2015 Year in Review

Photo Credit: Fast Company

January
Grad school applications

February
Dead zone between applications and decisions
Refresh Grad Cafe over and over. And over. And over.

March
Accepted to 6/8 of schools
Decision: Georgetown

April
Give notice
Georgetown alum event
First run in years

May
Move back in with parents
Little sister graduates
Decide it's time to get fit
30 miles at 10:15 pace

June
First 6 mile run
46 miles at 10:01 pace

July
Sign lease on DC apartment
SF Marathon 5k
52 miles at 9:59 pace

August
Move to DC
Start grad school
Make new friends
67 miles at 9:40 pace

September
Georgetown Journal of International Affairs
First 7 mile run
Navy 5 Miler
43 miles at 9:12 pace

October
Grandma passes away
Midterms take hold
Ty's wedding
35 miles at 9:16 pace

November
Make it through midterms
Existential crisis over grad school
First Thanksgiving away from family
22 miles at 9:09 pace

December
Survive finals
First 8 mile run
Visit home
First 10 mile run
80 miles at 8:48 pace

A tumultuous year. Now to reap.

burnt sienna

Photo Credit: ygnaz

The day after Halloween is always a sad one. Walking down the street in a hungover haze, with last night's eyeliner smeared under my eyes, face paint caked under my fingernails, and a mound of responsibilities to get back to, the world seems less bright. The pumpkins have lost their grins, beginning to sag, some broken and chipped, others on their sides now having served their purpose.

And those beautiful autumn leaves that the sun shone through yesterday, that are responsible for color names like "sienna" and "currant," are just "brown" today. They crunch without satisfaction, sending dust into the air, but mostly lay lifeless, no indication of once being green or having experienced golden years.

Today, stores will pull out their ornaments and lights, prop up plush turkeys, and begin advertising those Black Friday. Soon, instead of candy corn frappes, it's pumpkin spice lattes and peppermint mochas. For me, it's some Thanksgiving blend coffee that tastes no different than a seasonless cup. And it shouldn't taste different, because nothing has empirically changed. Except it has.

The sun sets at 4:30, cans of sweet potatoes laden in sugar line the produce section, and an impending winter can't be ignored anymore. Flip flops are thrown to the back of the closet, pea coats flung on the bed to be dry cleaned, and windows shut at night.

plot points

“Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.” -Rumi

Yesterday, I watched the #SOTU. I considered doing laundry, considered taking a nap, but ended up at pilates instead. Earnest efforts are to be rewarded with gyros the next day.

Today, I re-read this Rumi quote and acknowledged that I did in fact - for most of my 20s - try to change the world in the exuberant way only pre-jaded adulthood can drive. I wasn't as keen on watering the other seeds in my metaphorical life's garden.

While busy attempting to find my super hero role, I somehow forgot to tend to the shoots cultivated by relationships, interests, and just basic down-time. I can write a mean petition, I can promote the hell out of a campaign, I can advocate for political prisoners, but I struggle to make it through a 60 minute yoga class.

Does this sound hopeless? I don't mean it to. In fact, I'm feeling more hopeful than I have in months. Talk therapy, biofeedback, and some new age-y methods have all culminated in this new, hopeful reality.

I'm heeding Rumi's advice now. To impact the world, especially my own world, I need to change myself. I will quiet my thoughts when they swirl, whirl, and twirl, like dervishes in the wind. I will embrace time when there's nothing to do but cast yarn. I will water those seedlings that have long thirsted for my care in hopes of offering the world more than just a one-off rose plucked from a single plot. Next time I decide to change the world, I'm going armed with an entire bouquet.

smells like bacon

There are some amazing cops out there for sure -- those who've helped me up when I've slipped on the street during a rainy day, those who've given warnings instead of tickets, those who've smiled and wished me a good day.

