On Sadness, or The Rampaging Lizard in the Room

GODZIRRRAAAA

In my mind, sadness is a lot like a meaner, hungrier, more lifelike Godzilla. It’s scary, I can feel it coming — heck, its heavy footfalls shake the whole city — and when it gets here, I know it’ll eat anything. Little victories, hopes, plans for the near and distant future, you name it. It doesn’t discriminate. Standing in its shadow, I feel tired and pathetic and small.

Sadness, I will tell you, is a capable predator. It’ll go for the jugular at the first sign of weakness. It will spring when you’re vulnerable. It will come at you when you don’t feel like running. It’s smart and difficult to get away from, sadness, and looking into its big hungry eyes, I know it would be pleased as punch to gobble me up here and now, right along with everything I love.

This is the coolest sleeping bag I've ever seen. And also a shark.

Let’s talk about sharks for a sec. Despite being competent predators themselves (and admittedly, eating people from time to time), I think they’re pretty inspirational. The thing about a shark is, it’s got to keep moving or IT DIES. The way it’s built, it can’t breathe unless water is forced through its gills by movement. Translation: when a shark stops moving, it suffocates. You and I can relate to that — apathy is deadly for us too.

I know what it’s like to want to crawl into a hole and hibernate for six months. It sucks. I also know that when a big ugly movie monster is looming over you, sitting still is the worst thing you can do. Get up and outrun him. Make plans. Look around and choose something that you can make better today, starting right now. Clean yourself up and find somebody to smile at. If you keep at it long enough, you’ll start to mean it. Usually.

And if you don’t, well, then maybe it’s time to get help. A lot of people love you; pick one and be honest with him. Your family and friends can see your situation more clearly because their view of the world isn’t impaired by that big useless lizard, so chances are that they can help you find a way around it — and if they can’t, somebody out there can. The important thing is not to give up. Your sadness may be big, but it’s not invincible. Every Death Star has a hypermatter reactor.

You've got this, David! Goliath is top-heavy!

…And that’s it, really. When things get tough, just pretend you’re a shark and your choice is simple: move it or drown. Then eat something.

You’ll feel better in no time.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

by James Brierton

There’s been much love on this blog in 2011. From an Ash, to a Sam, to a Renee, to a Tim, – - and yes, even a James – - there’s been many a kind word published here. Though one such compliment has gone on unspoken.

This entry is all about: a Chelsea.

I spent many nights laying in bed wondering how I could express my love, thanks and appreciation to my girlfriend this holiday season. I began to reflect about the times we sailed New York Harbor, climbed the green mountain state, taught the inner-workings of America’s pastime, and sat sipping grape juice blindfolded.

If you clicked that last link, it went nowhere real fast. As predicted, I never did get around to writing my original guest post.

So here I sit, a hole in the timeline. A big, fat, gaping hole in the timeline. Well really, there’s not just one hole missing. There’s a bunch.

At the end of the day, certain things tend to make the photo albums: birthdays, graduations and big parties. All big events in deed but what about the little things in life that seem like nothing at the time but can truly reshape our entire lives?

Think Back to the Future. The smallest step left or right can alter time.

The Backstory:

To truly appreciate all 2011 has brought Chelsea and me you must first realize just how accidental this relationship really was.

A boy from New York (that’s me) had wandered some 888 miles from home and was experiencing one of those classic moments when your eyes are bigger than your stomach that morning as he sat in the campus dining hall.

“I think I’ll have a waffle, some eggs, bacon, cereal and french toast sticks,” I thought. “It’s a buffet after all.”

My regular table was filled so I sat down somewhere else in the dining hall. There’re hundreds of tables in the dining hall. I could have sat anywhere… and she could have too.

Somewhere between the waffle, eggs, bacon, cereal and french toast I managed to look up. A girl – - a cute one at that – - was standing over my table with a tray. Just then in the sweetest of voices she asks, “May I sit with you?”

“Of course,” I manage through a mouthful of breakfast.

“What were you thinking?” I think to myself, staring at my overflowing tray.

“I’m Chelsea,” she says. I reply the like.

“What are you studying?” I ask.

“Journalism,” she says.

I nearly choke. Someone pinch me. Here’s this girl: very kind, quite attractive – - and a journalism major – - sitting at my table.

“Stay calm,” I say to myself. “Let’s not blow this.”

The conversation carries on and we ultimately exchange e-mail addresses.

