The runner wave

When running first began as a recreational craze in America it looked like the book below.


That's the cover for a book called Jogging. It was written by William Bowerman in 1967, and it was one of the first takes on running for your health. If you can't read it, the cover quotes The New York Times: "Jogging is an in sport." Thanks for that Times. Thanks.

Newsweek, apparently having just learned what a pun is, is also quoted on the cover: "Many doctors recommend jogging, literally tell patients to 'RUN FOR YOUR LIVES'." Good one Newsweek. Good one.

Some think that recreational running only appeared within the last few years, but remember the olympics are a thing. A really old thing.

Nonetheless, a culture of recreational running started to develop in the mid-sixties, when people started to tap into that endorphin resource that comes with a good jog. (mmm endorphins...) Companies like Nike developed special running shoes and the coveted swoosh, and now we get to wear kick ass tights like these. The rest is history.

Today, everybody does it. Everybody has at least been on a jog (many to realize that it really does suck most of the time). I can't tell you how pumped I am about this. I'm pumped about the high percentage of my Facebook friends who have somewhere in their profile pictures a shot of them crossing a finish line, or holding up a medal or chugging a post-race IPA. Hell yeah! I'm pumped about cities that once found themselves the fattest and are now among the fittest. Average people are pushing themselves to compete in things like ironman triathlons, ultra marathons in the middle of deserts, and CrossFit (haha, just kidding).

Running culture is a really cool thing.

I like to talk to my older running friends, who've been at it for a while. Whose miles could have got them to the moon by now (… you know if running to the moon was an actual option…) "What was it like?" I ask, "What did you wear? How was an East Coast winter without $100 running tights and thermal Under Armor?"

I'm thankful to have had people in my life who've been in the jogging game since practically its inception, mostly because they were able to teach me one sacred thing: the runner wave.

What is it?

When you're on a run and you see someone else who's also on a run … you wave.

It's awesome.

It says, "Hey, we're both running, and I'm acknowledging this."

But it also says so much more.

It says, "Hey, I'm not a murderer."

It says, "Hey, I don't take myself too seriously."

It says, "Hey, I may be running 30 miles and you may only be running two, but I think it's awesome you're out here."

"Hey, we both have icicles on our mustaches and snowflakes on our eyelashes and we're in this together."

Most importantly, it says, "You've got this."

No matter what you look like, or how much of a hard time you're having, no matter how far you're going, or how far you've gone, it says, "You've. Freaking. Got this."

So why don't as many people know about the runner wave any more? My theory is this: The population growth of running culture happened so widespread and so quickly that education on proper waving protocols was not adequately delivered to new members of the running tribe.

I'm trying to change that.

I'm determined to spread awareness of the runner wave. Because it's a really awesome thing. My goal is for an entire wave of people (see what I did there?) to know about it, and practice it regularly on a run.

And it's important to note that there are people out on the trail/pavement who are on their run to get away from the world. Trust me, I get that. The last thing these people want is to smile and wave at a stranger. They'd rather just face forward and get in the zone, and put on their Bitchy Resting Face and be left alone. They're still worth waving at.

Because motivation matters. If you're a runner, you get that. There is a battle going on in your head, telling you to slow down, telling you to walk, telling you that you're wasting your time, telling you that there is a Hot Pocket in the freezer at home. It's our duty to not be a holes. It's our duty to wave each other on.

Smile at strangers, and wave at other runners. (Hell, wave at walkers too.) Let the others know that you feel their pain, that you meet them where they are. Let them know that you get it.

Alas, those of you who decide to take this wave and roll with it, know that not everybody knows about the wave yet, and not everybody is going to wave back, but whatever you do, don't stop waving. If they ignore your awesome gesture of motivation, that's on them. Not you. So rock on.

The burden of being observant and kind

There is incredible burden that comes with being simultaneously observant and kind.

For starters, you're always noticing great ways to help others.
For another, you notice all the time how very often, you're the only one.

I'd argue that this combination can be exhausting. Ones who share such a burden think, "I'm always the only one noticing the old lady with the groceries and helping her cross the street," "How come I'm the only one who thinks to send the thank you note?" "Why am I the only one who understands how freaking loud that ridiculous Dyson air blower is in this bathroom and some people who might have sensitive ears like I don't know maybe this infant in the room might be bothered if I use it to dry my hands for an exceptionally long period of time?"

First of all, take a deep breath.  If this is you, you aren't the only one. I swear! There are tons of people like you! And there is hope!

I've deduced that there are four types of people in these possibility-of-helping-another-if-only-someone-was-paying-attention situations:

1. Kind, but not observant.
2. Kind and observant.
3. Unkind, but observant.
4. Unkind and unobservant. 

Situations:

Type 1: A pregnant lady gets onto a crowded subway. This person, seated, does not observe the pregnant lady's situation and therefore doesn't think to give this lady his or her seat. (Perhaps someone taps her on the shoulder and points out the pregnant lady. Then this kind person will give up his or her seat for the pregnant lady.) I believe there are lot of people who just don't pay attention, no matter how big their hearts are.

Type 2: A pregnant lady gets onto a crowded subway. This person, seated, notices the struggle and invites the pregnant lady to take his or her seat.

Type 3: A pregnant lady gets onto a crowded subway. This person, seated, notices, but does not want to give up the seat to anyone, as getting a seat is hard. Perhaps person type three will justify not giving up his or her seat because they had to stand the last time, or perhaps they let an old lady sit there once before. It's someone else's turn to give it up. Being unkind also doesn't mean you're conniving, it just means you don't want to go out of your way to do nice things for strangers.

Type 4: A pregnant lady gets onto a crowded subway. This person doesn't notice because they're too busy pickpocketing the old blind man in front of her.

I'd also like to point out the bystander effect. Perhaps we see someone in need of help and assume someone is coming for them. For example, a car blinking on the side of the highway. We assume, "they've got a tow coming" or "someone else will help." I'd argue that the widespread use of cell phones has helped millions of Americans escape the perils of a flat tire or a dead battery, but it has also created an alternative scapegoat. I don't think it's right to assume "someone is coming," however, I do see its justification.

It's fair to say that these four people "types" are fluid. For example, you may be an observant person, but if you're always looking at your phone or stop practicing your observation skills, you become less observant.

There is the possibility a person started out as kind and observant, and over time, became a little hardened by noticing general disregard all of the time. This is the burden I'm talking about. It is exhausting to constantly notice how shitty people treat each other. It can lead to some serious cynicism.

On the other hand, you may be very kind, and decide you want to help people more often, but you rarely know how. Being alert and on the lookout for situations where you can lend a hand helps. Keeping the thought on your mind gives you a greater awareness of those around you.

Being a thoughtful and observant person has its burden.

Yesterday as I was walking up to Starbucks, I noticed there were two entrances: One was a double door — the kind where you walk through a small room to get to the actual entrance — the other went straight into the Starbucks. I noticed the doors and I thought to myself, "hmm, it's furiously cold out. I should use the double door because then people won't get as bad of a chill."

