offer me clarinet advice, my only response would have been to shrug.

But I didn't have to do any of those things. The boy and I didn't talk. In fact, although we had multiple classes together and were constantly near each other, I was convinced that he probably had no idea who I was. Fine by me. Relieving to me. It was better to be irritated from a distance than to be irritated up close and personal.

Then Christmas rolled around, and with it, the Hometown High Christmas band concert.

This next part is a little fuzzy. After all, I had better things to do during Christmas at fifteen years old then pay attention to insignificant details that I didn't know I would need later for a blog post. What I do remember, though, is that there was some problem with the sheet music for a few of the songs. Not enough copies, probably. Sometimes we had to share copies, and not all stand partners were great at taking turns bringing the music home for practice.

Whatever the case, I also remember that the boy and I were not stand partners (that would have required us to talk, which I was still avoiding). But we did play the same parts for some of the songs. And for some reason, which I still don't understand, the boy decided that I was the best person to borrow sheet music from.

Trying to pry me open is the number one thing you can do to make me suspicious of you. Asking to borrow something is the second, particularly if that thing is sheet music. I had way too many experiences in junior high with people borrowing my sheet music and never giving it back. Besides, the concert was just days away, and I had to practice.

He said he would make copies and bring it right back. My internal response was, "Yeah, right!" But what was I supposed to say? "Bah Humbug; you can't have it"? It was, after all, Christmas.

Reluctantly, I let him take the sheet music. I supposed I'd never see it again. Goodbye, sheet music.

Imagine my surprise when he returned it promptly. A day later? Maybe two days later? I'm not sure. But I was stunned. I didn't know what to say.

He knew what to say. He always knew what to say. He deposited the sheet music into my hands, chattered on about the best copy machine settings for sheet music, probably thanked me, and left.

It was a small thing. Not a big deal. But it sparked a new thought in me. The thought was: Maybe he's not so bad after all.

And that's how I began to become friends with Best Friend Boy.

My Sports-Related Injury

The universe has a message for me. It's been trying to convey this message to me for the last 20+ years. The message is, "Awkward Mormon Girl, stay away from sports!"

After countless sprained ankles and many collisions of volleyballs, basketballs, tether balls, and soccer balls with various parts of my body, you'd think I'd be getting the message loud and clear. But no. Noooo. Optimism prevails. Optimism, and a sufficient amount of memory loss to make me forget that I'm not very good at sports or, well, anything that requires moving of any kind...but especially sports.

Shortly before I left for my trip, I decided it would be a good idea to go to a combined ward activity which featured the sport of soccer.

Just before the activity, I was at a family dinner at Chuck-a-Rama. By the time I left for the activity, I was stuffed-a-rama. Still I went.

Best Friend Boy and many others were in the middle of a game when I arrived. At first I just watched, because I was too full to run, but I didn't want to be that person who goes to a sports activity and refuses to participate. So I joined a group of guys who were throwing around a football.

One of my very few sports skillz is that I can catch a football. I can't throw it, but I can catch it. As I don't know a lot of girls who can say the same, I'm naturally proud of this skill.

So, essentially, I was showing off. I was being a big show-off. And I guess I got what was coming to me.

One of the guys threw long to me. I scrambled to catch the ball. It bounced off my fingertips. And when it did, it bent my right ring finger in a way that a right ring finger was never meant to bend.

For some reason, instead of paying immediate medical attention to my finger, I caught a few more passes. Then, still full of food and with an aching finger, I ambled over to the soccer game. Then I joined the soccer game.

ME: Wait, why am I doing this? I am so full. I don't want to move.

ALSO ME: Plus your finger seems to be sprained.

ME: Ohhh. Is that what that is?

ALSO ME: Plus, we both know you're just going to get hit by the soccer ball.

I had a good point.

I ended up leaving the activity early and went to my parents', where I proceeded to explain my injury and seek medical aid.

My mother, who is an RN, was all, "Poor, poor baby! Ice your poor little finger, and I'll get you a splint to wear."

My father, who played college and high school sports but has terribly un-sport-y children, was all, "Did you say that you got injured playing sports? Good job!" and hugged me.

Parents are weird.

Touched by a Dog

Context: This post is about the last day of my second New York City trip.

Sunday morning marked the last day of our trip, our farewell to 35 Fifth Avenue, and our return to Utah. As Older Sister prepared for church, we prepared for LaGuardia by rolling up the many sleeping bags and sleeping pads, reassembling our gigantic shared suitcase, and, in my case, repacking a pillow/Urban Outfitter bag combination carry-on.

There were three interesting things about the trip home.

Thing #1: We took an Uber to the airport! First time using Uber, everybody. It cost 1/5 of what the taxi had cost. Not a bad deal.

