maybe he was a tiny little intern....

Very peculiar.......I just ran an errand that required a trip on the elevator. I stepped on at the bank lobby, and a little boy stepped on with me. He couldn't have been older than 7 or 8, but he was alone. He was dressed business casual (he was wearing loafers, for goodness' sake) and had a very official-looking stack of documents in manila folders on hand. He pushed the button for the 8th floor somewhat confidantly and stood in a professional stance for the duration of our wait. Normally, I would make conversation with a kid in an elevator. But, I was totally intimidated by him.

The Heaviest Load

I've always had some difficulty with balancing the concepts of predestination and free will. I'm not speaking in terms of spirituality and eternity here; I'm content with my beliefs/understanding in that realm. It's the weight of day to day decisions that seem so immensely heavy at times.

Did you ever read those Choose Your Own Adventure books when you were a kid? It would just blow my mind how one little decision on the part of the reader could change the whole story around. I would feel SO pressured to make the best choice so that I wouldn't end up plummeting over a waterfall or having my lunch eaten by a polar bear (or face some other fate equally as devastating). And no matter which ending I reached, I would always go back and read the other ones to see how it COULD have been different. Oh, and in some books, all of the various choices brought the story to the SAME ending. How crazy was that? The premise seemed genius to me. "Wow! The people who write these books must be REAL smart to come up with this stuff."

Of course, at the time, it was beyond my experience to realize how true to life the books were. We all make decisions on a daily basis that may/may not change our futures or the futures of others. It's not even the momentous details that sometimes end up carrying the most significance. We've all heard tales of inconsiderable trivialities that unexpectedly change lives. Obsession can manifest itself quite easily if you sit and allow yourself to analyze all the little things. "What if I wear the spiked heels today, and when I'm walking out of Starbucks with my latte, I trip and spill it over the woman walking by, so she has to rush home to change clothes before work, and in her hurried state, she gets in a wreck and kills me and 3 other people?" The impossibility of preventing events doesn't need to be elaborated on. It's just, well...impossible.

I can recall a handful of conversations I've had with friends in which we disected the "what ifs" of the past....how our lives could be completely disparate if we had done something differently at some point. Songs have been sung about it. Literature and movies have examined this phenomenon over and over. (Sliding Doors, Groundhog Day, The Butterfly Effect.....I guess I'm not well read enough to think of any literary examples off hand...but I know they're out there! ) I often wonder where I'd be and what I'd be doing if I had: taken the opportunity to move to Florida with family members when I was 12; gotten pregnant in high school; gone to a different college; or married the first guy that I really thought was "the one"........ A abyss of swirling alternate paths storming in my brain.....

This is all part of what makes life so exciting; so very much worth living. At times, it really blows my skirt up to imagine what lies ahead for me. Passion, children, a significant career, traveling the Mediterranean, enjoying new flavors from Ben and Jerry's.... who knows? That's the part I like. Believing that it's all been laid out for me, and all I have to do is fall into it....that's the good stuff. Not knowing what MY part is in my destiny is what stresses me out.

Is there only one life destination...one "Adventure" that will make me happy? Are all other scenarios going to leave me wanting? Who will be affected by my decisions? I get so bogged down with thoughts like these!! My biggest comfort is to lean on faith when I get overwhelmed. (I honestly don't know how anyone makes a decision about anything without relying on faith.) I trust that if I make choices prayerfully, rationally, responsibly, and with the right intentions, then things will be fine; that my purpose will be fulfilled no matter where or with whom it occurs. I REALLY do believe that. And yet, I allow myself to feel paralyzed by worry and hesitation.

When I dig deep down to the bottom of it, my fear is that following the path of one decision will prohibit me from experiencing what the other path would have led me to. And what if the alternate experience is the better one? What will I be missing out on? I guess it doesn't really matter. What I should focus on is what IS, not what COULD HAVE BEEN. Whatever I face, it will be what was intended all along.

There's a quote I like that is applicable. It goes something like this: Living is determined not so much by what life brings your way as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by how you choose to see what happens.

Don't Be a Creepy Guy--Part Two

I know that you're shocked that I already have another experience from which to post Part Two of this series. Like I said previously, creepy guys are all over the place. This encounter was exaggerative on the creepy side, and (hopefully) would not be duplicated by any male without actual intent of creepiness; but I'm sticking by my word and mission to pass along my knowledge.

