I realized something after this weekend- Graduation is a lot more fun when you don't have to worry about the whole graduating part. I got to pretend I was in college again, relive Tent City in all its glory (and oh... it was glorious), and enjoy all the other benefits of Trinity's graduation festivities WITHOUT the sentimental and buzz-killing side effects. For me last year, it was having to say goodbye to some of my best friends... and the fact that my parent's got in a head-on collision with an (allegedly) coked-out Trin alum.
I was one of the few who was excited for the day to come because it meant seeing my wonderful boyfriend for the first time in six weeks. All the while, I was fully aware that most of the people on the other side were counting down the days in dread rather than in ecstatic anticipation. But it still gave me a chance to look back at where I was at this time a year ago, at how I was feeling about coming into the elusive "real world", and about how much better their graduation speaker was than ours. My thoughts?
You never know how lucky you are.
I don't mean that as a way of saying "Enjoy getting drunk in college as long as you can, because you can never do that again!" First of all, that is not true. You absolutely CAN get as drunk as you did in college, although now it's frowned upon. In a bigger sense, I don't think a lot of people realize just how much they have working in their favor to be able to attend college, pay for college, graduate from college. People don't realize how lucky they are to be healthy, functioning adults, to have friends and family that love and support them. As much as occasions like graduation are sad, I think they're also a testament to the myriad of positive things we have in our lives. If anything, that's what this weekend made me think about (besides how much I missed my friends from Trin).
I was going to write this slightly sentimental post right when I got back, but getting bronchitis and an ear infection on the plane ride home kind of robbed that feel-good, Hallmark-y feeling I had going on. Thank goodness the antibiotics kicked in.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
End of Year
In the single digits for the countdown now (NINE teaching days left), and tonight we had our last TFA meeting of the year. It's crazy to me to think about where I was a year ago, to think about the kind of mindsets and attitudes I had coming into this whole experience. And knowing now what I know, seeing what I've seen, it's impossible to return to that pretty naive perspective I had then.
Anyway, they played a preview for a movie coming out soon that was so relevant to what we're doing. I don't know exactly what it stirred up in me- a lot of inspiration and motivation, a little disappointment and regret, thoughts of what I could have done better- but I wanted to share it here.
Anyway, they played a preview for a movie coming out soon that was so relevant to what we're doing. I don't know exactly what it stirred up in me- a lot of inspiration and motivation, a little disappointment and regret, thoughts of what I could have done better- but I wanted to share it here.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
All Grown Up... and a Whole Lot Poorer
Last week marked a momentous occasion- I finally bought my own car. Pressured by my parents (whether directly- "Get your own car"- or indirectly- "You have to drive the truck now. And it needs to be filled with 89"), I finally gave in. It's a cutie pie little Mazda 6 and I loooove it. Mainly because it has AC and a working radio, luxuries I have been living without for the past 8 months.
One thing I've begun to realize about myself is that although I am a procrastinator, once I decide to do something I want to get it done FAST. Buying a car was no different. I did the whole thing in less than a week, and that's including getting approved for a loan, getting car insurance, changing to a NC driver's license, and actually purchasing the car. I bet you can guess which one was the least amount of fun...
Yup. Going to the DMV. Twice, actually. The first time I went, it took me over an hour to get there because they closed the branch I originally wanted to go to without telling anyone. I was scouring a sketchy plaza in East Charlotte for about 45 minutes before I realized this. Already late, I arrived to another location, ready to get it all done in one day. Impossible.
"We need proof of your full middle name."
Middle names don't matter in New York, apparently, because it doesn't appear on my SS card or my driver's license. In the South, it matters. In the South, when you get pulled over for speeding, it is imperative that the police officer knows whether to address me as "Sara Ellie" or "Sara Elizabeth". An initial is not enough. I think you can sense the irritation. I ended up staying just to get the tests out of the way. It's pretty pathetic that the hardest part was the vision test. What am I, an 85-year-old woman?
Coming back the next day with the proper identification still resulted in a long wait, which was okay because I was informed that they only accept cash (of course), that there was no ATM there (of course), and that I would have to cross the treacherous street to a sketchy gas station in order to get some (of course). Oh, and if I wasn't back when my ticket was called, I would have to get a new one and start the whole process over. Awesome.
After almost getting in a car accident, getting money, and waiting another 15 minutes, I finally got to the counter where they take your information to issue you your license. The attendant was a 65-year-old man who kept calling me munchkin.
