I was raised in a household in which we didn't take the easy way out of anything. If you could do it yourself, make it yourself, find it yourself, you did because the easy way was (and is) usually more expensive. Nearly all home improvements were of Dad's handywork. As kids, my siblings and I pulled our share of nails out of old two-by-fours so Dad could reuse the wood; that ALWAYS made for a fun Saturday afternoon (insert eye roll). Even something as simple as Hamburger Helper - I hadn't even seen a box or tried a bite of that stuff until I was in college. My mom made EVERYTHING from scratch. Mac and cheese from the box was a rarity. Clothes were made, patched, hemmed by Mom. If not, they probably came in big old boxes from one of my other cousins: hand-me-downs. Let me tell you: there was NOTHING more exciting than getting a big old box of clothes shipped from my cousin in North Carolina. It was like that part of the world held all new fashion treasures that West Central Ohio had yet to see. Going through those boxes was a dream. All that being said, taking the easy way is not really an option for a Buehler.
And this has surely carried through to my adulthood; it's certainly pervading my current situation. In three days, I will be moving for about the 12th time in the last 10 years. Yeah. Let that sink in for a moment: 12 times in 10 years. Now, the first 10 of those moves were either within the village of Ada, or they were back and forth between Ada and Anna; those moves were no big deal. About eight of them didn't really involve furniture, either. Fortunately for me, back then, I had lots of friends and family around to help. For my last three moves or so, in particular, I had my dear friend Z to help me, and this girl LOVES carrying heavy stuff. I've seen her tote a 36" TV - you know, one of the old ones that's just as deep as it is wide - across an intersection from one apartment to the next like it was a basket of laundry. She did it all just for some Padrone's pizza and my friendship (and don't even get me STARTED on the fact that I can't reward myself for ANYTHING with Padrone's anymore). Everyone should have a Z in his/her life (and if it's MY Z, you're even BETTER off, because she's amazing).
Okay, so we're about 60 hours from Emily's 12th move. Why another move? Why couldn't I just stay put for once? Well, I'm gaining a roommate in a few weeks, and we simply must have more than one bedroom (although if you know me well, you know where my real bedroom is and what my so-called "bedroom" is actually used for). This move won't be bad either. To give you an idea of how simple it will probably be - I can see my new apartment from the window of my current apartment; my stuff needs to go out, down one flight of stairs, across the parking lot about 20 yards, and up two flights of stairs to its new home. OF COURSE, my mind is programmed to do all of this the hard way. My thought process: "If I put in a few full days of my hardest work, I can do this all by myself. I'll just need help with the furniture." Chuckle. Just plain chuckle. Come on, chuckle with me, people.
At this point, I'd like to apologize if you're a close friend or family member. This do-it-yourself/do-it-the-hard-way mentality should only cause ME pain and suffering, not you. It's this sort of thought process that compels me to ask you if you can/will help me move, and I should NOT be asking you to help me lug a couch up two flights of stairs in the late July heat of North Carolina (especially if you're my even more stubborn and headstrong dad, who will probably never take the easy way out of anything). Thus, after the urging and advisement of various parties, I have chosen to take the EFFICIENT route: a crew of professional movers. Rationality has won this round (and charm won the second round, in which it got the moving company to knock a few dollars off their quote).
For the next 60 hours, then, I'm staring at a pretty bleak and lifeless apartment full of boxes, with which I was tempted to build a fort before I so eagerly filled them with all my possessions (you'll notice that I also took the easy route on the boxes - thank you, Home Depot). Things will be pretty calm until Friday, when I'm expecting a whole crew of people to get everything out of one apartment and into another within the course of one day: movers, the Internet guy, the washer/dryer guys, and my dear cousin, Stacie. And you know, it seems that she and I have come full circle: from big boxes of hand-me-downs shipped from her when I was a kid to the big boxes of my stuff that we'll transport this weekend. It's all about the boxes, baby. Maybe if this move goes super smooth, with little effort on Stacie's and my part, we can return to our childhood ways and make a fort out of the boxes after we unpack everything; now THAT might be one of the perks of efficiency.