I was on my lunch break today walking through a nearby grocery store. I am dressed fairly conservatively...law office appropriate; was in no way attempting to grab anyone's attention. As I strolled through the produce section, I half way noticed a non-descript middle aged man walking towards me. I didn't really look at him at first; I was too busy reciting my short list of grocery needs to be friendly.

He was about 2 feet from me when he looked me up and down and musically moaned "Mmm, mmm, mmm!" (with a gutteral emphasis on the last "mmm") I suppose he could have been commenting on the yummy appearance of the California Oranges display behind me. Or, perhaps, he was anticipating the taste of the Teddy Grams that were tucked warmly beneath his arm.

Either way; creepy. Nuff said.

To Enhance the Non-Enhanced....

I'm really excited about this...and I feel that everyone else will be, also. One of my mother's high-class women's magazines has offered up some advice that will quite literally change my life. Apparently, the secret to maximizing a small chest is to wear sweaters with faux-fur collars, preferrably ones with big bows in the front. Problem solved. I plan on raiding every Meryvn's and TJ Max this week...my closet will be stocked with a top in every jewel tone available. Magentas, turquoises, and canary yellows with trims from synthetic leopard to ferret will be all you should expect to see me in. From now on, I will tolerate no negative comments about my small breasts (which, keep in mind, will still be pretty and perky when all you double Ds out there are sagging down to your waistline in 15 years). And don't ask to borrow any piece of my faux-fur wardrobe.....find your own signature accessory.

Connie Selleca must be Proud

Normally, I'm pretty content to be alone. Nights; or even weekends by myself, are savored with the pleasure of indulgence in things that are usually restricted by living with roomates. Jumping on the couch in my Mickey Mouse underwear, playing my unappreciated musical selections as loudly as I please, throwing myself into a sick frenzy of cleaning and straightening without interruption, and sleeping in complete, serene silence are all anticipated with an unnatural giddyness. Of course, I could make myself sound really cool and insist that I throw wild orgy-like parties when left alone. But it never goes that far.

My fascination with myself fades pretty quickly when driving long distances alone, however. Amusement in my antecdotes can only last so long....it's just not as funny when I remember that, "Oh. I was there the first time." I usually make a few calls on my cell phone until my ear goes numb....which doesn't take long. I also have a collection of mediocre CD's that I switch out on a consistent cycle. But that gets old after 3 or 4 hours. Inevitably, I resort to scanning local radio stations. Isn't it amazing that, no matter what part of the country you're traveling through, the only accessible stations from long stretches of major highway are country and 80's soft rock? (I won't deny it....I like to sing along with Huey Lewis and Gwenyth Paltrow to "Cruisin"....in fact, it's one of my favorite crappy songs to sing to.)

While driving out of state several nights ago, I had exhausted all of my typical sources of entertainment. Even the really bad music was too much to take after hour 7. In my desperate state, I happened across the John Tesh radio show. I don't know if any of you have ever listened to this fine piece of work, and if you have, I doubt you would admit it. (I wouldn't blame you, by the way.) If the clarification that John Tesh was the host of the show didn't clue me into the cheesiness I was about to endure, his reading of a fan's letter did the trick. The young, sad girl from Anytown, USA had written to express her thanks to Mr. Tesh and all the good work he does. Her life had been enriched by his "soothing voice" and his meaningful advice. I was happy for her. Really was. And good for Mr. Tesh! Don't we all wish that we could impact the young lives of America through the medium of radio? Too bad I've been cursed with a "froggy" voice (or so I've been told). Nobody would ever write a letter to me praising my soothing commentary. I was thinking through all of this and growing increasingly bitter about my lot in life when my inner voice was interrupted...

"Providing the Gift of Great Music and Intelligence" was the announced slogan that came from the dreamy lips of the Teshster. He spent the next 5 mintues explaining how and why his show literally spreads intelligence to its listeners. (or, just to me....I think I was the only one tuning in) The first illustration of this "intelligence" was an informative article on how to be polite while emailing. The tip that stood out the most was that you should always respond to the corny forwarded jokes that are sent to you. That way, the sender feels edified and appreciated for his/her effort to better your day.