But let's be frank, there are just as many that - high or drunk on power - make it a point to puff out their chests and never fail to remind you who's got the key. Because, you know, they're in charge. Luckily, you can't actually get arrested talking back so I've escaped most of my negative police interactions relatively unscathed. And it's not as if I do anything to provoke police, usually.

There was that one time I got yelled at by police after sneaking past security tape surrounding the Hilton Ahmadinejad was staying during the 2009 UN General Assembly.  The NYPD wouldn’t let protesters get any closer to the Hilton than a space across across the street behind a metal barricade. The Hilton was surrounded by police officers, members of the IRI’s entourage, metal barricades, and two enormous garbage trucks, which effectively shut down the entire street.

It also effectively sparked the contrarian in me.

Because, you know, there's always more you can do to piss someone off.

So I snuck past the barriers with a messenger bag full of stickers I then proceeded to plaster across the bus stop in front of the Hilton. The agents standing outside the Hilton glared at me, pursed their lips, looked me up and down, eyeballed my stickers, shook their heads... I smiled at them graciously, offering them stickers demanding the UN hold Ahmadinejad accountable for human rights abuses. I even shook the hand of one of the agents, while he stared at my horrified.

Apparently the NYPD didn't appreciate this act of defiance against the new order dictator, because they politely requested I take my stickers and leave. As I ducked under the security tape, it started to rain. Torrentially. Down-pouredly. But I was so adrenaline filled I don't think I noticed for a few minutes.

I skipped happily away from the Hilton, back to the other protesters across the street, in my tiered black skirt, bright green "Free Iran" shirt, and same messenger bag. I felt lighter as I re-joined the group, maybe because I'd indulged the feelings of resistance. Or maybe, and more probably, because I'd used up the stickers in my bag.

back to the digital realm

When I deactivated my Facebook account six months ago, I never thought I'd go through an actual withdrawal. Like a real, honest-to-goodness, what do I do, OMG I'm panicking withdrawal.

Anytime I had something to say, I'd automatically move my cursor to the blank space in my bookmarks bar where the Facebook shortcut used to live. If I found a spare 30 seconds, my automatic instinct was to navigate to the biggest time suck I've ever encountered.

And I KNOW time sucks. LiveJournal, Xanga, Friendster, MySpace, Bored.com... I've been intimately acquainted with the concept of the time suck since the age of 12. It doesn't matter if it was reading bad fan fiction, writing bad fan fiction, or creating fan pages using Geocities' WYSIWYG, I found that I could make the long, boring summer hours of my pre-teen (ok, admittedly and part of my teen) years move a little (read: a lot) faster than I intended. Really, I don't blame my dad for putting a hard time limit on my computer time. 

Someone asked me recently "what do you like to do that when you look up, you realize hours have passed?" It gave me pause. The only answer I could think of was sleep. Because I love sleep. And naps. If I could make it a hobby, if I could list "napper" as my occupation, I think I'd fare better -- but as it is... I don't know anymore.

These days, I struggle to find things that I enjoy AND that involve sucking up time. Knitting is interrupted by completed rows. Binge watching TV is only fun for so long when your attention span has been ruined by the Internet. The gym eats up an hour. Maybe another hour doing errands. But ultimately, when you've spent the last 5+ years of your life working on the Internet (and intensely career-focused), you tend to lose the bits and pieces of yourself that you used to enjoy.

I did reactivate my Facebook account last night on a whim, curious as to what six months away from the platform would show me. My time away showed me that any addiction, when removed wholly, can be overcome. (That is a total crock of shit, I don't know if crystal meth works the same way). But the Facebook-less time got easier and easier, and soon I reconnected with friends I cared about... offline, on the phone, in person, at cafes, over dinner, whatever. 

Unfortunately, old habits die hard, as they (who??) say. Within minutes of reactivating my Facebook, I was updating profile information, adding new friends, deleting old ones, browsing pictures and status updates, making faces at dumb cat pictures, and abusing the F5 key. What can I say? I'm a social media, Internet, web platform junkie. I can admit it. 