I posted up in Starbucks and spent the next hour being blown in the face by one hundred people using the single door. Some even threw open the door and it didn't shut behind them.  I am one of four people who used the double door during the entire hour I was there. Even the Starbucks workers didn't think to put a sign up that says please use other door because it's cold.

It's not that people are bad, or trying to make everyone in the Starbucks cold, it's that they just aren't making this observation and applying it to possibilities for the future. Kind people walked through the single Starbucks door, obviously. Unless you're a supervillian, I really doubt any conniving ass holes walked through the door thinking "I'm going to make everybody freeze!" Unlike me — the freak of nature —  people just didn't think about it at all.

Nonetheless, If you're one of these people — the thoughtful, observant and kind — it is imperative that you not give up hope.  Surround yourself with the kind of people who take pleasure in the amazing people around them. Surround yourself with the kind of people who would give their seat to the pregnant lady on the subway. 

In the end, I would rather be the kind of person who thinks about doing nice things and does it, than someone who thinks about it and doesn't?

I'd rather pull up close in traffic so the person behind me isn't stuck in an intersection, even though nobody will ever know that's why I'm pulling up.

I'd rather see my neighbors garbage bin rolling down the hill and put it back in its place, even though they will never know it wasn't properly put back by the garbage collectors.

I'd rather notice the little boy with the armful of books who's about to walk into the library behind me and push the wheelchair button . (I also have an empathy theory that refers to how a kid in high school pushed my books out of my hands and pushed me on the floor  (I know wtf?!) but this blog is getting long.)

I believe that cynicism is a horrible and contagious disease of the heart. I don't think it does any good for anyone.

Subsequently, I believe doing nice things for people is good for your heart. It makes you feel good, even if nobody ever sees. Because you see.


I am not good at distracting myself on a train, so I will likely remain observant until my brain fails me from observing. I don't see avoiding observation skills to be a choice. If I'm going to be observant for the long haul, then I'm stuck deciding between two options: Am I going to be unkind or am I going to be kind? Am I going to open my heart to the places it needs to spread or am I going to avoid eye contact and cynically justify the shear numbers of how little helping one person could make on the world?

The answer is obvious.

Twenty four things I have learned in the last year.

I started this tradition on my 20th birthday. I remember writing it in my 12'x18'6" dorm room (yes, super long and skinny, but suspiciously perfect for dancing). I excitedly shared bits and pieces of my thoughts with my bubbly roommate Kelley as I wrote. I'm not the same person I was when I wrote my 20 things, and I'm thankful for these written ideas, as not often do people have such a concrete list of their priorities and newly gained insight each year. I didn't think this list was going to be a thing, but I think after four times, something becomes an official thing. I just made up that rule, but it's a good one.

I couldn't have guessed all of the things that would come and go in my life in just four short years. Since the autumn that I wrote my 20 things blog, I've fallen out with people I really cared about, failed miserably at the job search, and cried in my father's arms about what the hell I'm suppose to do with my life. I suffered with the rest of the world in watching greed, disagreement and intolerance turn into anger, resentment, violence and terror. I held the hands of friends gone to hell and back, watched them battle depression, addiction and pain. I gave the eulogy at my grandfather's funeral. I laid my childhood friend to rest, and I grieved over the losses of four people younger than me in just one year. I experienced incredible anxiety and stress over my future and the thought of losing my friends and family.

I was reminded of life's brevity, yes, but I also learned of life's incredible worth. I experienced sloppy, wet bucketfuls of joy in my life every single day. I fell in love and learned what healthy meant. I traveled across the world, surprised myself, and spent a year nannying for the most amazing two boys and awesome family. I stood next to my cousin as she committed her life to her best friend, became closer with my brother when he moved 2,507 miles across the country, and surprised a sister a long drive away. I hit the jackpot in the job search, dove down to shipwrecks at the bottom of the ocean, and celebrated and cultivated incredible friendships — some brand new, some twenty years old. I met and lived with my soul sister and two black cats, moved to a new city, started a new career, found my inner athlete. I restored my faith in humanity through long runs, coffee dates and StoryCorps tears.

At the end of it all, the world still awaits. I celebrate the fact that I am still so young, and I thank the people (and animals) who have made me who I am. Because I'd be a super boring, lonely person without their conversation, advice and gooey warm hugs.

Internet, I give you this year's 24 things I've learned in the last year:

1. People who don't think dogs are worth the shedding don't understand dogs.

2. Joy doesn't just happen to certain people by chance. Joyful is a state of mind that is deliberately chosen and cultivated.

3. Being a writer actually means being a reader who occasionally strings words together. 

4. There are better uses of your time in line than on your phone. Look up people!

5. Or how about I just forego the phone altogether? Forget your phone sometimes. Spend time with people who won't be on theirs the whole time you're with them. And hang out with people who will tell you to put yours down. Those are the kinds of people who get it.

6. Surround yourself with giants. I am currently working with brilliant minds! The things I have learned in my short time at this company have taught me so much. And it's because I'm surrounded by people who, not only are incredibly intelligent, but who have included me in on the conversation. They've brought me into meetings and interviews and let me write for big projects from the start. Surround yourself with people who are going to help you grow, and who won't squander your ideas or make you feel small.

7. Watching childhood friends grow into real, functioning and amazing people is a very wonderful thing. 

8. I used to think lateness had to do with a person's character... and then I moved to a city where parking was impossible. 

9. Be the friend who pays for the coffee. 

10. Be the 'first responder friend'. Be the friend who is going to answer the phone, grab the pot of coffee, and head over at 2AM when there's been a eureka! moment, a bad break up, or somebody needed to eat Lay's and french onion dip with.

11. Be the friend who doesn't ask questions when your best friend borrows your favorite T-shirt and then holds onto it for a little over four months because you know she's enjoying wearing it all of the time. Of course this is really just because you have like 45 articles of her clothing still and don't want to have to give them back.

12. Surely you can't be serious. Nothing should be taken too seriously. When we take things too seriously, we get offended. When we get offended, we become sour and bitter. And as I've aged, I've found I don't like either of those flavors.

13. Don't call me Surely.

14. Writing requires a lot of vulnerability. When you write, you're basically putting your panties on a line for people to critique. When you write about yourself, it's like taking those panties, turning them inside out and showing everybody their skid marks. You have to expect people to forget that those are your mistakes, and thank them for pointing out your poo.

15. There are some kinds of people who don't understand that they have the option to write their own books, make their own maps. Show these people that this choice exists. Give them a taste of what it's like to create something.

16. Your online persona is not an accurate representation of your life, your relationships or the quality of either.

17. Cynicism is a disease. It's a contagious, contagious disease that I have decided to quarantine myself from.

18. Good stories need to be told. People crave real, powerful and beautiful stories. 

19. You can learn a lot about a person's soul by what they think is funny. 

20. "Once you live a good story, you get a taste for a kind of meaning in life, and you can’t go back to being normal; you can’t go back to meaningless scenes stitched together by the forgettable thread of wasted time." - Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

21. The older you get, the more you look forward to Thanksgiving Day with family than what is under the tree Christmas morning.