"What have we got here? Oh, a New York ID. God, I love getting rid of these. Nothing good ever comes from New York. Where does this say you're from? Painted Post? What the heck did they do, paint a post and call it a town? That's almost as bad as Buffalo."
"Actually, that's where my mom is from."
"I'm sorry. Is your dad from Tepee? Wouldn't surprise me..."
One thing it made me realize is how grateful I am that when I don't like my job, I can at least kind of fake it. People can say, "Oh, what a cute age!" and even though I want to punch them in the kidneys, I can nod and say, "YestheyareverycuteandfunnyandneverannoyingIlovethem." When you work at the DMV, you're not fooling anyone. No one who works there comes home at 5:00 and says, "Wow, what an enjoyable day I had making people want to throw me into rush hour traffic." Or, "I had so much fun getting daggers shot at me from people I barely know!" People know you don't like your job, just as much as you know that people don't like the DMV. There is no pretending. Which is probably why the DMV is such a miserable place.
Anyway, I finally got my license, or at least the temporary one until the real one comes in the mail. Goodbye, NY ID that I could roll up into a ball and put in my pocket. It's the standard, plastic driver's license for me now, complete with a beach in the background and my middle name as prominent as my first and last.
At least it will go well with my new car.
One thing I've begun to realize about myself is that although I am a procrastinator, once I decide to do something I want to get it done FAST. Buying a car was no different. I did the whole thing in less than a week, and that's including getting approved for a loan, getting car insurance, changing to a NC driver's license, and actually purchasing the car. I bet you can guess which one was the least amount of fun...
Yup. Going to the DMV. Twice, actually. The first time I went, it took me over an hour to get there because they closed the branch I originally wanted to go to without telling anyone. I was scouring a sketchy plaza in East Charlotte for about 45 minutes before I realized this. Already late, I arrived to another location, ready to get it all done in one day. Impossible.
"We need proof of your full middle name."
Middle names don't matter in New York, apparently, because it doesn't appear on my SS card or my driver's license. In the South, it matters. In the South, when you get pulled over for speeding, it is imperative that the police officer knows whether to address me as "Sara Ellie" or "Sara Elizabeth". An initial is not enough. I think you can sense the irritation. I ended up staying just to get the tests out of the way. It's pretty pathetic that the hardest part was the vision test. What am I, an 85-year-old woman?
Coming back the next day with the proper identification still resulted in a long wait, which was okay because I was informed that they only accept cash (of course), that there was no ATM there (of course), and that I would have to cross the treacherous street to a sketchy gas station in order to get some (of course). Oh, and if I wasn't back when my ticket was called, I would have to get a new one and start the whole process over. Awesome.
After almost getting in a car accident, getting money, and waiting another 15 minutes, I finally got to the counter where they take your information to issue you your license. The attendant was a 65-year-old man who kept calling me munchkin.
"What have we got here? Oh, a New York ID. God, I love getting rid of these. Nothing good ever comes from New York. Where does this say you're from? Painted Post? What the heck did they do, paint a post and call it a town? That's almost as bad as Buffalo."
"Actually, that's where my mom is from."
"I'm sorry. Is your dad from Tepee? Wouldn't surprise me..."
One thing it made me realize is how grateful I am that when I don't like my job, I can at least kind of fake it. People can say, "Oh, what a cute age!" and even though I want to punch them in the kidneys, I can nod and say, "YestheyareverycuteandfunnyandneverannoyingIlovethem." When you work at the DMV, you're not fooling anyone. No one who works there comes home at 5:00 and says, "Wow, what an enjoyable day I had making people want to throw me into rush hour traffic." Or, "I had so much fun getting daggers shot at me from people I barely know!" People know you don't like your job, just as much as you know that people don't like the DMV. There is no pretending. Which is probably why the DMV is such a miserable place.
Anyway, I finally got my license, or at least the temporary one until the real one comes in the mail. Goodbye, NY ID that I could roll up into a ball and put in my pocket. It's the standard, plastic driver's license for me now, complete with a beach in the background and my middle name as prominent as my first and last.
At least it will go well with my new car.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Leave the Mothers Out of This
No, I won't! The mothers have a special place in this highly read and highly demanded blog and as such, it would be a crime to NOT write a Mother's Day blog. On this momentous occasion (which caused me to spend over $20 at Hallmark), I would just like to say thank you for the MANY thankless acts that mothers do as their children grow up. Maybe these are just things my mother has done... but bear with me.