But I can also admit that it just may be time to join that knitting group down the street. Maybe I can finish a scarf one day. Who knows. I'll buckle down and see. I might just find some pearls.

Happy New Year everyone! Here's to an awesome 2014. 

At least 2012 is divisible by 2

I wrote last year that the things I hoped 2011 would bring would include more jobs, less nuclear talk, ponies that rain from the sky, and dollar bills. It seems there are ten more jobs this year than last, so that is an improvement. The nuclear talk has only intensified, but maybe it's just an end of year election fad. I'm slowly finding and collecting (and keeping) the change under the couch, and despite a total lack of pony rain, the end of year momentum 2011 has blessed us with is what I hope will carry us strongly and happily through 2012.

And of course, how could we not acknowledge the amazingly brave people of Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, and Syria? (Not so much the majority of the occupy goop. Stop shutting down the ports please.)

So yay 2012. I like that you're an even number.

Ok, but why afternoon naps?

It's been quite a while since I bothered even logging into blogger -- namely because I've been alternating between work, life, and naps. And reading blogs. And more naps. Lots and lots of naps.

I'm not nearly as cute as the panda when I nap, just FYI.

So I like naps, as if you've probably figured out by now.

1. Naps are much less scary than committing yourself to 8 hours of unconsciousness
   
2. They usually happen in the middle of the day
   
3. ...usually in the middle of days that I'm avoiding something

QED: Naps are the human equivalent of "pulling the plug" (not in the vegetative state sense, but in the "OMG my computer froze I'm going to yank the cord!" sense).

reclaiming it all

 
It's been a weird, long, draining few weeks. Sink or swim.

So until I find a life-raft (or until Kate Winslet lets go), there's some big time reclaiming to do. I don't even care about the outcome right now as much as I do in ensuring that whatever the next phase of my life is, it will be under my own control. And if the current phase of life remains my current phase of life then... well, best wishes I guess.

In any case. Here's the reclaiming my life (at least day-to-day) script.

1. Yoga - Integral. I woke up and did 20 minutes of Yoga today after a lonnnnng time. Despite having to work at pushing the externalizes out of my head during down-dog, that I get time to at least not feel guilty pushing the to-dos and whose-who and all the accompany anger to the side is astronomical.
   
   How funny it is to rediscover breathing every time I restart yoga, to remember that there's something bigger than pant-caught-in-the-chest anxiety; that my back isn't one of an 85 year old; that sweating is fulfilling (though wiping it off the mat at the end is more gross).
   
   The reclamation: 30 minutes of yoga, no less, 3-4 times a week.
   
   
2. Working Out - Sadly, as wonderful as yoga is, it can't be (though I wish otherwise) the end-all, be-all to the physical health I've kind of neglected for the past 18 months. I used to wake up and bike to the gym where I'd run then bike home. I used to wake up and do weights and lunges till my t-shirt was soaked and the resistance band slippery in my hands.
   
   I used to run the hills of San Francisco, and when adding Lombard to the mix, the work out was, maybe not a pleasure, but at the least served to remind me how lucky I was that I could use this tourist attraction (this beautiful, crooked, would-never-drive-down-it road) as my personal training space. I have 25 pounds just sitting on me waiting (weighting!) to be taken care of. In conjunction with THAT however, it will no longer be ANYBODY'S business. 
   
   Asking me if I've "worked out lately?" will not fly, and will be met with a prompt STFU.
   
   The reclamation: Work out, actually, thrice a week.
   
   
   
3. Knitting . Yes, seriously, knitting. I owe lots of people lots of scarves, and despite the amazing amount of yarn I've bought, only 1.5 of these scarves have been completed in the last 6 years.
   
   I picked up knitting initially as a way to keep my hands moving while sitting. It was a distraction, a focus-needing task that took my focus off my anxiety. And in theory, the best part is that you get a new piece of clothing at the end of all this.
   