22. Make every day extraordinary. Days fall together when you let monotony take hold. Weeks go by quicker when you do the same thing every day. Don't live for the two days tacked on to the end of the week. Do extraordinary things with every day of your life. You'll remember them.

23. Life is about giving someone else your last piece of gum. 

24. I am by no means wise, I am by every mean still learning. 

See: 
20 Things
21 Things
23 Things

The Story of the Extroverted Introvert

Erin, Are you an Introvert or an Extrovert? 

Those who know me know this question is silly.

I'm ridiculously outgoing (and super annoying).

But it's actually a question I've asked myself a lot lately as I've moved to Pittsburgh and had to really make an effort to meet new people.

It's weird when you move to a new place because you kind of forget how you made all those old friends in the first place. You are no longer surrounded by thousands of people your age that you know. It forces you to take a good look at what you want in a new relationship and a deep dive into who you are.

I always took being called an extrovert as somewhat of an insult. I mean, I'm a writer! I'm supposed to fly-on-the-wall the crap out of every situation! I can't break down that fourth wall and actually gather my own life experiences, right? To participate and observe creates a skewed, conflict of interest to a story, right?

I spend a lot of time with myself. I like shopping alone and eating alone. I like watching boats pull bigger boats down the Allegheny River on my lunch break. I like putting up my ENO hammock and hanging out by myself as all the sidewalkers stare. So naturally, I thought of myself as an introvert.

But I think I confused introversion, independence and observation skills as being mutually exclusive.

I thought because I was able to spend days hanging out with myself and not getting self conscious -- because I could go out to lunch with myself without feeling the need to stare at my phone -- that I was an introvert. Really, it's just that I am independent.

When it comes down to it, as in most areas of life, we can't simply organize ourselves as one way or another. Humans are more complex than that. Even when we gather MORE boxes and MORE descriptions (like the ever popular Myers-Briggs tests), people still don't fit into our tidy little categories.

There are super self-conscious extroverts and insanely conceited introverts. There are extroverts who hate talking in front of others and their are introverts who can sing the Star Spangled Banner in front of millions on national television.

Introversion/Extroversion really explains where you get your energy from.

The other day, we bumped into someone who I think it's safe to call a legend in the organization I was involved with in college (called Younglife) at Dave & Andy's (an awesome homemade ice cream shop in Oakland).  He and his family had just moved to Pittsburgh to start a new YoungLife chapter here and I had known this from mutual friends, but had never actually met him. Casually, I approached the man and we held a titillating conversation for a few minutes before I got my strawberry ice cream and we headed on our way.

As we walked to the car, licking our cones, I was bouncing off the walls. My boyfriend pointed it out that my energy level literally changed because I had just met a new person. He laughed. hard. Because we've argued before whether I'm an extrovert or introvert. He was right. My attitude and mood after meeting this new person had gone from 0 to 60. So obviously so that it was kind of hilarious.

Ultimately, my confidence, extroversion and independence all come from the same roll of quarters. They all work together to make me who I am.

Everybody is different and it's really awesome to see how we all fit together.  We need all kinds of people to make it all work.

While, introversion and extroversion are things we need to know about ourselves in order to best take care of ourselves, there are also different skills that make us who we are that we can practice and perfect. These can change as we change.

It's so important that we all figure out where we get our energy (you probably already know this answer). It's important that we figure out the skills we love about ourselves and keep practicing them, and that we figure out the things we're awful at and, after scrutinizing them, we exercise them.

You are a unique person with some kick ass skills that you can use to make the world suck less.

Forget what box you fit into and figure out who you really are. Then go be that person. Be the best damn version of that person you can be.

Signed,

The independent, somewhat introverted outgoing extrovert who enjoys hanging out with herself but also gets really excited about meeting new people.

Update: I was approached about this blog and told that I'm not an extrovert or introvert because I'm an ambivert — the person who fits in between. My point in this blog is to show that people are complex beings, inadequately categorized from simply getting their energy from alone time or social time. To take this blog and attempt to categorize my feeling that every person is unique completely misses the point.

People Observation: Cat videos killed the curiosity

My next door neighbor is a professor Emeritus of Physics. He's an incredible man who I could chat with all day. On the subject of our college town's academic quality, I asked him what he notices with students these days compared to those he's taught in the past. He gave me one answer: they just don't have any curiosity.

He teaches physics. His students are studying to be scientists. But they never seem to care anymore to know the fascinating answers we are finding to some of the universe's biggest questions.

My neighbor's observation isn't unaccompanied. I've noticed this myself.

I babysat for a wonderful little boy who has a creative brain that I loved to pick. While many people find Right Brains to be the math experts, I would argue the most successful problem solvers are the ones who can best mix that Left Brain creativity with that Right Brain critical thinking to find unique and new routes for finding solutions. This boy I babysat is one of those people. His math homework was kind of a mess, and he loved to use one of those extra smooth and inky purple pens to write his answers (which drove me kind of nuts). His answers were always right, but he always seemed to find them in ways I never understood. One day, he brought home a couple of wrong answers on a math quiz. He was very discouraged. He said his teacher told him he wasn't good at fractions. I was livid. What kind of third grade teacher tells an eight year old he isn't GOOD at something? Then, as I looked through his answers, I found she was the wrong one. The questions had been ambiguous, and when the boy attempted to ask for clarification, he was shot down. Only because this boy had misinterpreted a quiz question was he told he was incorrect, and even worse, he was told he wasn't good at it.

We have all had similar experiences: When I was in second grade I used to get really excited about the books we were reading. If I read ahead I would get in trouble. (Sidenote: My brother Sean used to read ahead to parts in books with swear words -- obviously 5th grade swear words like hell and ass-- so he could volunteer to read out loud during the raunchy parts of class novels)

Eventually this getting in trouble for our curiosity takes a toll on us. We get sick of our excitement about all of our questions. We're told our questions are stupid. So we stop asking. Eventually, the only questions we ever ask are, "is this going to be on the test?"

As a young person who was insanely curious in college, I felt this kind of punishment all of the time. See my story about getting a C- in a class I took for fun.

But I have found that the rewards for my curiosities always outweigh any kind of "punishment" I'd ever receive for them. Rewards like further understanding of people who aren't like me (or, as it turns out, end up being more like me than I think). Rewards like empathy. Rewards like meeting new people and noticing the little nuances and paradoxes of every day life.

I've talked about New Years Resolutions before. They're an easy way for me to make a drastic change towards becoming the person I believe a person should be. I like to do drastic things (mostly so I can brag about them but also) to test myself and learn something along the way. This year, my resolution was that I wasn't allowed to look at my phone while I'm in a line.

You see, people are looking at there phones everywhere they go. Every single line you've stood in in the last three years has been loaded with phone lookers. And I hate it. I absolutely LOATHE it. People constantly checking their screens are missing some incredible stuff.