Thing #2: Our layover was in Philly! I've always wanted to go to the City of Brotherly Love. We didn't get to see anything outside of the airport, but at least I ate this Philly roll while there:

Thing #3: I almost died!!!!!1!

The little sisters and I were separated on our flight home. They had seats together; I was all alone. At least, I was all alone for a few minutes until my seatmate boarded.

When you sit next to a stranger on an airplane, you always wonder if your seatmate is going to be, like, your new best friend. It became clear within about fifteen seconds that my seatmate did not want to be my new best friend. She seemed way more interested in shoving a humongous duffel bag under the seat in front of her than in me.

I wondered why she didn't put the duffel bag in the overhead compartment, where it would fit a lot better. I was even more bewildered when she told me that she needed me to move so that she could get the bag under the seat more easily.

As soon I stood up, I got a better look at the bag. It was not a bag. It was a kennel.

All I could say was, "Uhhh..." Because I was surprised to see that a dog would be sitting next to me on an airplane. I guess I assumed that if someone brought a dog onto a plane, the airline would let the other passengers know. Or at least let the person sitting next to the dog (me) know. But this, apparently, was not the case.

"Are you allergic to dogs?" the lady asked.

I said "Yes," which was easier but less accurate than saying, "Sometimes."

As a kid, I got mildly itchy eyes around cats and dogs. Then, when I was a teenager, I stopped reacting. I would go to Etch-a-Sketch's house and be near the her family's pets, or I would go to Best Friend Boy's house and sit on furniture that had cat hair on it, and I would not react at all. I still had to change my clothes as soon as I got home—Mom and Little Brother had allergies so severe that they would get a reaction just from being near someone who'd even looked at a cat or dog recently. I, on the other hand, stayed hale and whole no matter how many canines and felines I looked at or was exposed to.

If I thought I'd outgrown my allergies, though, I assumed too much too soon. When I hit my twenties, I started to react to cats and dogs again...only the reactions were more like Mom's and Little Brother's. My throat would swell up, and I would have a hard time breathing.

The lady said, "My sister is sitting in seat __." She told me that I could trade seats with her sister.

I agreed, mainly because I couldn't see another solution. I walked up the aisle, found the sister, and explained the situation to her. She gave me her seat and with it her seatmate. Hello, possible new best friend. I sat down.

The frustrating thing about having pet allergies is that most people who own pets don't have pet allergies, and people who don't have pet allergies don't really understand the danger their pets might pose to other people. They'll tell you that their pet doesn't shed, or that they always vacuum up all the fur, or something. Unfortunately, that's not really how it works. A person who's allergic to an animal can have an allergic reaction to allergens in animal dandruff or saliva, which is regularly but not only found in fur. Pets who spend time with their owners regularly leave animal dandruff or saliva on said owners. Those owners might, blissfully ignorant, go to a movie theatre and sit in a cushy red chair. If the next person who sits in the cushy red chair has a pet allergy, that person could easily have an allergic reaction to the allergens that the pet owner left behind. And that's just one example. I'm not saying that it's necessarily a pet owner's job to strip their body of allergens whenever they leave the house, but I am saying that most pet owners seem to be totally unaware that it's that easy for their pet's allergens to spread. These owners also seem to be totally unaware that some people have severe enough allergies that they could die if they don't receive treatment quickly enough.

I remembered this too late.

Not long after I sat down, my eyes started itching. And I started thinking about how, if I were a person who had a dog, and if I had that dog with me in an airport during a layover, I would probably play with said dog during said layover. And, if my sister were on said layover at said airport, I would most likely invite said sister to play with me and said dog during said layover at said airport. And then said sister would probably have said dog's fur...and dandruff...and saliva all over her person. And then, if I were a person who owned a dog and had no allergies and therefore was not aware of how allergies work, I might send my allergic-to-dogs seatmate to trade seats with my sister, and then my allergic-to-dogs seatmate would sit right down on the seat covered with traces of dog hair and touch the armrests that bore traces of dandruff and saliva and then...and then...

And then what???

Once, Pepper and I talked about a theoretical series called Touched by a Dog, where people with dog allergies are forced to interact with dogs because the dog owners don't take others' allergies seriously. Unable to reach their medicine in time, these allergic people die tragic and untimely deaths. I felt like this could be a follow-up to Over the Garden Wall; Wirt seems like the kind of person who would be cursed with severe allergies. Each episode would be a PSA written by Wirt as an effort to alert the general public to the plight of the average person with allergies. Wirt would always play the person with the allergy who dies and his brother, Greg, would always play the dog.

We decided early on that one of the episodes would take place on a plane. Because, I theorized, what could be a more unfortunate circumstance than to be stuck on a plane with a dog but no allergy medicine?

I soon discovered just how unfortunate a circumstance it was.