As a final note, I hope the moving guys appreciate the ice cold Gatorade and nutritious granola bars I'm using as a sort of peace offering to them. It's no Padrone's pizza - that's for sure - but I think it'll do the trick.
Peace, love, and hand trucks--
Emily
My life is full of small victories. What I'm about to tell you is probably not a big deal to you, but it's quite an accomplishment for me: I ran a mile without stopping. TWICE. Now let me tell you - I toyed with the idea of telling you how many minutes I ran without stopping because the number of minutes is so large that you would think the distance I ran was at least double what I've told you, and I would, in turn, look way better. Sadly, I'm not very good at lying and self-deprecating humor is a strength of mine, so I'll let you bask in the hilarity that running a mile is a big deal for me.
Small victory aside, that running really sucked. I've said it once, and I'll say it again: some people are born to run, and some people are not. I first came to this conclusion in college, when I lived with distance runners who ran collegiate cross country and indoor/outdoor track; year-round runners - I mean, who does that? I will never forget when my roomie told me that if she didn't run, she would have a horrible day. She had to run to have a good day. My retort? The days I run are my worst days, and I have to avoid running to have a good day. That's when I decided that some people were simply MADE to run. I was not one of those people.
The number of times that I've tried to make myself into a good runner... well... I don't have enough fingers to count those times. And it's always you crazy runner people, who are BORN to run, who try to convince me that I can do it. Before you even THINK about posting a comment in here encouraging me that it's not impossible, you should think about taking another run instead (I can't think of a better threat than that). It's also you crazy runner people who indirectly continue to motivate me that I can do this - and no, I do not want to hear from you directly about it, so just shut it. No, no, no, it's not your face-to-face encouragement about running that keeps me coming back for another try, it's your gosh darn Facebook posts about it:
- "So and so finished way more miles than you can run at a pace double yours using Nike+/FitBit/MapMyRun/Blah Blah Whatever."
- "So and so just ran at least 1 mile for the last 70 million days. Reward? More freaking running!"
- "So and so just posted a photo to the album 'I ran a marathon, and you're still on the couch'"
- "So and so logged another awesome run that he/she really enjoyed - and you should just go cry in a corner."
Seriously, those are the types of posts I see in my Facebook feed. And I mean no offense to any of you, but SO MANY OF YOU are posting these statuses that I have to think, "By golly, if THEY can do it, I can do it!"
So here I am, a few weeks into a training program designed by my virtual running coach extraordinaire (shoutout to Dave Levy) with an immediate goal of running a 5k and an ultimate goal of running a 10k this fall. And let me tell you something: some people are born to run, and some people are not. I've never found it so difficult to sustain a run for a mile; I was born to be really bad at this, people. I know you can't tell by looking at me, but I'd much rather be in a weight room doing some strength training than this garbage. I'm more proud of the floor burns on my elbows from planks, my shaky jello legs after my leg workouts, and the calluses on my hands than I am of my running. As a matter of fact, I HOPE people notice the floor burns, sore muscles, and calluses because I'm so proud of them. When I'm running, I hope NO ONE notices me because I'm either A) panting like a dog on a hot day, B) embarrassed that I run at pretty much the slowest pace humanly possible, C) rolling my ankle on a stick in my path, or D) about to stop and walk. Who could be proud of any of that?
Nonetheless, I'm determined not to quit this time. I still hate it. I'm still horrible at it. I'd ask you to check in with me in another week or two to see if I've changed my tune, but, quite frankly, I don't want to rain on your "I love running" parade with the grim reality that some people are born to run and some aren't; I am NOT born to run. Thus, it will be a huge accomplishment if I make it to the end goal. I suppose I'll allow you to celebrate with me, if/when that day comes - because it will be a HUGE victory.
Peace, love, and side stitches--
Emily
When you live in the same small town for years, you easily pass the same cars on the streets several times a day. There's lots of waving, as you can imagine - because, well, you know everybody. You begin to associate the cars you see in the distance with the people who drive them before you even see the faces of the drivers; you know who it is from afar. Bumper stickers, rear view mirror hang tags, license plates and plate holders all become like birthmarks - distinguishing features that assure you EXACTLY who is driving that mass-produced vehicle. As a matter of fact, I just saw on Facebook that one of my friends traded in her car, and my heart dropped: how will I possibly find her on the highway now without the distinctive Cincinnati Reds sticker that rode on the back bumper of her not-so-distinctive dark blue sedan?