We miss the eye contact with strangers at a coffee shop that turns into the observation that they, too, visit the same coffee shop every morning, which maybe then becomes a friendship. We miss the opportunity to ask people about their days. We miss noticing the puppy walking down the street. We miss real, genuine smiles to and from strangers that over the course of an entire day can change a person's emotional wellbeing. The things I notice that others don't notice baffles me. The things I've noticed and enjoyed since this year's No Phones While Waiting rule baffle me.

While you watch that video of that (probably adorable) kitty on your phone, you're missing your own cat's short nine lives. While you're letting your child sit on that tablet at the dinner table, you're missing an incredible conversation about his life -- he is missing an incredible interaction with his family.

Here's the truth: Nothing on your phone will ever be more remarkable than the person sitting in front of you.

I would like to challenge you to tickle your curiosity muscle every now and then. I would rather have friends who don't know but want to know than friends who know everything. I would rather have friends who can find answers with me than friends who tell me all the answers. (Chances are if you think you know everything you're probably wrong because there is no possible way that you do.) Read ahead and find the swear words. Get distracted with a new hobby. Use your freaking imagination.

There is nothing more attractive than a person who has curiosity.

Put down your phones and step away from your screens. Because they don't have the answers. Go explore the world.

People Observation/No More of That: Musical Snobbery

photo courtesy of The Verge.

This blogpost is inspired by a post a good friend of mine named Eric put on Facebook a couple days ago reading this: 

"Helplessness Blues is a great album by the Fleet Foxes. So late to the game."

First of all, Helplessness Blues is amazing. Eric, I'm so glad you found such a wonderful album. So many feels. 

Second of all, I know you didn't mean it in this way, but IT ISN'T A GAME! 

There is something empowering about being unique, the first, or one of the few in the realm of knowledge. It makes you feel special, I understand. This stupid thing that happens in fandom that I have dubbed Musical Snobbery, however, has got to stop.

I've explored a lot of genres. I like to sing music and play music and dance to music on a morningly, afternooningly (that's a word..) and nightly basis. With the exception of country music sap songs because those are awful, I like music that grabs my heart straight out of my chest and gives it a good smackin'. I like music that leaves my heart alone, but instead yanks at my brain and tickles my curiosity HQ. I like lyrics that mean something. I like lyrics that mean nothing. I'm a classically-trained Soprano with a secret love for a little bit of screamo. (I guess it isn't a secret love once you put it on your blog.) I can recognize a Strokes' bass line from three houses away. I can shout Bruce Springsteen lyrics at the top of my lungs and only mess up on the parts that he's mumbling his face off and I've never understood.  Just like most of you, I, too, had an emo phase. And going to college in Appalachia turned me into a lover of anything with a banjo. I'm lookin' at you, Steve Martin.

In high school, I took advantage of the surprisingly awesome bands that would come through Columbus (thanks for being a good stop-through town CBUS!), and -- without any actual expenses -- I spent every last dime that I earned at my minimum wage job on the relatively cheap basement shows. Possibly like you, I have memories of talking to bands after shows and accidentally elbowing middle school girls in the face for being the worst crowd members in the history of rock. 

While 90s music envelopes the brilliant nostalgia of early Generation Y, I find the early 2000s to be a musical dark age.  I thank heaven for things like Myspace, which would eventually lead the way for new and creative musicians to gain followings without having to sign to a major record label.  I love the things that are happening currently in the music world (for the most part). (Sidenote: It isn't a coincidence that the 90s and now are both musical eras of awesome as pop culture cycles every 20 years... but that's another blogpost for another time).

Alas, here we are. With so much music being home-brewed and accessible to fans all over the world every day, I can see how a subculture of music snobs could emerge. In every kind of category and hobby and subculture of anything you've ever seen or heard or smelled, there's always some group of snobs trying to make it exclusive. (It's all somewhat preschoolesque in a Neener-neener-neener-I-know-something-you-don't-know kind of way). 

But what kind of true fan of a band would want to hide the music they enjoy? 

I have friends from college who stopped liking Mumford once everybody knew who they were. Why wouldn't you celebrate their success? Why would you not want something you love to live on? 

A true fan of a band would want to support the band and share it with people, not keep its supposed awesomeness to him or herself. Hide it under a bushel, no; blast it in your car with the windows down and scream it at the top of your lungs. 

Take these non-musical, yet also applicable references: I love Bob's Burgers. I need everyone else in the world to love Bob's because without their according fandom, Bob's will get cancelled. (See: Arrested Development.) My love for the Columbus Blue Jackets represents a similar situation. I've loved the Blue Jackets since their Inaugural season in 2000. No true fan would get upset that a bunch of bandwagoners are hoppin' on after this year's playoff run. More fans leads to more tickets, jerseys and other random crap with a CBJ logo on it, which leads to more money, better players, and thus, a better team. As Paul Brown used to say, "There's always room on the bandwagon."

Don't let the hipsters fool you. Music is meant to be enjoyed regardless of how obscure it is. Classics are meant to be heard. And thank God for it too. Cheers to all of those times I was recommended a great song or band, and double Cheers to the times they have led to friendships and experiences and, a lot of times, easing some pretty harsh pains. 

Which takes me right back to Helplessness Blues: 

I was raised up believing I was somehow unique
Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you can see
And now after some thinking,
I'd say I'd rather be A functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me

The music game is not a game. It's an awesome collective of fandom and shared experiences that were meant to be shared. You are a functioning cog in some great machinery of amazing sounds and lyrics and beats serving something far beyond a little music ego. 

My message to hipsters: Revel in the obscurity of the songs that you find. Enjoy that strange sound that tickles your ears in a way you've never heard. And then, when you've downloaded it (probably illegally) and played it on repeat for ten or twenty times straight, share the crap out of it. Good music is meant to be heard. 

The best thing I ever did in all of my entire college

It was something like 4 o’clock on a Thursday morning. I walked to the kitchen and pounded my head on the counter until coffee magically came out of the machine. I looked at the assortment of bags packed on the floor by the front door—my cute Vera Bradley duffel looked funny hanging out with my fins and snorkel. I headed out the door towards the Aquatic Center with bright eyes. Athens, Ohio had been kissed by one of its first frosts of the year, all the more reason to get the heck down to Florida. As we packed up the trailer and everybody put themselves back to bed, I reviewed what had engulfed my stress for the nine weeks prior: OU SCUBA.

“Did you know SCUBA is actually an acronym?”: the only thing I actually knew about it going into the class.

Our first day was like an episode of "1000 Ways to Die"—SCUBA edition. The instructors sat us down and told us anything and everything that could go wrong while we’re diving. Like how your skin could fall off, or how you could get bubbles in your blood and your skin would fall off, or how the bends would make your skin gross right before you died, or how a shark could come up behind you and tear all of your skin off.

Then we signed a release form.