Great advice, John. Thanks a bunch! I truly did feel more intelligent...suddenly....miraculously! I kept waiting for a mini-lecture on the history of electrical engineering or budgeting tips taken from the Gods of Greek mythology or how to escape from a burning building with only a banana peel and a hairdryer. But all I got was the email thing. Lonely singles and truck drivers across the South were surely smiling in unison....all feeling more confidant and more equipped in maintaining internet-based relationships. Me....I fought the urge to drive off the nearest bridge.

My Day with a Goat--A Love Story

Hanging in my room is a photograph I took several years ago when I spent a summer in Southeast Asia. Most people would pass by the picture without even noticing it. There's nothing spectacular about it by any means. It's a black and white shot of a wet road. The road curves to the left and disappears into the tall trees that line it. The scene could have been captured anywhere....backwoods Mississippi, or the Oregon coastline, maybe. Nothing would distinguish it from any other stretch of shiny black tar. However, sometimes when I take the time to look at it with more intent than just in passing, I remember why I hung it in first place.

I remember that day quite clearly. It was a Saturday. I had been in Nepal for 4 or 5 weeks at that point, and had already traveled most of the Kathmandu valley region. On this particular weekend, a large group of my travel companions had gone to a tourist-attracting mountain village where they could watch satellite television and sip luke-warm orange sodas under the cloud shrouded spanse of the Himalayas. My pal Emily and I weren't interested in this excursion, so we had opted to find something else to busy ourselves with.

As I recall, we had become frustrated with everyone's quest for things "like home". Despite the fact that Nepal is a third world country, and is barely approaching the technology we had mastered by the mid-60's, the presence of the Western world is there if you look for it. There were several restaurants in the valley that served "American" food, for example. Of course, it didn't taste American. Or smell American. Absolutely couldn't fool your stomach into digesting it as if it were American. But how could we resist eating psuedo pizza in a semi-air conditioned room with soft rock mixes of Phil Collins and NSync humming in the background? Sometimes a dose of the familiar was what we needed to make it through a rough day.

Most of us had become acutely aware of the habitual dangers of residing in our comfort zones. Crazy Tina had been carrying a bright red flag to remind us all of this. Crazy Tina was a spoiled mama's girl from Tampa. None of us knew why she decided to join a group of strangers in the heart of the third world that summer. She had apparently been under the impression that she would be "roughing it" in the luxury of a Motel Six and taking long soaks in non contaminated jacuzzi tubs. (Motel Six was the freaking Ritz compared to The Hungry Treat Hotel and the closest thing I ever saw to a jacuzzi tub was gurgling sewage on the side of the road....every road.) Upon realizing her tragic misunderstanding, she had taken to hiding out in a European-owned coffee shop every afternoon and in her room every night with the curtains literally taped shut to "block out the city". Her insanity showed itself in many other hilarious, infuriating, obnoxious ways, too. My personal favorite memory of her was when I sarcastically called her "Miss America" on the Fourth of July and made her cry. But.....I digress.

So, it efforts to decomfortize ourselves, Emily and I let our spontaneity take over. We threw some faux- filtered water bottles and flimsy paper maps into our backpacks and took off. I don't think we even told anyone where we were going....I guess we figured the American Embassy would magically know where to find our mangled bodies in the event that we suffered an attack from a Yeti. We climbed into a cab, offered up all the rupees we could afford to spare, and basically asked the driver to take us as far as he could with that amount. We drove for about an hour.....maybe 90 minutes....out of the city and into the desertion of mountainous village roads. He finally dropped us off, probably mumbling "crazy white girls" to himself as he drove back home.

There was no turning back....our abrupt plan was set into action by default. We would be walking all the way back home. We kinda sorta knew where we were....map reading had become a survivor skill for us, so we weren't worried. During our 9 hour trek back home, we had all sorts of mini-adventures. And every single one of them unfolded in the pouring monsoon rain.