I still pass cars on the streets here in Winston and think they're driven by people I know. Last night, for instance, I recognized the make and model of a car coming my way, it was the right color, I spotted the hang tag that looked like ONU's faculty/staff parking pass, and I was SURE it was one of my colleagues. My heart lifted with the feeling that I was about to pass someone I knew. (You know that feeling, right? That feeling that's so good that if they don't see you waving as you pass, you have to call them to exclaim, "I just passed you on XXX Road!") Then, I had to remind myself that I was in Winston, not in Ada. Let the bummer set in.
And this happens all the time. Not only with cars that I recognize, but with ANY car that's from Ohio. They're easy to spot, too; Ohio is one of the few states that requires front AND rear license plates, so that doubles the opportunities for me to spot an Ohio implant out here on the North Carolina asphalt. When I encounter a fellow Ohioan on my familiar routes here in Winston, I immediately feel a bond with them, and - like the creeper I am - I assume that they feel the same bond with me. I try to scope out the county number on their plate, guess what county that is (if I don't know it), and estimate the probability that I would actually know someone from that county. I secretly hope that we'll get stopped at the same light, lock eyes, and find an opportunity to roll down our windows and say, "O-H!", with the other responding, "I-O!", and drive off into the sunset, satisfied with our rendez-vous. It hasn't happened yet; although I have come THIS close to leaving a note on the windshield of a car with a "75" on the plate (Shelby County, for those of you who don't know), letting the driver know, "I'm from Anna! Nice to see your car out here!" Is that weird? That's weird, isn't it?
Anywho: the close call the other night - you know, sighting a familiar car only to remember that I'm not in a familiar place - reminded me of all the things that I'm missing; things that I've ever-so-recently been stewing over. Things like my dad's birthday and Fourth of July down at the pond (even though it was too rainy to go to the pond, so I didn't really miss anything). Things like the birthdays of EVERYONE in my family, for that matter (including the milestone 21st birthday of my little bro). Things like Easter, Labor Day, Memorial Day, a baby shower for one of my best friends, my 5-year college reunion, my 10-year high school reunion, a cousin's wedding... you get the picture. Yep, this all makes for a nice pot of stew. A nice pot of sad sap stew.
Don't worry, though - just because I live alone doesn't mean I have to eat that sad sap stew for a week straight. When it comes to metaphorical foods, I don't have to eat the same thing every day. Literal foods, on the other hand, well... let's just say it's a good thing that I like my meat loaf so much. In this extended metaphor, there are other dishes I can add into the mix. I'm proud to say that I'm consuming a healthy diet of missing home every now and then along with generous servings of really enjoying myself most of the time. I haven't missed EVERYTHING; I might be a little melodramatic on that point. And need I remind myself that I chose this? This is part of being independent. This is part of pursuing my goals. I can't help but miss things every once in a while.
So there you have it: strangers in unfamiliar cars with tags hanging from their rear view mirrors can make me miss home. You better keep those things away from me, if you know what's best for you.
Peace, love, and front license plates--
Emily
For the next 60 hours, then, I'm staring at a pretty bleak and lifeless apartment full of boxes, with which I was tempted to build a fort before I so eagerly filled them with all my possessions (you'll notice that I also took the easy route on the boxes - thank you, Home Depot). Things will be pretty calm until Friday, when I'm expecting a whole crew of people to get everything out of one apartment and into another within the course of one day: movers, the Internet guy, the washer/dryer guys, and my dear cousin, Stacie. And you know, it seems that she and I have come full circle: from big boxes of hand-me-downs shipped from her when I was a kid to the big boxes of my stuff that we'll transport this weekend. It's all about the boxes, baby. Maybe if this move goes super smooth, with little effort on Stacie's and my part, we can return to our childhood ways and make a fort out of the boxes after we unpack everything; now THAT might be one of the perks of efficiency.