I immediately called my expert diver boyfriend crying.  We had planned a big dive trip to the Dutch Caribbean with his family for Christmas break, but I wasn’t about to go near any water after this first class.

Somehow, I managed to make it to the swim test.

And to the next class.

And to the next pool lab.

And I kept going back, learning something new every time, going out of my comfort zone every time.

The next nine weeks of class gave us more information and practice in the pool than any other introductory SCUBA training I’ve ever heard of. We learned a lot of badass techniques that most divers don’t know—like different kinds of dives, swimming to the bottom of the pool and clearing our mask (getting the water out) all in one breath. We learned how to dive down, gear in hand, and put it all on underwater.

The instructors were total characters, but they also helped you keep calm, while pushing you to push yourself. I have never had a professor genuinely care so much about my success in a class.

At the beginning of pool labs, I was struggling getting my ears to clear on my way to the bottom of the pool—if you don’t clear your ears, the pressure builds up, and the pain is unbearable. My instructor brought me solution for swimmer’s ear the next day.

One instructor had me pushing myself harder than I ever had before. He couldn’t believe how horrible I was at holding my breath.  (which, was actually quite horrible.)

“Are you an athlete?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m a runner.”

“Then why do you have no lung capacity to hold your breath?”

“Because when you’re running, you’re allowed to keep breathing.”

We figured out my incapacity to hold any air in my lungs was directly correlated to my incapacity to relax longer than a half second. (Picture me underwater: I’m the guy from Accepted who they finally get to meditate when they put him in a straight jacket.)

“Relax,” he’d tell me. Until I practiced just sitting at the bottom of the pool and letting myself forget that I couldn’t breathe, I was very horrible at relaxing.

It’s funny to me how often many people, upon finding out I was taking SCUBA diving, responded so very cynically. “Oh, I would never take that class. I’m too scared.”

The irony of their responses is that my reason for taking SCUBA diving is exactly that. I was scared. I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to push myself well beyond my comfort zone. I wanted to poop my wetsuit.

I wanted to let myself relax.

And I’ll admit, I had to go into the aqua center a couple times outside of class to practice sitting at the bottom of the pool.

It sounds ridiculous, but I got so good, in fact, that the lifeguards were on the edges of their seats, praying they wouldn’t have to come in after me.

The final consisted of a written test and a pool test. And then we had the option to head to Florida for a check out dive to get our certification. (Well, hell yeah I’m going to take an opportunity to be excused from my classes and go to Florida in November.)

If you had told me in August that I would be SCUBA diving through pitch-black caves in just a couple months, I’d have called you a liar.

But there I was, kickin’ it with the manatees.

Taking SCUBA diving at OU isn’t for everyone. But everyone should take a course that scares the skin off of them. Whether you are a macho dude who’s taking Women’s Gender Studies or you’re an arachnophobe taking Spider History (that’s not actually a course), everybody should be pushing themselves beyond that box called comfortable that we like to live in.

My trip to the Caribbean was the greatest of my life. I dove 100 feet underwater to see the remnants of a shipwreck. I swam through beautiful reefs. I got to ask rainbow fish what it was like to star in every child’s favorite book.

I learned more about myself in SCUBA diving than any other class I’ve ever taken in college. And I couldn’t have done it if I hadn’t let myself get a little scared.

*This story was published in the opinion section of The Essay Magazine. 

people observation #25: Row Mans & Relation Ships

Notice the gum on my cup. I have
 no intention of chewing that later.

I'm currently sitting at a Starbucks window seat in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Coffee shop window seats provide prime location for people watching. One can eavesdrop to ongoings inside, but also watch some awesome people outside. I find a great deal of enjoyment in inventing stories for passersby.

Whenever I see people going on jogs, I pretend it's actually because he or she is running from the next jogger behind them, and depending how soon this next jogger comes, I determine if the first jogger makes it where he or she was going safely.

A Jeep pulls up to a man on the corner and asks for directions. I pretend the man giving directions takes them on a five mile detour passed his small sandwich shop he just opened up, because he's all about nonchalant and passive advertising, pun intended.

The longer I stare out the window, the more complex my stories get.

The person standing right outside the window from me is dressed fairly well. He's bald with decently stylish glasses, but he also has his septum pierced, a very thick metal hoop through both nostrils, with a two iron balls the size of large peas on the ends. I imagine he's a generally conservative fellow who, in a phase of self-searching, dated a free spirited hippie-chick a couple years back that made him do it, and now, he being the low-risk individual he is, is afraid to remove the metal out of fear that it's actually holding his entire nose together. He can make that excuse all he wants, but when he's really being honest with you, he'll confide that it brings back good memories of that strange, strange girl.

As Pandora picks my playlist, I pretend that anyone with headphones on is listening to the same song as me. (Unless they're wearing Beats by Dre. Then they're just sooo hardcore, and I couldn't imagine what explicit Jam they're pretending they wrote. But because the only headphones I could find are the jumbo and ear-sore inducing ones that came with my iPhone, I'm also kind of jealous of anyone's squishy Beats earpad.) Whenever a mildly embarrassing song comes on, I take out my headphones to make sure nobody can hear.

What is the most interesting to watch out the window and inside of Starbucks are the couples. Love is fun to observe, and I can also get the most creative with my stories. An elderly couple passes holding hands. I pretend they are both widows, but fell in love at a local church's BINGO night six years ago and despite the rarity of falling in love so late in life, they have become best friends.

 As a college couple passes, I lock eyes with the girl. She grabs her boyfriend's hand. I thought about hissing at her, just for dramatic effect, but I decided that their relationship is really struggling because she has jealousy problems and he has intimacy issues, and they didn't need some makeupless, messy-bunned, Starbucks writer who's had to pee for thirty minutes but doesn't want to leave her MacBook in an unknown place coming between them.

I watch co-ed groups pass and it seems that I just naturally divide them into couples. If there's an odd number of individuals in the group, I joke to myself about third and fifth wheels. Poor Bryan, he's going through a rough break up and the only thing he could find to do today is hang out with his bros and their clingy girlfriends.

But really, relationships are so weird. We naturally just put so much complexity into them. I mean, no, relationships may not be as simple as a random stranger creeping through the window having the ability to dissect then point out all strengths and weaknesses of a relationship in one passing, but they aren't as difficult as we make them out to be. Reading Cosmo may make me want to buy every single color in the Kardashian OPI line, but I refuse to believe that my boyfriend is cheating on me because he bought me flowers. And when it tells me that a guy's liking of the rounder parts of a woman is directly proportionate to his need to be hegemonic and controlling, I'm going to take it with a grain of salt.

Girls are the worst at over-analyzation. A girl angry at her boyfriend, when asked if something is wrong, may answer "I'm fine," When she is (woah, curveball) not actually fine.  And girls, when a guy says he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't have problems with speaking up or knowing what he wants or a fear of admitting the truth or just an overwhelming feeling because this girl is just the greatest girl he's every met, he probably just doesn't want to talk.