We befriended a herd/pack/swarm/pod of loud and affectionate mountain goats that stayed on our heels for several hours. A group of kids showed us a lake where, as Hindu legend has it, an evil snake king lives with his minions. (I think the story was that he had fallen in love with a human woman and pulled her into the depths of his kingdom so that they could reside together for eternity. ahhh....snake love....) We found ourselves in an open clearing surrounded by water buffalo; who, thankfully, didn't see the point in ramming us with their muddy horns. From a cliffside, we looked down on a factory of some sort that I'm sure I've seen in a cheap horror flick since. Monsterous trucks would pull into a warehouse every 15 mintues or so, and unidentifiable smells bellowed out in smoky curls. We were immensely intrigued by it for some reason. We watched a (very) elderly woman single-handedly plow a field with just a combing tool draped over her shoulders. Wearily, we crossed a wobbly wire bridge that had been erected over the choclatey Bagmati River.

I know none of these things sound all that thrilling, and, in truth, they weren't. Emily took a picture of me that day....I still have it. My hair was Jamie Lee Curtis short at the time and my cheap rain jacket had done little to keep me dry. So, I looked like a half-drowned 15 year old boy waiting for his school bus. But...I look really happy. I WAS happy. I don't think I've had many other days that were enlightened by such free-spirited spontaniety. That photograph on my wall reminds me that I should have more days like that.

Valentines Request

I've been really quite concerned about this, so I thought I should go ahead and mention it. If anyone is planning on sending me a pet for Valentines Day, my preferences are a goldfish or a monkey. They're pretty much the same thing, I know, but there are a few things you should keep in mind. If you do choose the goldfish, please don't simply drop it in an envelope. Everytime someone tries that, it doesn't make it here alive. At least take the time to put it in a baggy or a thermos or one of those ziplock container thingys. Teach him the Tango BEFORE you send him; don't just include an instructional video. It's a nice thought, but I honestly don't have the time to teach a fish how to dance. If you choose the monkey, please send a cute one. Don't forget his toothbrush, favorite bedtime story, and his passport. And for goodness' sake, put a bow-tie on him.

What is that Stench?

We are mysteriously fascinated by unpleasant smells. And, when I say "we", I mean people in general.
(I'm not referring to me and my 6 other personalities; all but two of them actually have no sense of smell at all, strangely enough. They've got great night vision, however.) It never ceases to amuse me how we're always so eager to smell the repugnant. Vile odors always require the attention of more than one person. The generous, benevolent sides of our natures come to the surface and someone...ANYone must be a part of it immediately. Or maybe it has nothing to do with generosity. Bad smells are simply too traumatic to experience alone.

Take a morning at work last week, for instance. I walked into our office kitchen and it was shockingly obvious that some food item had spoiled overnight. It was that sour fragrance that we all know so well. It reaches in through your nose, pulls your stomach up to the surface by way of the back of your throat, and then drops it quickly enough that it spirals all the way back down to your bellybutton. I stood there in the doorway for a full 5 seconds; taking big, long whiffs and allowing my stomach to play acrobat. I knew good and well, of course, that the culprit was probably in the fridge somewhere, but it wouldn't have been any fun to get rid of it without sharing the repulsiveness first. I called a co-worker in. "Come smell the kitchen! It's horrible! What in God's name is this?" Like anyone would, she dropped what she was doing and rushed in at a frantic speed. She would have knocked down toddlers and old people to get there expediently.

"Oh God, you're right! What is that?" she whined. Then we both stood there, blinking wide-eyed and stupid like, with our lips curled and our eyebrows furrowed.....repeating the previous phrases over several times each. We finally snapped out of and opened the refrigerator. The problem was located in a soggy plastic container, and then was extricated promptly. A big drama over something trite and commonplace....but inevitable at the same time.

Another co-worker returned to the office the next day and exclaimed that, "Gross!", his hand still smelled like the lunch he had eaten 4 hours previously. He shoved it towards my face, and I willingly breathed it in. "Yep. Smells like old hamburger grease." Did I need to smell his hand? Of course not. But I did it anyway because not smelling it would have just been too much to take. On a very recent road trip a friend (who's name I won't mention in order to preserve his reputation) pleaded with me to smell the leg of his jeans. They were covered with a myriad of colors....stains that were indistinguishable and frightening. It was a work of art, really. Like a newly discovered Picasso. I suppose that imagining the combined aroma of crayfish, strong liquor, dirt, and God only knows what else was an excitable moment for him. Admittedly, it was an intriguing offer, but I chose to turn it down. Guess we'll never know.

