Remembering the good

I never got my senior yearbook.

It was something like $65 at the time. And I thought that was astronomical. It kind of was.

I didn't like asking my parents for money with the whole impending college thing, and I had a $6.85/hour job but spent all of my money on chipotle and gasoline. Gas was $4/gallon at the time and I drove a Jeep Wrangler for the better part of my senior year, which just guzzled the guzz out of it.

I was pretty involved in high school. Choir, cabinet, TI, theatre. I worked with the superintendent on a huge presentation. I was voted Most Outgoing. I should have cared, but I just didn't then.

I'm sure I rationalized not getting one in some way or another — maybe I'd just eventually marry my senior crush and we could share.

At the time, I think I wanted to just get out of there.

As it turns out, I am not marrying my senior crush. (For the record, thank Jesus.)

And so, a half-inch size slot on my bookshelf remained empty.

But nearly a decade later, the fact that I never had it made me really sad. I'd never even seen the thing. And as people from my school started living their stories — some really tough, others deeply beautiful — I realized the longer I waited to track it down, the harder it'd be to ever see it.

I emailed my wonderful guidance counselor who sifted through storage and tracked it down for me. It was nice to catch up with him, and see that he's still there doing great things. He even shipped it to my house. (Sidenote: Who knew all I had to do was wait seven years and I'd get it for free.)

I found the book on my doorstep a few days later.

Naturally, the first thing you do is look for yourself, so I opened it and went to my photo.

I looked like hell.

A memory came back that they'd decided you had to use their in-school photographer instead of everybody's senior portraits, and so I'd actually never seen my photo. I was in that awful greenish stage between dying my hair brown and fixing it back to its natural blonde. And I hadn't quite figured out what to do with my cowlick.

I flipped to the choir page. Buncha sophomores.

Went to the cabinet page. I'd missed the meeting on picture day.

Turned to the big panorama of my entire class, thinking I don't remember all crowding into the gym to take a senior photo. That's because I wasn't there that day.

Was this a conspiracy?

As I kept flipping, I was reminded about how much I'd grown since then. How much my heart had grown. And I was really, truly proud of the pages that I did appear on. Speaking about character to underclassmen at a Teen Institute retreat. Working on Verve, our student magazine, where I first discovered my passion for storytelling.

It was as if the universe wanted me to remember the good stuff, and forget the bad.

I smiled.

I flipped through class photos and pointed out people to my fiancé. My best friends Lucas and Maddie, of course. But also people who surprised me.

"She was in choir with me. Made me laugh so hard every day."

"He was an amazing artist. Brilliant designer."

"Some of my favorite conversations happened with her in AP Calculus."

I wanted him to know about these people — these incredible people — the ones who've made lasting imprints on my heart, even though I hadn't talked to them in years.

The little things — the day-to-day things. The little, positive bites of memory are the things I end up cherishing the most.

This is the only photo I could find from HS journalism class. Notice giant 'Yearbooks for Sale' sign above my head. I had no excuse.

A story about poop

Those who know me know there is nothing that gets my blood boiling more than litter.

"Oh, no, she's said the word ... here we go guys." - those who know me.

It's not just the very act of littering, which, of course, is an effing horrible thing to do — you know, the whole completely disregarding the planet and the wildlife who live in it thing.

It's the people who have the nerve to litter that really rankle me.

What I hate most is this: the mentality that throwing a piece of trash somewhere is actually an acceptable behavior.

Because what kind of mentality must you have to not only overlook the environmental damage you're making, but even just to blatantly shirk the general landscape of the place that you live. And to think that your tiny contribution to a bush's litter-to-leaf ratio would not add up to a greater, larger, more devastating, ecosystem-ruining and human-life-as-we-know-it-ending problem is pure self-regard.

And it's not just this one thing, littering, in a person's psyche that makes them do that. In fact, I believe littering is just a symptom of a more horrible psychological problem — one psychologists like to refer to as narcissism. It's a problem that plagues this nation, and it's this tragedy of the commons that makes driving on I-70 through Frackville, Ohio such a goddamn miserable experience.

To think that if you're finished with an item the best place it should travel next is in some bushes on the side of the road willy nilly, my god.

What kind of people litter? The answer is garbage. Garbage people.

So that not-bitter litter rant brings me to my poop story.