I initially sat down at this Starbucks to write my Gender and Politics paper, a review of several journal excerpts of university studies about masculinity's role in romance. One can study it as much as they want, but when it comes down to it, I think romance is a pretty simple thing. It comes in different forms for everyone, but every single person on this planet likes when they feel special because someone's expressing a care for them. Romance is necessary for first dates. It's necessary for marriages of fifty years. Of course, it evolves and a relationship's definition of what a romantic act is changes through time, as is one different for each couple.  But without it, a relationship will fall apart.


I like to think that Valentine's Day is stupid because we should be romantic and do special things for the one's we love more than one day out of the year. But that being said, time takes advantage of us, and all of a sudden it's been a month since we did something thoughtful for the person that we care about. It's nice to have a designated day to remind us about why we fell for that weirdo on the other side of the bed in the first place.

Two pieces of advice to leave with:
     1. Do thoughtful things. Going out of your way to do something nice for someone is so great.
     2. Don't be annoying about relationships. Just be honest. Don't make it so complex.

Also, when you're watching people through the Starbucks window and making up life stories for them, which I'm sure everybody does, I'm sure is completely normal, try to look at people and find positive things about them. It's very self-esteem boosting when you're being kind to others, even just in your thoughts.

Thanks to Instagram for making me feel like I can take cool pictures. 

people observation #24: buckle up

Grandpa drove a black Blazer before he gave it to my brother. From the time Sean got this black Blazer and until I graduated high school, every time we'd get in the car I'd say the same thing to him: "Whatever you do, don't kill me." It probably had something to do with my 54 memories of brushes with death in  the same car. What do I mean? Grandpa never got in any accidents, but he was one of the worst drivers I ever rode with.

My family used to joke about how my grandpa left accidents behind him as he ignorantly putted down the road. 


The more I think about it, the less funny it became, because he probably actually did in fact leave accidents in his wake.

You know the scene in Toy Story 2 where the toys are trying to cross the street to Al's Toy Barn and they travel via traffic cone? The toys cause mass confusion with all of the drivers left on the road. Mr. Potato Head's shoe gets stuck in a piece of gum as a giant cement cylinder, which has fallen off a truck in the scene, almost squishes him. The scene concludes with an establishing exit shot of mass commotion in the road, honking, Disney-style cursing, shaking fists. The cars are turned in all directions, not sure what to do or where to go.

My grandpa was the toys. My grandpa was Mr. Potato Head.

Even from a young age, I knew that he was a bad driver. I'd grab the 'We'reAllGonnaDieHandle' in panic, as if that would provide any safety as a wreck became imminent.

Once Sean and I were driving with him on the highway; I don't actually remember where we were going, but I do remember after a couple miles of his right blinker on, a failure to notice a speed bump at forty miles an hour, the six feet jump we took through the air, and the scariest merge onto 161 that I had ever experienced, he was doing something else against the law. We see a cruiser flash on his blue and reds, and grandpa pulls over, well kind of. He pulled over on an exit ramp.

Stay cool, Erin. I grew nervous as the Highway Patrol man walked over with his little pad and paper.

"How's your driving record?" He asked my grandpa.

With a mild shake of his head, "Beautiful," Grandpa replies.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?

People are awful at admitting what they aren't capable of behind the wheel. There's that trite joke that says 80% of people think they're above-average drivers, but really, it's actually true.

Have you ever been the passenger of a car where you had no control over the fact that your driver was completely ill equipped? If your life is not flashing before your eyes because said driver's wreckFULL driving, your eye is twitching because they didn't put on their turn indicator for the last three turns. Whenever in the latter situation, I usually mouth a "sorry" to cars that we pass. I suppose when in the former I'm too busy holding on for dear life.

If there's one thing to be learned from realizing you're in the passenger seat of a lunatic driver, it's exactly what not to do. Please use your turn signal. Please don't come to a complete stop before making a simple turn. For godsakes wear a freaking seatbelt. Remember, driving slow on the highway is probably more dangerous than driving fast.

And lastly, whatever you do, don't kill me.

people observation #23: my dog ate my jump drive

It's always easy to tell the difference between a good and a bad excuse.

Keep in mind, by good excuse I mean one of those rare, but real ones. "Sorry I didn't make it to work, but my car broke down and I had no means to get there" is a good excuse; life has given you lemons and you're trying your best to make lemonade.

By bad excuse, I mean the excuses that people come up with so they can take the blame off of themselves. (The psychological world calls this a defense mechanism.. and wikipedia calls it a psychological projection).

There's the projecting of blame to inanimate objects: "My alarm didn't go off"

Then there's something that's a blatant lie:"Sorry I don't have the assignment..insert something about your dog eating your homework here"..along those lines, there's also the dead relative bit. This one is frustrating because nobody with half of a heart is going to want to question the legitimacy of such an event. That being said, one's grandmother can only die so many times.

Chances are it's probably your fault. Most of the time you're late because you didn't allocate yourself enough time to get there. Your work is half-assed or incomplete because you're lazy, and the office plant's critical condition isn't because the room temperature is set to Antarctica, it's because you forgot to water it.

One day, I woke up way too late for work. Somewhere in the jumble of brushing my teeth, packing things into my purse, and sniffing the armpits of my Lifetime Fitness uniform then deciding the stench will do, I left the lock off of my pepper spray, and got it all over my hands. During my fifteen minute commute, I  went to unknowingly wipe my (still sleepy) eyes and the burn began. I pulled into a neighborhood nearby and proceeded to pour what was left in my Nalgene all over my face.

Looking at the scenario, one would probably take this as a horrible chain of events. I, however, found myself slightly optimistic at the time. I now had an excuse for my lateness to work. I called my boss in my state of panic screaming "Suzanne!I'llbeacoupleminuteslateI'vejustpeppersprayedmyself!" I felt bad. I told my boss that I had gotten mace in my eye, when really, I'd have been late either way.

I'm not saying that there aren't greater forces sometimes at work. Sometimes stuff happens that we can't control. Mace in the eyes happens. Shit happens, and I smell what you're stepping in. I'd suggest just watch for the times when our excuses are cheap.

I would invite you to take a look at the excuses you've been making lately and really dive in to which ones are legitimately beyond your control and which ones are phony.

In the words of Chamillionaire: "Stop making excuses... If women take his money, he gonna tell ya he slipped off his sleeve, whatever your weakness, stop making excuses please. You should not be in couch or in house, you should be in route." Poetic.

people observation #22: There is no reason I don't like Halloween. I just don't.

This is my Halloween Post. God, I'm festive. The only problem is that I hate Halloween. Love pumpkins. Love cider. Love dressing up as some cultural reference for the sake of sarcastically making fun. Hate, however, Halloween. Why? I'm not quite sure. Because I used to love it a lot, and that might be the thing. I love Halloween age 2-12, not age 17-now. (OU Halloween information from thePost.)