- Not being able to sleep until we are safe at home. For all those nights we stumbled home past 2 am, clutching bags of McDonald's items and thinking we were along, only to have you shoot up from your resting position on the couch. "You're home," you'd say, then sleepily clump up the stairs leaving us to eat our drunk food in peace. Whether it was coming downstairs to me and half the town of Corning in our living room or to our father drunkenly curled up in the fetal position on his 53rd birthday, you refuse to go to sleep until our booze-scented butts are through that front door.
- Not being able to sleep even if we are safe at home. For the one night when I went to bed at 10 and you thought I was still out. Or when you had to check on Kristin every ten minutes to make sure she wasn't sneaking out to one of Painted Post's public parks or high school parties.
- Putting up with endless jabs and jokes on our end, but never being able to make one of your own. You have to deal with the harassment of three children and a husband, but the minute you try to put in your rebuttal all you get is tears. "I'm not fat Mom, I'm in COLLEGE. Why don't you understand me?"
- Actually, putting up with everything. Jon has farted ON you before. Kristin has called you from the middle of traffic after running out of gas. I have called you before and just cried without speaking. Dad bought a $400 bike and spandex shorts with cushions when he has biked maybe seven times in his entire life. How do you do it without medication?
- Driving around the country for a million different reasons. College visits, sports games, riveting all-state band concerts. Some are fun, some... are not. We all know which ones are not fun, and even though I pretend it's not okay, it is. No one wants to watch the French horn, no matter how much you love your kid. And at least you got there in time to PRETEND to have seen it.
- The labor part. I don't think I need to comment on this one.
- Cheering us on, no matter what. Even when we suck (like when I ran track). Even when we have done everything wrong. Even when you're mad at us.
- Using so much butter in your cooking but not telling us. No wonder family dinners were so delicious. And no wonder we spent $10 on butter in a week.
- Making sure we have everything we need for family vacations. And by everything we need, I mean everything that could possibly fit in the van. "Why don't we bring the TV? And this cooler? And the beaver costume? Is there still room?"
- Being really focused when packing for family vacations. So focused that the one time Dad kicked the ladder out of the loft in the garage and was left there for 45 minutes because we were all so busy packing. "Where the hell is your father? I sent him to get the turtle out of the garage an hour ago!"
- Getting things we need IMMEDIATELY when driving. Someone needs tweezers once we get to our destination? No, I will get it right now, even if my ass slams into Dad's face as I stand up to walk around the van. Safety can be suspended so long as I can get my toiletrie case. Maybe I shouldn't say thanks for this one, because even if you CAN stand up in a moving vehicle because your five feet tall, doesn't mean you SHOULD.
- Cheesy birthday things. The seven days of Sari, the many cakes of Kristin (esp. the glass shards one)... forgetting Jon's birthday. Hey, it happens.
- Having good genes. Seriously. Thanks for the metabolism and the skin.
- Loving the boyfriends and girlfriends even when they suck. You know who I'm talking about... no one likes giving people rides to Buffalo when they sit in the backseat and cry the whole time.
- Saying the hard things. The things no one wants to hear but needs to. Like showing Kristin she can't support herself being a bartender ("Oh. That's not very much money.")
- Holding us accountable. Because we need to learn those lessons on our own. Adolescence is a time to make mistakes, but it's also a time to be held responsible for them.
- Being a hundred million things at one time. Nurse, teacher, counselor, cook, bartender, masseuse, cheerleader, police officer, parole officer, house (you know, when we were embryos), referee, role model, friend... but above all, being a mom. Thanks. I'd be lucky to be half the mother you have been to all of us (and not because I'd be REEEEEALLY skinny).
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
It's supposed to be!
I was going to save this anecdote for my Mother's Day post, but I had such a vivid recollection of it last night that I have to include it now.
When I was little we weren't allowed to quite anything. NOTHING. You signed up and you basically were in it for life (probably why I play volleyball through college). My mom, being the avid swimmer, made us all take swimming lessons with the hope that one of us would carry on the Zaprowski family tradition. A side note: this attempt was a complete failure, given that I can barely stay afloat in the deep end without swallowing a gallon of water and Jon swims like Diddy Kong.