I have no problem talking on the radio, speaking to a large group of people or doing something silly on television but talking to a girl… forget it.

A Connection

It’s the evening of November 19, 2009 and I’m staring at her Facebook again.

Just then I see her date of birth.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I shared a birthday with the cute journalism major from the dining hall!

And let’s face it — my spelling and grammar aren’t up to par.

And so it goes…

And that was that for about a year. Our paths had crossed in the dining hall but had continued on their way mainly unaltered… that is, until another fall day when once again I grew hungry. And off to the dining hall I went.

Different dining hall. Different time of day. I was on my way out of the hall when I turned a corner.

“Excuse me,” I said as I rounded the corner near the ice cream bar.

“James, right?” says the girl wearing dining hall scrubs.

“Umm… correct,” I say, still puzzled. ”Chelsea?” I may or may not have been able to mutter without the help from her name tag.

Baby steps…

It could have been a day, a week or month. Who knows now, but this time I wasn’t going to just let the opportunity pass me by. So finally, a year since our first meeting, I sent her a text.

“Let’s meet up and go for a walk.”

Simple enough… and it was…

Thank Goodness for Snow

“Do you want to walk around in the snow?” the text read that January afternoon. We were only days into 2011 and in the middle of one of our snow days. I was still in my PJs and hadn’t showered. Why should I? The South was closed. I took the fastest shower I knew how (which frankly isn’t all that fast) and met her downstairs. From there, she joined us for dinner. Then a hangout, and another hangout, and another…

Scrunchies

We were all hanging at my place that night when Chelsea – - for whatever reason – - shot a scrunchie at me. It’s been on my left wrist every since.

We’re Close… Maybe?

We had just started to hang out together on our own when we went to WUOG that night. I still had a Friday night radio obligation to attend to. She decided to join me.

I don’t recall the exact circumstance. Maybe she had borrowed my sweatshirt or finished my sentence. Whatever the case it prompted my co-host Jamie to blurt, “I didn’t know you guys were so close.”

Que the awkward silence.

“We’re not dating,” we both said, attempting to keep the moment from getting any more awkward. Jamie was oblivious to the entire situation.

We had just started hanging out together and already I was doing damage control.

Great.

Dinner?

I thought she was pulling a fast one the first time we went to dinner that March eve. Just moments before the bill came at Olive Garden, she got up to use the restroom. Didn’t matter much to me anyway. I was planning on paying. Whether she realized or not, we were on a date… Then again, if she hadn’t realized yet she was about to. I don’t buy dinner for just anyone. Nor do I sit watching the sunset along Lake Herrick with just anyone either.

And So it Goes

The nerves were getting to me. I didn’t want to go too fast and scare her but I knew I really enjoyed spending time with her and I was pretty sure she felt the same. I think… I don’t know…  And so it went on for weeks.

You’ve Got Mail

“You’ve got one Facebook notification,” read the computer as I came back in the door after another night out with Chelsea.

April, 24, 2011. 10:49 pm et. That’s the moment she grew tired of waiting. I admit it, I took too long. The guessing game was finally over.

There You Have It

And there you have it. My favorite story of all time. So the next time you read about some grand adventure, remember all the parts that had to fall into place: the overflowing food trays, the snow storms and the awkward radio co-hosts.

Oh, and speaking of grand adventures… Ms. Chelsea will be making the trek to New York this Tuesday. We’ll head down to Georgia by way of Washington, D.C. this weekend, but only after we celebrate the season the Northeast way. She better pack some warm clothes. Our midweek day trip is looking quite chilly.

Forecast for our still yet to be revealed day trip location

Not a day goes by I don’t appreciate all the same things that life has blessed us with in 2011. And the fun doesn’t stop here. Look for new adventures and more posts in the coming months because yes, Jamie… we really are that close.

Hope for the Ugly Sweater

It happens every year. Christmas rolls around and 1+ well-meaning relative(s) give(s) you something that you have no practical use for. When that happens, I think you’re perfectly within your rights to find an impractical use — or to regift like there’s no tomorrow.

For me, it tends to be clothes. One of my grandmothers in particular has never quite been able to decide what size I am and sends me everything from children’s clothes to adult XL’s. I have a grand old time reallocating them. “Hey, Jess, does your little niece like cats? …How about pink cats, with flowers?” I have a hunch that most of these treasures travel several more degrees before finding their forever home. Maybe I’ll tag the next one’s ear — er, sleeve — and we’ll find out.

