This sunshine is AMAZING!! Nothing to lift the spirits more than a little dose of vitamin D.
I once wrote a poem about sunshine. I remember that when I looked out my window and saw all the trees lit up with gold it seemed like the best part of a wonderful world. Now when I see sunlight I feel more like it is a brief breather in an uphill climb. That's kind of sad isn't it? I can't figure out which one is right either. True now the world seems like a much less hospitibal place but is it maybe just me? As I have gotten older have I just kept telling myself that my troubles come from the world just being a sad hard place. Am I the reason I'm not so happy anymore? I'm inclined to think that I am. If that is so, could I change that? Am I capable of making the world a better place? If throught just a different mindset I could make myself a happier person could others do that. I'm sure that if I were to put my troubles behind me I would be much more capable of bringing happyness to others. So maybe that's the answer. So today I will do my best to appriciate the sunshine for what it could be, the best part of a wonderful world.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Idea of "Average"
What is "average?" What's it like to be "average?" Am I "average?" Is it bad to be "average?"
The word "average" has many different meanings, some of which are more flattering than others. Dictionary.com's definition is: typical, common, ordinary: His grades were nothing special, only average. The definition from Webster's Intermediate dictionary is: something typical of a group, class, or series. The Synonym Finder offers these synonyms for "average": norm, normal, normal state, mediocrity. So being average is a bad thing. This bothers me a lot. And confuses me. Obviously no one wants to be "average" but many people, I think, feel that a life of "averageness" is inevitable. After all the probability of becoming extraordinary is not very high. In my life I am very afraid of ending up average. "Average" I think takes on many forms. As a teenager "average" is often thought of as a good thing. After all if you are "average" then you aren't failing classes (you aren't acing them either but at least you're surviving right?) If you're "average" then you have reasonably cool friends and probably follow most of the latest trends and fads (after all individuality is really overrated right?). But what if you want to be different???? That's not cool. And even if you break away from the crowd what if you aren't good at being extraordinary? What if you're still just "average" but now you're just an average dork? Are you doomed to a life of mediocrity? I don't think so. I think that these definitions leave something to be desired. The specification. You are only average if you are judging by someone else's standard and only if you think that there are only certain things that you can be extraordinary in.
The word "average" has many different meanings, some of which are more flattering than others. Dictionary.com's definition is: typical, common, ordinary: His grades were nothing special, only average. The definition from Webster's Intermediate dictionary is: something typical of a group, class, or series. The Synonym Finder offers these synonyms for "average": norm, normal, normal state, mediocrity. So being average is a bad thing. This bothers me a lot. And confuses me. Obviously no one wants to be "average" but many people, I think, feel that a life of "averageness" is inevitable. After all the probability of becoming extraordinary is not very high. In my life I am very afraid of ending up average. "Average" I think takes on many forms. As a teenager "average" is often thought of as a good thing. After all if you are "average" then you aren't failing classes (you aren't acing them either but at least you're surviving right?) If you're "average" then you have reasonably cool friends and probably follow most of the latest trends and fads (after all individuality is really overrated right?). But what if you want to be different???? That's not cool. And even if you break away from the crowd what if you aren't good at being extraordinary? What if you're still just "average" but now you're just an average dork? Are you doomed to a life of mediocrity? I don't think so. I think that these definitions leave something to be desired. The specification. You are only average if you are judging by someone else's standard and only if you think that there are only certain things that you can be extraordinary in.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Red Shoes! No way!
When I was in seventh grade flared jeans were going out of style. Now, seventh grade is an awful time for the world to go through a fashion flying change. All you want is to blend in to the wall, not stick out like a sore thumb. And at the time I thought that flared jeans made me automatically a leper. So I begged and begged until Mom took me to Goodwill and (being the stupid sevy I was) I bought the first pair of straight-leg jeans that my hands touched. For a little bit I was elated. Finally! I looked like everyone else! It was the best thing ever. At least for about a month. Then the newness wore off and I started to take issue with shoes. What were these magical automatic-acceptance things that everyone else had? Converse? I had to have some, normal sneakers just didn't cut it anymore. But alas! "Converse" were not to be had at the local thrift store, or my favorite consignment shop, or Walmart! In fact "Converse" were way expensive. 40, 50 dollars?! I didn't have that kind of money lying around! So the magical "converse" were out the window. I went through thirteen year old withdrawals.
Now my Aunt Rachel heard of my predicament and decided to do something about it. One day she showed up at our house with a small paper starbucks bag. Inside the bag was a pair of red shoes. They were slip-ons, made of leather, with non-obtrusive black rubber soles. They were very adult-looking, not trendy or fashionable at all. Aunt Rachel smiled and handed them to me. "Heard that you needed some shoes. These are a little too small for me. You're a seven right?" Not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful I half smiled and took them. As soon as she was gone I took the offending footwear and tossed them in my closet. But she was right, I did need shoes, however unattainable the ones I wanted may have been. So next Monday as I got ready for school I unwillingly put them on with my over-worn straight-leg jeans. I remember being mortified as I got out of the car in front of the building. I was sure that everyone must me staring at my uncool shoes and snickering behind my back. I suffered through my first three classes of the day before lunch, all the while dying from embarrassment.