When your crafty mother can make your fifth grade Christopher Columbus project into the most life-like paper doll in history using just a glue gun and some felt, Halloween is just another time to exemplify her arts and crafts expertise. Growing up, I had the MOST original and homemade costumes. At age three I was a cow with a fever for more cowbell. My brother was a robot made out of spraypainted cardboard and those silver tubes you find behind the dryer. I was a cat with ridiculously lifelike features. My brother was a homemade ninja turtle (like most five year olds circa 1992) with big felt feet and a half-shell backpack. Our jack-o-lanterns weren't just triangle-eyed simpletons; they were perfectly carved and beautifully glowing Bert and Ernies (gotta tip my hat to my equally-creative pops on this one).

I'm a mouse, duh.

So Halloween was really fun. It was the ultimate nostalgia. The way it should be. Costumes should be homemade. Jack-o-lanterns should be carved without using a stupid stencil.

But then we get older and all of a sudden Halloween is an excuse for boys to dress like penises and women to dress like the occupation they want to be if that occupation's uniform made drastic changes, i.e., Cops who've seem to have lost their pants, nurses with stethoscopes stuck in their cleavage, or a referee wearing knee-highs and heels.

My roommate Sarah and
her twin sister Liz ca.1995

Erin, Erin, Erin, the boys say, why are you so against this beautiful display of the female population?

Really boys, I'm all for sluttin' around (sarcasm), but I think it's because I liked Halloween when I was a little kid. Maybe I just feel betrayed.

I've seemed to have found a Halloween kid in the decorations and excited eyes of my roommate Sarah. She comes from a family of crafty nostalgics as well, I suppose she's just taken the hold on to that nostalgia route rather than be a cynic. I could learn a lesson or two from her.

Me, pumpkin, with some Green Monkeys, and my
friend Lizzy, Spongebob, on Halloween 2009.

And I will say that OU Halloween is unique in its block party, and the fact that homemade and creative costumes are very much celebrated. Some of my favorites from years past include the characters from UP, a LEGO man, and the Green Monkeys from Legends of the Hidden Temple.

Nevertheless, people will still buy their costumes from some overpriced website, and they'll still be made out of a cheep fabric. Dorothy is still going to turn into a huge slut in ruby red slippers, and some dude will go as a Dick in a Box, very creative bro. People will still crowd court street, maybe holding on to the Halloween from their childhood's (of course with a little more beer and a  little less candy). I, however, will be working a double.
------------

On a lighter and less-bitter note, and in spirit of the holiday, I love this show:

Goodbye Bologna; the story of a steak-loving woman, and her venture into vegetarianism

It all began the summer after my sophomore year of high school. It was my first summer as a nanny. One rainy day we decided to go to the cinema down the street, where they were playing a free screening of Charlotte's Web, not the cartoon one, the real-life people one with an innocent Dakota Fanning (pre-Twilight, post-War of the Worlds) and animal voices played by Oprah, Reba and Julia Roberts. Everyone knows the story: Dakota's character, named Fern, forms a bond with a special pig named Wilbur who forms a bond with a spider who forms a bond with her webbing to bond together letters and the whole town bonds with the curly-tailed snout face. Call me eccentric, but I, too, bonded with the babe. I made a decision to never touch pork again. And with the exception of a quick relapse Spring quarter, 2010 (a piglet Dark Age), and a mild surrender to the temptation of the Nacho-Flavored Slim Jim, I have not eaten it since.

So the sixteen year old Erin did her research and learned a lot about the Pork industry. Pigs are actually intelligent animals. They rank up in the brain department with Apes and Dolphins, and have learned how to get out of their gates, because they actually understand their future and its nonexistence.

We can now get the hog-hugging hippie moment out of the way, and make room for the more rational Erin to explain where she went from here. I swear it's legitimate.

I started realizing exactly what I wasn't realizing at the time: I wasn't aware of the food that I was feeding myself with. When the "I'm hungry" thought came into my mind, I was satisfying it with whatever I was craving instead of being cognitive of the different food groups and nutrients I was getting.

To be more aware of the things I was putting into my body, I made a priority in adding vegetables and fruits to every meal. I realized how great I felt when I drank enough water. To take it a step further, I stopped including meat by looking to other sources of protein like beans, and if I did have meat with my meal, I didn't make it my main dish. "Okay, now I'm eating a vegetable, now I'm adding a fruit to my meal..."

If there's one thing you should know it is that I absolutely love meat. I was never a lean-meat kind of girl, I didn't enjoy low in fat meat like grilled chicken and deli-turkey. I liked bacon. I loved beef jerky. My mouth watered at the thought of filet mignon. I mean, you know what they say: "There's nothing like a big, juicy hot dog to ease your troubles after a bad break-up."

What do I miss most of all? Plain white bread with a piece of bologna on it.

To start, I designated two days a week as "meat days" where I could include it in my meal. This was especially helpful for days when someone was cooking for me, or going out to eat, because i didn't have to be that girl that needed the special dish. I didn't want to seem picky or needy or high-maintenance.

Eating meat twice a week provided me with thinking out-of-the-deli with the food that was on my plate. Variety was the key. I knew I wanted my plate to have color; fruits, legumes, and vegetables were the place to get it. (Here are some great Vegetarian Recipes.)

Eventually, I no longer craved meat. It became easier and easier to omit it from my plate. And eventually, I started to feel good. Really good. I had more energy, my workouts proved more successful, and I wasn't sick nearly as much. My brother and I once stumbled across Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead on Netflix, a documentary that tells the story of a man who was eating nothing but junk and started on an all-natural juice diet. He was amazed with the way he felt.

The last time I had meat was Christmas dinner in a last hoorah before I endeavored into what would be my New Year's Resolution: no meat for one year. It was filet mignon and it was delicious. I thought it would be hard to go for a year without eating meat, but I have really enjoyed it, and I'm pretty sure I will keep at a vegetarian diet.

"But Erin, you're just one person. How do you think you will ever make a difference?" Vegetarianism is becoming so widespread that it is actually starting to make an impact on the industries it fights against. I am constantly finding more arguments towards a vegetarian or semi-vegetarian diet. It's much better for the environment, for the world population, and for YOU when done right. I'm not telling you to go vegetarian, but I am encouraging you to be more conscious of what you're putting into your body. Hell, I could be a vegetarian and eat nothing but cheese pizza and fries. That defeats the purpose. Don't focus on what meat is the main dish, focus on colors, variety, fruits and vegetables.. I promise you'll feel better.

If you decide feeling good or eating healthy or not being bloated all the time isn't "your thing" then I encourage you to have a little more respect for us vegetarians. Most of us don't do it just because we believe "animals are people too". Most of us enjoy taking care of our bodies. I first started out being afraid to be high-maintenance when it came to my diet. But eventually I got over that. I am allowed to be picky when it comes to taking care of myself.

people observation #21: I'm a birthday cynic, and your birthday doesn't matter.

Today is September 21, and it's also my 21st people observation.

My big 21st birthday is coming up in November... and it doesn't matter.

I've always been a cynic when it comes to birthdays, getting colder to the idea of them the older I get.