A favorite smelling story takes me back about a year ago. One of my 3rd grade students, J.J. (When he acted bratty, I liked to say it in Spanish....."Jota Jota" just because it pissed him off) was a strange kid. The only true joy in his little life was to frustrate me daily.....hourly, if possible. He was tangled up in a web of "self-issues", so I had to acknowledge that his quirks weren't all under his control. I had 10 little boys in my class, and I had learned early on to ignore most of their bizarre little boy behaviors. I wouldn't comment or intervene unless necessary. It was better for me that way. On one particular day on the playground, I spotted J.J. manuvering his nose back and forth between his armpits. I looked the other way several times, hoping he would stop eventually. He wasn't bothering anyone else, so what could it hurt? It didn't take long for him to begin soliciting the other kids to sniff under his arms, also. Everyone seemed to think this was great fun, but I just couldn't take it anymore.

"J.J.? What's the deal? This game looks pretty gross to me."

Defensively, "What? I'm just sniffin."

"Okay, well cut it out, please. It's disgusting."

"But, Miss Sellers.....(makes whiny noises).....It smells good. Smells like bacon." (Oh yeah, that's what he said.) My only response was my "or else" look that I had become so good at giving. No words were needed.

"Awww, man." J.J. walked away, sulking with his hands in his pockets. I think he didn't speak to me for the rest of the afternoon.

We all do it. Why is it always foul smells that interest us the most? Sure, we like good smells. Everybody likes good smells. But they just aren't as worthy of calling out. If you said "Hey...take a whiff of my hair. It smells like lavender and strawberries", we'd probably go along and enjoy it. But an enthusiastic, "Hey...does my hair smell like puked-up dog food?" would draw a bigger crowd, at least.

Don't Be a Creepy Guy- Part One

Due to the events of a recent night out, I have decided to offer a service to my male readers. This service will benefit not only you, but any girl you may come in contact with from here on out. Hopefully, eventually, my aid will spread wide and eventually benefit me, also. I'm paying it forward, so to speak. It could literally impact the life of every person in the country. Or just everyone in the Southeast. Or maybe just all single people in Coppell, Texas. In any case, it will help someone.

There seems to be a disturbingly high number of creepy guys walking the streets. This isn't news to any girl. We all know it to be a sad, disappointing fact of life. The limits to where we encounter them is non-existent. They're kinda like roaches. Sure, we expect them in gross places like skanky bars and gas stations and under fallen trees in woodsy areas; but that's not the end of it. We've also learned to keep watch at the library, at our cousin's birthday parties, at the dentist's office, and even at church. Especially at church. It's a never ending battle for us.... developing the skills to spot them quickly and squash them before they crawl all over our sandwiches.

What has occurred to me many times is the possibility that some guys are truly oblivious to their creepiness. Poor social skills, low self-esteem, chemical imbalances.....there could be lots of contributing factors. But the reality is, fellas, that ignorance is no excuse. If you're creepy, not many girls are gonna stop and try to figure out why. She's gonna run like hell and take her friends with her. You aren't gonna be given the benefit of the doubt (unless the girl is creepy herself, and we just don't have time to cover all that).

Now boys, don't panic. I know that some of you are frantically wondering right now if YOU could possibly be a creepy guy.....one of the many who are blinded by their crooked delusions of self-smoothness. First off, if you're a friend of mine, you probably are not one. If you are, I just haven't seen you in action. But, for the rest of you, I'm going to cover some of the basics of male creepiness. This will be only the first installment of tips because there are way too many to cover in one day. I do have a job, after all. So, keep in mind that you can' t just run through today's list and think you're good to go if you haven't checked anything off. Don't get over confidant. This is just a re-telling of one creepy guy's creepiness-ish-ism. We're only hitting the tip of the ice berg. Oh, and if you need counseling or advice in this area, feel free to email me. I'd be happy to help. It's the least I can do.

You're probably a creepy guy if:

1. your initial pick-up line is one that tells a girl she looks "just like that girl from Friends".....

2. you consistently stare at a girl's chest even though she has given you no indication that she wants or enjoys you doing so.....

3. you offer to buy a girl a drink, she says "Nope, I'm good.", and then immediately accepts one from someone else.....