One night at swim practice I was trying (as usual) to communicate that I hated any kind of movement at all and just wanted to sit on the heater, read a book, and eat a stick of margarine. I got to the end of the pool after about 50 laps (realistically, it was probably one) and looked up at my mom.
"Mom," I whined. "I want to get out. This is hard."
She looked at me, vengeance and rage boiling up from her toes straight into her eyes. "Hard?" She barked. "It's SUPPOSED to be hard!" Then she threw her clipboard in the pool next to me, splashing water up my nose and nearly drowning me.
Maybe that's not exactly how it happened, but it's how I like to remember it. It was a pretty defining moment for me. What reminded me of it was my hot yoga class the other night... also known as an hour long wet t-shirt contest with stretching. I had an unfortunate position by one of the heaters and to date it was the hottest class I've ever been to. Uncomfortably hot. Unbearably hot. At the end I was just standing there. Not in child's pose, showing that I was struggling and needed a break. Just standing hunched over, breathing heavily through my mouth and thinking, "I want to get out. This is hot." That's when I had the image of my yoga instructor, reincarnated into a weird hybrid between my mom and dad, coming over and barking in my face, "Hot?! It's SUPPOSED to be hot!"
And he would be right. After all, it is hot yoga. And most things- at least most things that are worthwhile-are supposed to be hard.
When I was little we weren't allowed to quite anything. NOTHING. You signed up and you basically were in it for life (probably why I play volleyball through college). My mom, being the avid swimmer, made us all take swimming lessons with the hope that one of us would carry on the Zaprowski family tradition. A side note: this attempt was a complete failure, given that I can barely stay afloat in the deep end without swallowing a gallon of water and Jon swims like Diddy Kong.
One night at swim practice I was trying (as usual) to communicate that I hated any kind of movement at all and just wanted to sit on the heater, read a book, and eat a stick of margarine. I got to the end of the pool after about 50 laps (realistically, it was probably one) and looked up at my mom.
"Mom," I whined. "I want to get out. This is hard."
She looked at me, vengeance and rage boiling up from her toes straight into her eyes. "Hard?" She barked. "It's SUPPOSED to be hard!" Then she threw her clipboard in the pool next to me, splashing water up my nose and nearly drowning me.
Maybe that's not exactly how it happened, but it's how I like to remember it. It was a pretty defining moment for me. What reminded me of it was my hot yoga class the other night... also known as an hour long wet t-shirt contest with stretching. I had an unfortunate position by one of the heaters and to date it was the hottest class I've ever been to. Uncomfortably hot. Unbearably hot. At the end I was just standing there. Not in child's pose, showing that I was struggling and needed a break. Just standing hunched over, breathing heavily through my mouth and thinking, "I want to get out. This is hot." That's when I had the image of my yoga instructor, reincarnated into a weird hybrid between my mom and dad, coming over and barking in my face, "Hot?! It's SUPPOSED to be hot!"
And he would be right. After all, it is hot yoga. And most things- at least most things that are worthwhile-are supposed to be hard.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Real Person Status
A much needed jolting change occurred in my social life this weekend- it existed.
I don't know if it was the tequila, the warm weather, or the enthusiasm from all my friends (FINALLY rallying each other to go out together), but I actually felt like a real person. I spent Friday night dancing like an idiot in this club/bar uptown, staying out until 2 AM!! I felt like I was back in college, complete with drunken late-night food cravings.
Yesterday, I went up to Winston Salem for this party my best friend was having with all her med school friends. I got to pretend to be a doctor and barbecue, two of my favorite things.
Maybe all these real-person feelings are going to be sending me on a downward spiral into Sunday night anxiety, because when you start to feel good you have much farther to fall. Or maybe I'll just go into school a little less rested and a little less depressed about my social life. We'll see.
I don't know if it was the tequila, the warm weather, or the enthusiasm from all my friends (FINALLY rallying each other to go out together), but I actually felt like a real person. I spent Friday night dancing like an idiot in this club/bar uptown, staying out until 2 AM!! I felt like I was back in college, complete with drunken late-night food cravings.
Yesterday, I went up to Winston Salem for this party my best friend was having with all her med school friends. I got to pretend to be a doctor and barbecue, two of my favorite things.
Maybe all these real-person feelings are going to be sending me on a downward spiral into Sunday night anxiety, because when you start to feel good you have much farther to fall. Or maybe I'll just go into school a little less rested and a little less depressed about my social life. We'll see.
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