On my dog, Pete, and my usual walk this morning, we waited for a woman in a mini van to pull out of her driveway as she blocked the sidewalk waiting on traffic. (Don't worry guys, I waved her ahead and she waved back in appreciation. She's not the bad guy in this story.)

Pete clearly hadn't seen my little hand conversation with this nice woman, because he was very impatient, pulling from side to side as the 10 pounds I had on him worked its booty off to keep him in check.

She pulled away and we proceeded.

Then Pete pooped in her yard.

Almost as if to spitefully say, "I'll show you, slow van." (Of course not to say that. After all, he's a dog. Not a cat.)

Shit, I thought.

Not cuz he was, but because I'd forgotten the cute little plastic bone that goes on the end of his leash and is filled with little green biodegradable bags so I can be a good neighbor and also not leave crap around the world like I so passionately loathe. (Sidenote: Leaving poop in the woods or in a bunch of bushes is completely different than a 16 oz. styrofoam MegaFreeze cup on the side of the highway because fertilizer, biodegradation, etc.)

I felt horrible.

There it was.

Pete's steaming pile of stink.

Staring at me.

I looked around.

The giant dog at the end of his leash tugged on my wrist.

I'll finish the walk and put Pete in, then return with a bag and dispose of the waste, I thought.

We continued our walk.

We got closer to the baseball fields just down the street, a park where I usually let Pete sniff and pee.

We approached some bushes I have to pull Pete away from on a daily basis. They're filled with giant burrs that stick to his cotton-ball furr like bubble gum, and apparently they have the best smells.

I started to tug to keep him out of the bush. Until I saw it. Sitting right on top of the sticklers, practically floating with an angelic glow behind it. The voice of monks singing praises. There it was. A perfectly intact plastic bag.

I grabbed it with only the kind of joy a child feels when Santa brings exactly what she'd always wanted. I dusted it off. I held it high above my head.

Not today Garbage People.

Not. Today.

The things I wish I'd had the confidence to say in my first interviews

I sat in the interview for the major publication — a big newspaper for a big city and its big surrounding metro.

I was a 22 year old college senior, desperate for a place to go and write when I was finished with school, but with no real experience besides a handful of unpaid internships and an editorial position at an online student publication.

I didn't even want to write for this newspaper. I wanted to be a copywriter. But I suppose I figured I'd take this interview to get practice.

The editor sat across from me at a giant metal desk that took up two-thirds of the tiny, bare bones room they'd given him for the day to conduct interviews.

He'd come all this way to do some recruiting at our j-school. So there I was.

I shared with him some clips and attempted to charm (aka bullshit) the crap out of the editor.

"Well, unfortunately, we have all of our entry writing positions filled," he said, "And, we actually only hire Yale grads."

"Then why are you here?" I said.

"Why are you wasting my time?"

"Why are you wasting your time?"

Only I didn't say that. I didn't say any of that.

What I did say was nothing. Nothing memorable. I shrank into the itchy, woven chair I was sitting in that demanded slouching. The little confidence I did have deflated like a sad balloon.

-

I've heard horror stories about insane questions and hoop jumps interviewers ask of applicants. I guess It's not unusual that people holding interviews come across kind of … douchey.

But what I think interviewers forget is that just as they're interviewing an applicant for a right fit, applicants are also interviewing a job, a company, a culture, a boss.

But when you're 22 and the economy's in the toilet — especially the economy that hires WRITERS... with ZERO experience — you tend to lose sight of that fact. You put up with a douche bag or two.

I had seven interviews for a job once. Six on the phone. And for the seventh, they flew me down to meet the team. I left at 6am. The cab dropped me a mile away from the office. I walked to their high rise in 100 degree Texas heat in the middle of July.

I interviewed with the team for eight hours. They told me they liked me. They seemed cool. The work was copywriting. It wasn't the sexiest copywriting. But it was a start.

And in the final hour, the whole team and I met in a conference room for rapid fire insanity. "Do you ever cry at work?" "Are you scared of moving away from Ohio?" "Do you clash with people?"... DO I CLASH WITH PEOPLE? Like, if I did, I wouldn't tell you anyways.

You'd think I was going for a C-level gig. I wasn't.

I'd wished I'd had the cajones to tell them their interviewing was ridiculous. That they should know by now if they liked me or not. I wished I'd had the walk-away power to, well, walk away.