Will I sea you at the Octoparty?

Lately I’ve found myself preOCcupied with the idea of an Octoparty — what it might entail, how non-octopi could throw one, who I’d like to invite, etc. — and really kind of want to have one now. Who’s in?

I Suck at (W)rapping

I really do. It’s a problem.

Finals ended on Wednesday — thank God! — and I tackled the tasks of packing for break and wrapping gifts with all the energy and enthusiasm of Santa’s elves on Christmas eve (a.k.a. toy-making crunch time, when all the boss elves are shouting and Santa’s chain smoking and Blinky decides it’s time to slip a little speed into the community egg nog.) These projects had been weighing on me for quite a while. When at last they were completed, I sat back with a self-satisfied smile. Only then did I realize what I’d done.

Internet, meet Frankenpresent.

What’s wrong with him:

1. I borrowed the box from the person I’m giving it to, and he’s definitely going to know.
2. When I wrapped Frankenpresent, I’d done three others before him, and the gift-wrap-’o-meter was reading whoa, man, critically low. He’s held together awkwardly and not very well on the wrong side with lots of Scotch tape. His underside even has a patch made out of scrap paper.
3. He’s very lumpy…
4. His corners kept ripping because the paper wouldn’t stay put, which I suspect is because his big dumb lid wouldn’t lie flat and caused a bulge. It’s the lid, I tell you, the lid! Martha Stewart herself couldn’t have crisped those corners.
5. …and uglier than homemade soup. Poor Frankenpresent.

 My mother would be ashamed. I was embarrassed for Frankenpresent (and myself), but the rigor of finals week and the emotional turmoil of saying goodbye to Boyfriend for the holidays left me too apathetic to go out for more gift wrap. I slapped a bow and an apology on him, and he’s in my trunk now, awaiting delivery.

If you happen to receive a package matching this description, thank the gift-giver and follow the ugly package protocol: tear it open immediately and enjoy whatever’s in there. With presents as with people, it’s what’s inside that counts.

Coming Soon(?) [Guest Post]

Three weeks ago, I took James on a blind date — that is, I blindfolded him, drove him all over creation, and generally traumatized him. He says he’s going to tell you the story someday, but “someday” is a pretty flexible deadline, so it’s possible a few of us might die of old age first. Take your vitamins and enjoy this creepy photo in the meantime.

A Spontaneous Night in the City

The bf and I are in a competition to plan and execute the Best Date Night Ever.

This would likely come as something of a surprise to him, since I just decided it, but he was such a rockstar this weekend that I know my next plan has to be something super stellar, Helen Keller, or I don’t stand a chance of catching up.

The Adventure

Saturday afternoon James put me in the car. He declined to say where we were going or what we would be doing when we arrived but hinted that I might want my tennis shoes. “It’s something out of left field,” he told me. “I’m not even sure you’ll like it.” Sneaky! Turns out he’d found some tickets for the second of this week’s three Braves/Mets games.

I won’t mislead you: I know exactly nothing about baseball. James made a courageous attempt at teaching me how to keep the score card and also to follow what was happening on the field, without much success. After the game we caught a few minutes of a performance by Stix (mostly so we could tell our parents about it — Mom was pretty jazzed) and wandered the upper levels of the stadium for a better view of the skyline because, you know, I have a thing for big city skylines.

After that we took a drive to Centennial Olympic Park. I’d never been before (“Really? But you’re from Georgia!”) and James lived practically on top of it during his internship at CNN, so he was pretty pleased to be the one to introduce me. I have to say, it was gorgeous at dusk.

We enjoyed a nice dinner at Ted’s, which is pretty darn fancy for a burger place. James left me to wash off the ballpark germs, and I spent the interlude reminiscing about the night we’d gone to the Ted’s in NYC, smiling and dressed to the nines and exhausted from a long day of exploring. Sometimes when I look back on our adventures this summer, I’m not sure they really happened. Did I dream our lunch in the New York harbor, the life-sized dollhouses on the Long Island coast, the mountains in Vermont? Those memories are beautiful enough to be dreams — but no, I mustn’t have dreamed them, because now James is back with me at the table and laughing and making my heart do all kinds of funny flips, and that’s the same no matter where we are.