Look, there are 365 days in a year, a number far less than the amount of people in this world. Chances are a birthday is going to fall on the same date as someone else's birthday. Or perhaps, your birthday may fall on the same day as an event, or a moment in history. Why in the world do people think that this is significant?.. at all? My favorite is when a date is brought up at a meeting or some other date-bringing-up occasion, and someone from the back of the room finds it necessary to yell, "that's my cousin's daughter's boyfriend's sister's birthday!" wtf.

People expect special treatment on their birthdays. Like, because it's my birthday the world needs to completely cater to me? No! Because it's my birthday, I shouldn't have to work. I shouldn't have to wake up and be on time to class. I shouldn't have to help out these people who are currently depending on me.

I have a friend Joe who doesn't like the idea of one designated day to tell someone we care about them. Why don't we tell people we care about them all the time? I make a point to tell him often that I'm glad he's alive. Not just on his birthday, but the other 364.25 days in the year. Or things like "belated" birthdays. Just tell the person you care about them. I shouldn't have to apologize for forgetting to post on your Facebook wall on your birthday. How about I post on your wall and keep in touch with you all other days out of the year? Better yet, let's have a conversation in person.

Jimmy Johns has always done such a great job at providing my eyes with activity as I enjoy my #6Vegetarian. Signs cover the walls. My favorite is "free smells."

But the other day I saw a sign that gave a list of 16 life lessons. Number six reads, "Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance." Number 14 reads, "Your friends love you anyway." And number eleven says, "There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age 11."

people observation #20: customer service, please serve us.

I am currently sitting in the health center getting a check-up, and experiencing the inevitable frustration with the system that is the campus clinic.

Clinic: we all know the connotation associated with this word. In the same way the word moist just seethes off the tongue if you're a girl, the word clinic really makes us cringe. We could go for a more appropriately-connotated word, like "health center" to be more politically correct or we could say "infirmary" if this were Hogwarts, but regardless of what you call it, when you're at college, going to see a doctor is a nightmare to say the least. It's on my top-five places I'd least want to be in Athens (probably somewhere between the back of an OUPD squad car and the bottom of the Hocking.)

It's as if clinics were designed for inefficiency. That's another blogpost, though, for another day. I do, however, give OU props for the changes they seem to be making to their health services. (Unless it's like the Pennsylvania turnpike, of course, and it's never actually finished with construction).

I sit here and listen to the nurses and technicians discussing something to be of great importance (gossip), and from below me the sounds of hammering vaguely make out the rhythm to Katy Perry's Firework as it plays on radio 105.5. There's some Japanese kids engaging in what I think is bickering somewhere close outside.

Because the first floor is getting new carpet or something, the clinic has been "temporarily" squished onto the second floor. Sidenote: The waiting room is divided with signs separating the sick people from the healthy. Like a smoking section in a restaurant, the flu-infected runny-nosed Sophomore won't affect you because you're sitting on the far east "healthy" corner of the room. Viruses can read too, you know.

So I have just passed through level one of the appointment.

Are you a Smoker? No.

Are you allergic to anything? No.

How tall are you? 5'5'' if I'm not slouching.

Your blood pressure reading is outstanding. I'm a bad ass.

Now I am sitting in the 2nd waiting period, as if the first awkward calling of the names isn't painful enough. Alright, Erin, Phase One complete. Why am I nervous? I feel like I'm sitting outside an audition. Boy, I sure hope I made the cut!

Because they're making renovations to the main entrance, people enter through whatever sidedoors and cracks in the walls they can find. I find myself sitting on an arbitrarily-placed bench in the hallway where I'm stuck between a green-faced girl in the fetal position on my left and a desk of nurses doing paperwork on my right. After memorizing the eye chart placed on the wall in front of me, and being informed that I can do my part in preventing the flu from the hand-washing PSA next to it, my mind starts to wander, and the eavesdropping begins.

Nurses' conversation seems to be dominated by the topic of several patients' confusion as they walk in side doors and attempt to find the waiting room with few, if any signs. Being in the position of these disoriented patients earlier that hour, I found myself empathetic to their situations. A student would walk up, give some rendition of the "is this where I check in?" and the nurses would explain to them that it was further down the hall. After each student would leave, the nurses would gripe about how irritated they were at the students for not knowing where to go. I began to lose patience, pardon my pun.

I started thinking about how many times this happens to us as people. We are in a different position than others, and forget that their experiences do not mirror ours. So when a student walks in to the clinic, already in a state of feeling thrilled to be there, they aren't necessarily going to know the remodeling situation let alone where they are suppose to go, even if there's an 8.5x11 Scotch-taped up to the door.

I see a student, stomach in hands, walk up to the desk and ask a nurse with stethoscope-wearing cats on her scrubs where she can find the check-in desk. Folks, don't be fooled by the cuddly sea-foam green felines on her attire. This lady snapped back with total sarcasm and cruelty to someone who was clearly a freshman (lanyard) and clearly ill, "you're in the wrong place!" She my as well had laughed in the patient's colorlessly clammy face and called them an a hole.

What happened here was the nurse failed to recognize that although several other patients had come in and asked similar questions, this particular bewildered student did not know those other kids. The nurses could have easily fixed this problem and put a sign up that said "check-in" with an arrow on it, but instead they proceeded to get ruder and ruder with every passerby. Instead, they chose to question the college kids' intelligence.

The thing is that this happens all the time. Everywhere. When you call the gym and ask if their hours will be cut short for the national holiday coming up, you don't know the other people calling in to ask similar forms of that question. When you walk up to the host's station at Red Lobster to ask how long their Saturday night wait is, you don't know that the seventeen-year old hostess had just answered that same question for a middle-aged man holding a screaming toddler just two minutes prior. When you ask the TWA officer at DFW whether or not it's alright to bring your ak-47 on board, who were you to know that there was just a recent ban on assault rifles on airlines?

My point is, when in the shoes of the gym representative (probably sneakers) or the hostess (probably dress shoes) or the nurse (crocs?), every person that comes to ask a question does not have the knowledge that you do, hence, the whole purpose of asking questions: in hopes for an answer. In a customer service position, one is to understand that they are providing exactly this, service to their customers.

I don't care if you are seventeen or seventy. I don't care if it's just a part time job you picked up for a couple extra bones. I don't care if you're stuck working this job for the rest of your life and you're miserable.

The ability to understand things from the perspective of other people is crucial to literally everything. What I learned today in the clinic is that when people keep coming up asking some form of the same question, realize the only thing that can be done is flash that million-dollar customer-service smile and answer their questions. I also learned that washing your hands is important. Do that too.

Eventually, I made it passed the check point and into phase two of my appointment. I sat on the cold crinkly paper rolled out over the table. The doctor had me take deep breaths as she listened to my heart and lungs.

"Are you allergic to anything?" She asked.

"No," I replied, shaking my head in disappointment. Stupid doctor. Doesn't she know I already answered that to somebody else?