   The reclamation: I WILL FINISH A FUCKING SCARF.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
4. Keep learning. Apply to grad school. Because I can, and because I want to learn MORE. Because the point is to continue your parents' journeys and take it further.
   
   
5. Reading (& while in that vein, writing) - When is the last time I finished a book for pleasure? I've certainly read pleasurable books, but always for some end goal. I'm a literature major, and I think I miss it. Sometimes I think I could be quite happy as a recluse if only I had access to any book (or trashy magazine from time-to-time) that I wanted.
   
   And writing? Well, there's not much to write about that. Since I haven't been writing. In fact looking at the dates of these posts, and the amount of time between them, is kind of depressing.  I took a picture in front of HarperCollins on my last "carpe diem" in New York, a few months shy of 2 years ago.  I was going to publish, and write, and blog, and edit, and post, and contribute, and discuss. And then I didn't.
   
   Did so little happen that I can't formulate a three sentence post once every 4 months?
   
   The reclamation: READ more. WRITE more. And for fun, not coz I have to.
   
   
   
   

   From Kate Chopin's The Awakening:
   
   Edna had found her old bathing suit still hanging, faded, upon its accustomed peg. She put it on, leaving her clothing in the bath-house. But when she was there beside the sea, absolutely alone, she cast the unpleasant, pricking garments from her, and for the first time in her life she stood naked in the open air, at the mercy of the sun, the breeze that beat upon her, and the waves that invited her.
   
   How strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky! how delicious! She felt like some new-born creature, opening its eyes in a familiar world that it had never known.
   
   The foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled like serpents about her ankles. She walked out. The water was chill, but she walked on. The water was deep, but she lifted her white body and reached out with a long, sweeping stroke. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace.
   
   She went on and on. She remembered  the night she swam far out, and recalled the terror that seized her at the fear of being unable to regain the shore. She did not look back now, but went on and on, thinking of the blue-grass meadow that she had traversed when a little child, believing that it had no beginning and no end.
   
   She looked into the distance, and the old terror flamed up for an instant, then sank again.

Uninspired

And kinda hoping a vacation/break/running away will work. I've got very little to say other than that. Let's hope something gets something else going.

Running Cultural Insights into the Ground

Recently I've been thinking a lot (thanks to A) about the major cultural differences growing up "American" while retaining "Iranian" -- my conclusion this morning was the style of toilets. I will forever love my toilet farangie. There is just no value to squatting over porcelain holes in the ground.

Whine & Cheese

Never thought I'd learn anything from watching my boyfriend play Modern Warfare 2.

"If you keep complaining it will change."

Granted, he meant it facetiously. But I think he's on to something.

Warm Up

Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up. I really don't want to go Christmas shopping.

The work has been sitting here for the past week staring at me, winking at me, repeating over and over, "let's go baby!" Even these warm ups are hard. Have to get back into it. Have to be able to write a sentence without going back and re-reading it ten times, and just making it worse. Have to work on my voice. I've spend so long writing formally, I keep forgetting it's okay to sound like I'm talking.

Thinking outloud should be just that.

Death of a Saleswoman

Now that I've finally put it behind me, the corporate world, I feel like myself again. Okay, trite, yes. But I lay in bed last night, and I remembered who I am, and it's not the bitter, apathetic, snarky bitch I was in the office.

Well maybe I'm a little bit of that, but certainly not 100% of the time. Sometimes I need to sit. And think. And read. Mull it all over, roll it, pat it, bake it -- incubate it for days. I have that time again.

No more beeping copy machines demanding its toner be emptied, no more print cartridges exploding all over my pants, no more uncomfortable shoes or cardigans. And no, I still don't know how to use the color scanner.

At the end of the day I won't leave that cubical with the peace desk, and the giant white board, and the deadlines circled red on it. Starting Monday, and I hope everyday for the next hundred years, I get to "leave the office" feeling not like a tool.

The money is nice, 401k is intriguing, health insurance is definitely necessary -- but there are ways around all of that to get to where I wanted so badly to be.