As I went to go get my lunch I accidentally ran into my first-period English teacher, Mrs. Moore. "Sorry Mrs. Moore." I mumbled. She intimidated me a lot. She was witty, tough, and always well dressed.
"It's quite alright Lydia, don't worry about it." She smiled as she spoke. I began to leave but she stopped me and said, "By the way Lydia, I just wanted to tell you how much I love your shoes. They are so cute." I was shocked.
"These? Really? I don't like them at all." I very unwisely blurted out. "I mean," I hastily recovered, "Bright red isn't very fashionable."
"Oh I disagree." said Mrs. Moore; and then she said something that changed my life, "Lydia, I think that every girl in the world should have at least one pair of red shoes."
After that I wore those shoes almost every day. That one little phrase became my calling card. Whenever someone commented on my shoes I would tell them that I was once told that every girl in the world should have at least one pair of red shoes. I was heartbroken when those shoes wore out. But since then I have never been without a pair of red shoes. These days I'm sixteen and skinny jeans are in, but I'm back in flairs. I own three pairs of beat up converse (one pair bought at Goodwill, one at my favorite consignment shop, and one given to me) and I own three pairs of red shoes (two pairs of heels and one pair of converse).
Now my Aunt Rachel heard of my predicament and decided to do something about it. One day she showed up at our house with a small paper starbucks bag. Inside the bag was a pair of red shoes. They were slip-ons, made of leather, with non-obtrusive black rubber soles. They were very adult-looking, not trendy or fashionable at all. Aunt Rachel smiled and handed them to me. "Heard that you needed some shoes. These are a little too small for me. You're a seven right?" Not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful I half smiled and took them. As soon as she was gone I took the offending footwear and tossed them in my closet. But she was right, I did need shoes, however unattainable the ones I wanted may have been. So next Monday as I got ready for school I unwillingly put them on with my over-worn straight-leg jeans. I remember being mortified as I got out of the car in front of the building. I was sure that everyone must me staring at my uncool shoes and snickering behind my back. I suffered through my first three classes of the day before lunch, all the while dying from embarrassment.
As I went to go get my lunch I accidentally ran into my first-period English teacher, Mrs. Moore. "Sorry Mrs. Moore." I mumbled. She intimidated me a lot. She was witty, tough, and always well dressed.
"It's quite alright Lydia, don't worry about it." She smiled as she spoke. I began to leave but she stopped me and said, "By the way Lydia, I just wanted to tell you how much I love your shoes. They are so cute." I was shocked.
"These? Really? I don't like them at all." I very unwisely blurted out. "I mean," I hastily recovered, "Bright red isn't very fashionable."
"Oh I disagree." said Mrs. Moore; and then she said something that changed my life, "Lydia, I think that every girl in the world should have at least one pair of red shoes."
After that I wore those shoes almost every day. That one little phrase became my calling card. Whenever someone commented on my shoes I would tell them that I was once told that every girl in the world should have at least one pair of red shoes. I was heartbroken when those shoes wore out. But since then I have never been without a pair of red shoes. These days I'm sixteen and skinny jeans are in, but I'm back in flairs. I own three pairs of beat up converse (one pair bought at Goodwill, one at my favorite consignment shop, and one given to me) and I own three pairs of red shoes (two pairs of heels and one pair of converse).
Monday, February 1, 2010
Wow it's been a looooooooong time since I wrote anything on here. No pictures this time, too much of a hassle. Well what can I tell you? Currently a silly Sophmore living in the greater seattle area. Tenth grade is a killer compared to last year. I'm sitting here hunched up in front of my computer when I should be doing homework, listening to U2 Achtung Baby, if any of you know the album.
First a picture. A blue room. Binders and loose paper, spread with an artful unkept apearance, apon the worn, off-white carpet. Misoulanious dressers and bookcases crowded along the sky colored walls, which are adorned with the products of an amature artist. A double bed in the corner by the window covered with a dark orange comforter. The blinds of the two east-facing windows are shut, only a portion of the gray rainy light shines through. A few empty mugs join the multitude of books still waiting to be reshelved after reading. And a desk. Large, flimsy, cluttered with more paper and pens. A bottle of clear nail polish hides forgotten behind the laptop, which looks forlorn in the alcove originoly intended for a much more space-consuming apliance. In front of the desk a small, mousy girl perches on a hard chair writing a long wordy description of her room to no one in particular.
First a picture. A blue room. Binders and loose paper, spread with an artful unkept apearance, apon the worn, off-white carpet. Misoulanious dressers and bookcases crowded along the sky colored walls, which are adorned with the products of an amature artist. A double bed in the corner by the window covered with a dark orange comforter. The blinds of the two east-facing windows are shut, only a portion of the gray rainy light shines through. A few empty mugs join the multitude of books still waiting to be reshelved after reading. And a desk. Large, flimsy, cluttered with more paper and pens. A bottle of clear nail polish hides forgotten behind the laptop, which looks forlorn in the alcove originoly intended for a much more space-consuming apliance. In front of the desk a small, mousy girl perches on a hard chair writing a long wordy description of her room to no one in particular.
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