But I had no confidence.

None.

Yet, I did have work ethic. And I had proof from keeping a minimum wage job for seven years. I had an auto-sorting brain that created outlines as stories unfolded. I had a ginormous heart. And spirit. And I also had drive.

If I could do it all over, I'd forget the bullshit. Because that's all it is … bullshit.

I'd tell them straight up, "look, I don't have experience. But I can promise you that I will work my ass off. And I won't settle for good work. I won't stop until I've done great work. And I can't prove that until you give me a chance to."

And if it was a company who decided they'd want to string me along for seven interviews and ask me questions about how likely I was to cry at the office, I'd walk away.

Imagine my surprise when I interviewed at my current company and they were interested in my heart. And my years spent volunteering. And they were excited to invest in me as a writer. And show me what kind of stuff we'd be doing as a team.

Our graphic designer and my now great friend applied to a position at our company right out of college that required 5-10 years of experience. In her interview she was honest and passionate (and had a kick ass portfolio which helped.) She told us straight up, "Obviously I don't have ten years of experience, but I do have raw talent. And I know I'll do great work."

And we were sold. Our CEO and creative team created a position for her. And now she's kickin ass.

Honesty in interviews, imagine that. That's no bullshit.

No judgment. No problem.

As I stood there waiting to hand my ID and boarding pass over for the TSA agent to scan, he looked down at my shirt. 

It was a white Nike tank with a pinkish filtered photo of stairs on it. "No Gym. No problem," it said.

"That's my motto," the TSA agent said.

I looked at his heavy build. He was big — at least 300 pounds. He stood at the counter, his chair a good foot away from him, but I immediately thought his comment to be sarcastic. I thought thoughts no one should think. I questioned my purchasing the shirt, not realizing no gym, no problem could also be interpreted as, "I'm fine just never going to the gym" or "I'm fine just sitting on my ass all day and never doing any physical activity. No gym? No problem. Fine by me!"

All those thoughts pouring in a matter of milliseconds.

I snapped out of confusion as he scanned my information and I gave him a smile, thinking about how much of a smart ass he was for that comment.

"It's that very logic that's gotten me to where I am today," he said, "I used to be twice this size."

Wow.

He continued, "It's that kind of thinking — that the world is your gym — that's gotten me moving, and has kept me going."

"Wow!" I exploded. "That is so awesome! Keep up the good work!" I was so inspired.

But in my head I felt so ashamed, for immediately jumping to "he must be using sarcasm."

I have always had a strict no judgment rule when at the gym or on a track or in a race — or when just generally seeing a person who was working on their health. Because you can't see an overweight person going on a walk and think, "they should really do something about that overweight problem," obviously, because they are.

But why stop there? That's total bullshit. Because we don't know everybody's stories. We really don't know where they are or what they've been through.

If I had lost 200 pounds, but still had work to go, I'd want everybody to know. I'd shout it from the rooftops, "I KNOW IT ISN'T OBVIOUS BUT I'VE COME SO FAR!"

But at the same time, I would have grown so much patience, and quiet confidence and perseverance. Things I often struggle with.

I could have hugged that man that day. I can't imagine the kind of pride he must have, and I think about him often. No gym no problem likely saved his life.

When I think I'm in a rut, or I'm not noticing any differences in my speed or weight lifted or ability, I think about him.

When an athlete I look up to breaks a PR and I know I will never have that kind of speed, I think about him.

When the people I love finally understand what I mean when they experience a new level of health, I think about him.

Everybody's journey looks different, but most people never know how good their bodies were made to feel. He's on his way there. And he's proud.

We were meant to find our own gyms. And they don't all look the same. Fitness isn't the same for everyone. Perfect form is relative.

There's another great Nike line: There is no finish line.

Great, because the finish line is always moving forward with you. It's dynamic and different for every person.

No gym. No problem.
Just freaking do it.

Yesterday

"I could be in Bora Bora by now."

There's something about airports that makes everybody savages.

All of a sudden we lose all perspective and immediately wherever you're going becomes so much more important than where anybody else is going.

I once saw a woman ask if she could get in front of a man in the security line because her plane was boarding and the man replied with, "I have a plane to catch too." I then saw him at my gate. For my plane. And I was two hours early.