4. you think that bragging/elaborating/flat-out lying (whatever the case may be) that Britney Spears was your first kiss will impress ANY girl (even though it "REALLY, SERIOUSLY" makes sense because your grandmammy lives in Kentwood, LA) ......

5. you step on the heel of a girl's shoe while she's walking with her friends so that she'll have to stop and bend over to fix it; and her friends keep walking; and you grope her once she is out of their eyeshot; and you then proceed to tell her that's, indeed, why you stepped on her shoe in the first place.......

6. a girl has to ask her male friends to "guard" her so that you'll stay away.....

7. the second you initiate dancing with a girl, she eagerly allows herself to be pulled into a dance by another guy, and purposely doesn't look back to offer you an apologetic shrug of the shoulders....

8. you stalk a girl with unstable, crazy-dazed, fixated eyes on the dance floor while she doesn't dance with you.....

9. you attempt to handle "the situation" with the bouncer to impress the group you've tagged along with, but succeed only in displaying your ineffectiveness.....

10. you smell like cheese.....

If you do all of these things on the same night to the same girl, then you are exceedingly creepy. You are beyond help. Do NOT email me for advice.

Doubly Irritating

I have more than one set of twins in my life. Love them. Great people. But they're a strange breed...for many reasons. For example, ever notice how, whenever meeting a new group of people, they feel the need to tell the story of their birth(s) and childhood(s) as if anyone actually cares? Do they really need to point out all their likenesses and differences? If someone asks..."Hey...are you guys twins?", then there certainly would be no harm in answering. But, why elaborate? Can't they identify a question that is asked rhetorically simply in an effort to be friendly?

It would be like my brother and I entering a room together and making a big deal out of our siblinghood.

"Yes, we ARE brother and sister. Crazy, huh? Which one's older?.....He is. Yeah, by four years. Just barely, though. Our mom didn't even know I'd be coming along later. She was in labor for a full 36 hours.....combined.....with the both of us. I was 7 lbs, 9oz and he was 8lbs, 5oz. Nope, we didn't look a thing alike when we were born. We were so stinkin adorable, though. People would always comment on our outfits. No, we didn't wear matching clothes. My first word was vegetable, his was dog. Funniest thing...he hated me from the get-go. Yeah, it was hilarious. I'm the narcicist, he's the pathological liar. We're both alcoholics, though. He IS taller than me, yeah. Crazy stuff."

Point being....who would give a rat's ass? No one! Being a twin doesn't change that!



Speaking of twins, I read today that Jon Lovitz is a twin. How disturbing is it to know that there's more than one of him out there?

An Eye for an Eye

I got home late on Monday night. I was very cold, very tired, and very much not in the mood to put up with the hijinks of my cat. Bridget (my cat) is a relentless pain in the backside most of the time. She normally listens for the "toot-toot" of my car lock when I get home, then waits by the door for the 45 seconds it takes me to walk up the stairs. I'll pat her on the head. Pick her up if my hands aren't full. Ask her how her day was; blah, blah, blah. As soon as I busy myself with something that doesn't directly involve her (which usually takes about 2 minutes), she begins her routine of tearing through the apartment in efforts to gain attention. This rampage can last anywhere from 30 minutes to 6 hours, depending on how much she slept that day.

She had been extra hyper since I walked in that night, and despite my various methods of kitty discipline, her obstinance was increasing. The last straw was when she used my leg as a ladder. As I lay wounded and bloody, I fantasized about mashing my lit cigarette on her forehead (lucky for her, I don't smoke.). Instead, I irascibly vowed to ignore her for the rest of the night. Elise was staying with me that night, and we were delaying sleep by talking....about boys and makeup, no doubt (that's all girls talk about, you know) . I was doing well with my promise not to notice Bridget....I ALWAYS keep my promises....when Elise heard a peculiar sound. I thought it was the muffled cooing of pigeons outside my window. It's one of those constant sounds you learn to tune out. But, no; it was Bridget snoring. She was curled up all upside-down and crooked-like on the end of my bed. I was totally elated by the cuteness of it all and I, too, curled up at the end of the bed so I could listen more intently. How dare she make a fool of me!! I will not have my authoritative anger mocked by adorable manipulation! I'll get my revenge.....you wait and see.