Like I said, I went for years without having any allergic reactions. My mom (who is one of the people who easily could die if she sat in a cushy red seat recently used by a pet owner) carries allergy medicine, inhalers, and EpiPens with her everywhere she goes; I've never felt the need. So I was wholly unprepared for my own personal episode of Touched by a Dog.

"Your eyes aren't really itching," I told myself sternly.

"Your throat isn't really swelling up," I told myself strictly. "You have an overactive imagination."

"You're being ridiculous," I told myself firmly. "Even if you are having an allergic reaction, it's probably very mild, and you will be just fine for this five-hour flight."

At this point, we were about half an hour in. I'd never reacted so quickly after being exposed to an animal before.

I shuddered to think where I would be in five hours.

I was starting to worry.

I needed to take some kind of action.

I definitely couldn't ask my new seatmate for help. Shortly after takeoff, a flight attendant had told us that since the third person in our row hadn't showed, we didn't need to sit right next to each other. Immediately, my seatmate moved to the aisle seat. "I'll make this easier on both of us," she said, but she didn't sound like she was making a joke. She sounded like she didn't like me, and she thought I didn't like her.

Apparently, she would not become my new best friend, either. But that was okay because come to think of it, I had Viola and wasn't really in the market for a new best friend.

I also didn't feel like I could ask the flight attendants for help. I thought that they probably had allergy medicine somewhere, but I had no idea had to handle this kind of social situation. First of all, I have issues with asking people for help because when I ask people for help, I feel like I've failed or done something wrong. Knowing that I didn't have very much experience with my own allergies, that I had no idea what might happen if I didn't get medicine, that I didn't know how severe my reaction might get or how difficult it might become for me to breathe, definitely spurred me to disregard that particular barrier. But on the other hand, I couldn't figure out how to ask the question...logistically. The flight attendants were all coming up and down the aisle with little carts. How could I possibly talk to one? Walk up behind one and say "Can you help me?" in her ear like a creeper? Wait until they came by with the carts and, when they asked me what I wanted to drink, say, "I'd like a ginger ale, and also some allergy medicine if you have it, and please hurry because I am in some kind of respiratory distress?"

No, there was no way. There was no way. I was never going to work up the courage to ask for allergy medicine. Maybe I would be fine, but maybe I wouldn't be. Maybe my throat would keep swelling. If it kept up, I might not be able to breathe. Traditionally, when you're unable to breathe, you die.

What dumb luck! What a stupid way to go.

As is my habit, I started to pray. Sometimes, in situations like this, God tells me to suck it up and get over myself and do the difficult social thing. But sometimes, He provides a path that is more aligned with my personality.

After praying, I had an instant idea. Baby Sister had a cold at the beginning of the trip, remember? My mother the RN gave her a bag of cold medicine to take on the trip. I was pretty sure that I'd seen allergy medicine in there, too. I felt like I should go ask Baby Sister if she had any allergy medicine.

It took me a while to work up the courage to ask my own sister for help. By the time I stepped past my surly seatmate as politely as I could and headed to my sisters' seats, we were an hour and a half into the flight.

I don't remember exactly what I said, but as I was distressed and on the verge of tears it was not particularly eloquent.

Baby Sister said that she didn't think she had any medicine left in her carry-on, allergy or otherwise. "I'll check," she said. She rummaged around and came up with a single adult multi-allergy symptom pill.

Hallelujah.

I took the pill back to my seat. All I needed was some liquid to wash the pill down, and everything would be fine. Luckily, the flight attendants were still (slowly) making their trips with the little carts.

A flight attendant with a cart soon came. I was all geared up to order my ginger ale, but this flight attendant only had biscotti. There was another cart still coming with the drinks.

I choked down the biscotti. Traditionally, biscotti are dry, but these ones seemed particularly hard to swallow. I hoped it was just my imagination and not a symptom of my swelling throat.

I waited for the drink cart...and waited. About half an hour had passed since I'd gotten the allergy pill from Baby Sister.

The only thing I could think of that would be sadder than dying of allergies on a plane because I wouldn't ask for allergy medicine would be dying of allergies on a plane while holding an allergy pill in my hand.

I swallowed, checking the tightness of my throat. Should I try to take the pill without liquid? Plot twist: I choke to death on the pill. Maybe that was a bad plan.

Just as I was about to panic, the drink cart finally showed up. I finally got my ginger ale. I stuffed the pill in my mouth and washed it down into my esophagus. Within five minutes, my throat had loosened, and my eyes were no longer itching. The rest of the flight passed without event.

And so I returned to Utah safe and sound.

Thus ended my second New York City trip. Like I said in the post before this one, I don't know if I should hope I'll have time for more travel or if I should hope to have other preoccupations. But either way, Older Sister has made an executive decision that she's not coming home to Utah at the end of the summer; she's going to stay in New York if she can find a job. So even if I find myself with other life commitments, I may still have to go back if I want to see my sister. We'll see what happens.