I usually try way too hard to be exceptionally friendly and abnormally patient. I thank every employee. I let people in front of me in line even when they don't ask. Because I'm grossly nice. Like, disgustingly nice. But today I hit the end of my airport patience rope.

Two words: Stand by.

I fly a lot. I spend way too much money on airfare. So when a Southwest airlines employee who's a friend of my family gave me the opportunity to use a standby pass for free I took him up on his offer.

But I didn't think flights would be so full and I'd spend hours waiting to make flights. Even, worse I didn't know I'd be treated like the scum of the airport.

Empathy and good manners can only help so much when employees have no interest in helping you. That capitalized NON-REVENUE on my ticket was my scarlet letter. And no please and thank you rainstorm was going to get me out of this one.

I sit in the Seattle airport praying for the misfortune of others as flights fill up with paying customers — a slow TSA employee, a missed connection, the adorable drug dogs I'm not allowed to pet to find something in someone's bag, an alien abduction. "Please, God, anything. One can only watch so many miserable retirees who hate their spouses lose patience with each other. I know you like me more than them. That's how prayer works, right?"

The only thing that is getting me through this incorrigible experience is the families I've seen. I could watch five year olds who can't sit still excitedly squirm in uncomfortable airport chairs for hours.

Twenty four hours ago, when I was waiting to get onto my original flight, a great family sat next to me. The children — two, probably aged six and eight — were so genuine and polite and excited and well-spoken. They laughed with their grandparents and listened to each others' stories. None of them had pads or tabs or airs or beats. Just conversation. And it was so refreshing.

I didn't even care when the little boy playing with grandpa accidentally ran over my Quiznos with his roller suitcase.

He apologized.
It was still delicious.

After a handful of full airplanes and cries on the phone to my boyfriend, I make a flight to Baltimore 27 hours after my initial attempt. I'm just thankful I got the heck out of one airport, even if it means spending more time in another before heading to Pittsburgh.

"This is all to get to effing Pittsburgh?"

As I'm double checking with the fifteenth Southwest employee of the day and first one in Baltimore what my odds are looking like for getting home, I think about the rollercoaster of emotions I'd experienced in the last twenty four hours. (Pardon my cliche.) I'd gone from sad-to-leave-Seattle to a "we'll get them next time" optimism and on to complete and utter hopelessness. At this point in Baltimore, I'm just feeling numb. Just a "whatever happens, man" kind of way.

I'm not interested in smiling at the employees or really even having any friendliness. I'm simply exhausted.

But as the PIT-bound flight starts to load, a middle-aged man who's missed his connecting flight starts screaming at the employee at the counter next to me.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN I HAVE TO PAY FOR MY OWN HOTEL?! THIS IS YOUR FAULT. I FLY SO OFTEN AND NEVER HAVE I EVER EXPERIENCED SUCH BULL SHI* AS WITH SOUTHWEST. YOU GUYS ARE F***ING A** HOLES."

F bomb. F bomb. F bomb.

"I am canceling your flight in the morning, sir. You will have to find another flight home."

Man doesn't comprehend that he just got himself kicked off his flight and walks away screaming. He's going to have a great morning.

"How are you doing?" the employee asks me.

"Better than him," I say.

I was being honest.

Yet at the same time, I know that my day had been three times longer than that man's. I'd been bumped back from eight total flights. I'd been talked down to by employees all day long. And yet here I was. Certainly not cursing at anybody.

Patience is a real virtue. I sound like Master Po, but it's freaking true.
Nonetheless, you don't have to have patience to treat people with general respect, and not think others as less than yourself. You could be the most impatient person in the world, but never in a million years consider to call someone a name because you missed a flight.

It's nice to be able to make light out of a situation like that with the Southwest employees. "I'm so sorry you guys have to deal with people like that," I say. And I mean it.

"It's part of the job," they reply.

I sigh and thank them for all they do as the man who yelled before starts walking back up to ask another question, as if he hadn't just cursed them out. That's what happens when you think you're better than others. You think it's your right to scream at anyone and get away with it. And then nonchalantly ask a question as if nothing happened. You lose sight of the fact that these people you're screaming at have a little more authority than they let on.

If patience is a virtue, arrogance is its evil twin.