After dinner we raced back to the park to catch the fountain light show. It was out of order, but we had a nice time sitting atop the high wall with all the other couples. James told me that during his internship he’d been in the habit of coming down at night to film the fountain from different angles. I looked up at him and thought, and here you are now: that same boy from New York, wearing a UGA shirt and holding hands with your Georgian girlfriend — who, despite having visited, still mispronounces town names like Commack and only recently learned that Long Island is actually an island. When you were sixteen, where did you expect to be at twenty?

I wonder if the fountain looked much different to that younger, lonelier James. He was nine hundred miles from home and barely old enough to drive. He knew nobody in Georgia but his parents, a few folks at CNN, and the hotel woman who brought him cookies at night. There was no Sam and Ash to bake with, no Tim to go mudding with, no Chris or Clark or Renee or yours truly. What were we all doing while he filmed the fountain? I can’t speak for anybody else, but summer was Dad-visiting season for me. Since Hartsfield-Jackson isn’t too far from the park, chances are good that one of those nights I might have been there, a few thousand feet above him, working a crossword. It’s a nice thought.

We sang and twirled our way back to the parking deck, and in the car it was decided by unanimous vote that we should listen to Christmas music and pretend it was a holiday. For the hourlong drive between Atlanta and Athens it was, at least as far as we were concerned, December. I haven’t been so happy in quite awhile.

Okay, let’s take a look at the scoreboard. Judges?

Atlanta Trip 

Concept: 8/10
Execution: 9/10
Originality: 9/10
Overall score: 86.666666forever %

Solid.

Can I top it this weekend? Stay tuned to find out…

An All-Purpose Peptalk

Hi. I heard you could use a little talking up.

Things have been hard lately. You can’t catch a break. You’re tired, sad, frustrated, overwhelmed.

Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. You woke up this morning. You were able to get out of bed. Maybe parts of today will be hard, but if you look closely enough you’ll find something to feel content about. Little things: a touch of October in the morning breeze, sun glinting off a window, easy conversation with a stranger. Make yourself a nice breakfast. Take a walk. Smile, on purpose, until you mean it.

Don’t give up. Don’t sit around and grow cobwebs. Do things that matter to you. Do them because I love you; because your little brothers and sisters and cousins are watching; because you’re the only person on the planet who can do those things exactly that way. Do them because it feels good to have a sense of direction and the work will take your mind off things.

You’ve cried enough. ♥

When you’re soarin’ through the air, 
I’ll be your solid ground. 
Take every chance you dare, 

I’ll still be there 
When you come back down. 

- Nickel Creek, “When You Come Back Down”

This song turns me into a big melty wuss-puddle of emotion. When I hear it I go from bubbly morning person you’d maybe like to stab to girl that’s in danger of making squeaky crying noises in the student center in two seconds flat. That’s faster than most expensive cars can go zero to sixty.

Silly, yes, but also good in a cathartic/I-have-meaningful-relationships-with-people kind of way. Side note: I like to slap the label “catharsis” on my inappropriate displays of emotion because Aristotle was big on catharsis and he was smart and inspired a lot of really smug-looking busts and was also Greek back when being Greek made you an automatic badass, and if you don’t know that then I can puff out my chest and get all literature snob on you. (English majors don’t have a whole lot to be sanctimonious about, so we’ve got to make the most of every opportunity.)

What were we talking about? Oh yeah.

Boris the Whale: New Friend

Boris met Jess at a party. She was alone and looked sad about it, so he offered her a fin and a big smile. (Being a whale, he didn’t know how to smile any other way.)

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Boris. What’s your name?”

“Jess,” said the jellyfish. “Nice to meet you.” Her tentacles curled up tight, though, and she didn’t offer him one. Boris wondered if she might not understand the gesture. “Won’t you shake my fin?” he said. “It’s something whales like to do when we’re making friends.”

Jess said, “I’d rather not.”

“Why?” said Boris, surprised.

“I don’t want to hurt you. My tentacles sting — I can’t help it.” Her tentacles curled even tighter when Boris looked at them, as if they were ashamed of themselves. “Nobody ever wants to shake them,” Jess said sadly.

“Well, I do,” said Boris. “Here.”

Jess hesitated. “It’ll hurt,” she warned.

“I’ll forgive you,” said Boris. “I’ll probably hurt you someday, and you’ll have to forgive me then. That’s what friendship is.”

It was hard to tell — jellyfish don’t have mouths in the usual sense — but Boris thought Jess must be smiling in whatever way she could. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “I want a friend more than anything else in the sea.”

Boris wiggled his fin and Jess shook it, and afterwards they had lots of good adventures.