Mama was right....

After getting a new hair-do and looking into the mirror many, many, many times....I've accepted what my mother always used to tell me. I really AM the prettiest girl in the class.

And the smartest.

And the funniest.

Twixter-Ish

January's edition of Time magazine features an article announcing a new label for 18 to 29 year olds. The "Twixter" generation is one that social scientists are saying is caught between adolescence and adulthood. Job-jumping, extended educational bouts, non-commital living patterns, and deferrment of marriage are all symptoms of this phenomenon. The idea is that young adults aren't actually entering into adulthood as quickly or efficiently as in past generations. We seem to be more analytical of ourselves and of our options in life; not willing to "settle down" just because we're supposed to; determined to find meaning and purpose.

Most of the experts involved with the topic agree that we aren't lazy; aren't slackers. Where the debate comes in is "Why, then?".

Sociologists say we're just "reaping the fruit of decades of affluence and social liberation". We are in a life stage where we can afford to be non-commital and irresponsible. We can try things out....jobs, cities, relationships, etc., and not be afraid of failure because we're young and the consequences (theororetically) will smooth themselves over in the future. According to the article, historians hypothesize this isnt a fad....the "cultural machinary" that has always prompted the transistion from adolescence to adulthood has crumbled, and our society no longer provides us with the means of becoming decisively and financially independent.

You'll have to read the article yourself for all the details. Many specific reasons for all of these changes are mentioned. Interesting....especially the part about how our generation is financially dependent on our parents more than ever. Statistically, on average, we all attain more than $2,ooo from our parents each year. Really? Must be nice, kids. I suppose about 1/3 of my friends would fall into this category, and I think only half of the third doesn't take it for granted. In the end, we're all still in debt and living humbly, though. So I guess it doesn't make that big of a difference.

Anway, after reading the headline page of this article, I said..."Well, heck-fire. I'm a twixter." (yep. those were my exact words. I thought it sounded cool.) I, like so many other people I know, I have had an assortment of jobs since walking across the stage and taking my degree. They have spanned a range from Great to " he's-a-really-bad-kisser-slip-in-dog-crap-Oh, damn!-I'm-out-of-tampons" awful. This has been the case for a variety of reasons. I've had a coupla unfortunate incidents that have fed the desire or necessity to leave (which has also led to some intermittent positions). I'm still not 100% sure that I know what my CAREER should be. I've wanted to live in different places....again, for a variety of reasons. And, quite honestly, I haven't been able to land my ideal job (not one that could pay the bills, anyway).

The fact that I'm still not headed down a specific career path is something that bothers me considerably. I'm not proud of it. I'm frustrated by it. But I don't think that it makes me flaky or irresponsible. I've always done what I've needed to do to provide for myself, and I've learned alot in the process. I know what I DON'T want to spend my life doing. Besides, I fervently believe that I'm put in every location, every situation for a reason. I'm not just floating aimlessly and landing where my balloon happens to pop.

The overall mindset I've had....regardless of what life aspect is the case in point......is that I don't want to settle for mediocrity. But I don't think I'm any different than the rest of you in that respect. I'm not special in my quest. We just all go about it in our own ways. Admittedly, I guess I have a slightly romanticized image of what's out there for me. I want to use my intrests and gifts to their fullest, to experience as much as life can possibly throw my way, and to do as much of it as possible with my soul mate (if I have one....if there is such a thing....that would be another blog entry completely). So, yes....I fit into the Twixter label. Make me a name tag.

Despite all of my desires for fulfilling my purpose, I realize there has to be a balance. There's always the danger of never finding contentedness. In fact, I think that's one of the most significant faults in our society. Wanting more and better ALL the time can rob us of a pleathora of life's joys. Things can and will never be perfect. No job, no habitat, and no human relationship will ever be faultless. We have to condition ourselves to be well adjusted and productive and happy in every stage. One of the biggest challenges in life, I think, is living in the present while, at the same time, still striving to acheive goals. If anyone has it all figured out, please post a comment and do us all a favor.

So, what does this all mean? Who knows? I'm not any clearer than I was before I wrote this. But it feels good to say it, doesn't it? DOESN'T IT ?? Hell, yeah!