I cheer as my boarding pass prints, give it a big kiss and head to board the plane before I have to witness the man lose his mind again, doing heel clicks all the way down the jet bridge.

In the end, I got a round trip flight to Seattle for free. I got to spend an awesome weekend with my brother and an extra night in a pretty cool city. Flying non-revenue is a privilege I am thankful for, and I think I still came out on top.

32 hours later, I was headed home.

I like to go to movies by myself

Universal Studios, Gold Circle Films

After a long day at work yesterday with too many minutes spent getting upset about things that don't actually matter — curse those darn days when I forget perspective — I looked up show times for Pitch Perfect 2 at a red light on my way home. (Bad, I know. Don't check showtimes and drive, Erin.)

But hey! There was one starting at 6:30 at the theater five minutes away. And it was 6:30! I'd miss the previews, but show up just in time.

I entered the theater and ordered my ticket and a small popcorn — six popcorn kernels for $9.00 each. What a steal! I made a quick comment to the three teenage boys working the counter about how the minions version of sour patch kids was total bull shit — they're just yellow and blue blobs. They then informed me of all of the different sour candy scams, like the Jurassic Park Mike and Ikes that are literally just Tropical flavored Mike and Ikes. Again, bull shit.

Kevin's my favorite. So much sass.

I asked where the movie was, and one of the kids said, "It's going to be Theater number five on your right."

I went to my left before actually comprehending what he said, turned around and headed in.

The movie had already started, which made sense because I was a few minutes late. I was weird to me how the movie began with the Barden Bellas already at the Acapella World Championships in Copenhagen, but I figured perhaps the premise of the movie took place after college, where Anna Kendrick's character takes on post-collegiate 'capella or something.

Immediately pumped though. Awesome performances. (Won't give any spoilers.) But, wait ... who were these mean German people singing Fall Out Boy? And who was this other girl? I don't remember the little girl from True Grit being in this movie? Maybe I had forgotten a part or two from the first Pitch Perfect.

Or maybe, the movie was going to be made up of flashbacks. Everybody likes a good out-of-order story. They remind me of color-by-number pages where you don't get the picture until you've used all the colors. You fill in the holes until you have the whole picture. What a cool way to do it, I thought to myself. Bravo, Elizabeth Banks.

This color-by-number is so obviously a mariachi puppy.

They then initiated the girl from True Grit into their Barden Bellas, made her go through their rituals, and then the title sequence began.

Only it wasn't the title sequence.

It was the credits.

...

Yesterday I went to a movie that I thought started at 6:30pm, but it turns out I'd had checked showtimes for the wrong theater. The next showing of Pitch Perfect 2 wasn't until 7:45pm, and I'd watched the end of a 4:50 start. I walked out and joked with those three teens from before about how big of a doofus I am. I guess it happens all the time, they told me. But I think they were just being nice. Fortunately, they let my come back at 7:45 with my half-eaten bag of popcorn to watch the whole movie. Everything was much less confusing the second time around. Everything was in order. The German singers were still mean.

...

My friend Joe used to laugh about the concept of going to the movies in a big group. It's true that it's not exactly the most social of activities.

"Let's all sit in a dark room and not talk to each other," he'd say sarcastically.

And, for someone like me or him, who find great energy in conversations about both topics that don't matter and topics that matter a lot, going to the movies and not talking doesn't seem like much bonding.

But there are people who find comfort in spending time with people, not necessarily conversation. My boyfriend is one of those people. He feels close with people who he feels like he can be alone with. People he doesn't have to be "on" for.

I've mentioned before how much I like hanging out with myself. I enjoy being the kind of person who can sit at a lunch counter and enjoy a sandwich without having to have someone with me. Without having to stare at my phone.

Which means, that while I don't particularly enjoy going to movies with a big group of friends, I do enjoy going alone.

Since finding this joy, I've noticed how many other people do it, too. Seriously, next time you're at a movie, look around. I'm sure there will be tons of people there by themselves. And it isn't because they're creepy. It's because they like the movies. They like the big screen. They like getting a bag of $18 popcorn and just spending time with themselves. It's therapy.

You have to take yourself out sometimes. You have to love yourself, and to love your own company. Because you're the only person who's going to be with you everywhere you go.

And if, by chance, your favorite kind of alone time also happens to be in a movie theater, remember to always double check the show time. And never while you're driving.

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.