secret squirrel

There’s no nice way to put this, so I’m just going to come right out and say it. I am a paranoid weirdo and I hate myself.

Okay, I don’t hate myself hate myself, but I am severely annoyed with myself and the unnecessary emotional rollercoaster I just forced myself to ride. Or, rather, the long and arduous journey on which I just embarked. The second metaphor is way funnier in the context of what happened, but don’t worry, you’ll be in on the joke that is my life soon enough.

Two days ago, it occurred to me that I had forgotten where I put my passport, and, being who I am, I began to worry. After all, what if there were some sort of emergency that would require me to travel out of the country? Of course, my worry doesn’t need such an extreme reason to manifest. I just wanted to relieve that horrible sinking feeling in my stomach and know that my passport was safe and accessible.

My fear was made ten thousand times worse when I considered all the possible moments during which my passport could have been misplaced. I moved out of my college dorm in May, then moved out of my childhood home later than same month. I also went to Alaska in August, and I could not for the life of me remember if I brought it with me (again, in case of an emergency that would require me to leave the country).

Naturally, I commenced tearing my room apart. I emptied my dresser and closet three times each, just in case it was hidden in the folds of a tshirt or a pair of jeans. I inverted every single purse I own, including all the various pockets and compartments. I did not find my passport in any of these places, but I did find an embarrassing amount of lip balm and candy.

At this point, it was well into the wee hours of the morning and I was starting to see spots, so I decided to lay my fitful head to rest with visions of paperwork and passport fees haunting my dreams.

The next day, I stopped playing around. I went through the boxes of random crap in my room that I hadn’t unpacked yet, including ones from college, on the off chance that it was simply tucked away. Mind you, I didn’t unpack these boxes. I just emptied them, sifted through the contents, then repacked them. I suppose I should have actually put things away, but I was lost in the moment. Anyway, it’s too late now. The panic-driven motivation is gone. The point is, I repeated this process at least four times before getting truly serious and lugging a gigantic box full of the contents of my dorm desk and bookshelf from the garage.

I sorted this box with the sort of meticulous obsession that only comes from full-on fear, going so far as to open each book and examine it leaf by leaf, before moving onto my binders, folders, and whatever other pieces of paper were sandwiched between volumes. As you can probably guess, my passport was not in this box.

During this whole ordeal, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somewhere both obvious and convoluted, and that when (not if, not yet) I finally found it, I would be awash with equal parts relief and self-hatred. Turns out, I was not wrong.

As I was on my fifth or sixth cycle of unpacking and repacking boxes, I noticed that the table under which I was keeping them had a track on the underside where the legs folded under. “Huh,” I mused, “that track would be a great place to keep things hidden, like a secret squirrel or something.” I should probably clarify here that I meant that I would be the secret squirrel, and not that I would hide a secret squirrel under my table. Probably.

It was at this point I realized that my bedside table has an identical track on its underside.

I groaned and dearly hoped that it wasn’t so, but when I leaned over from where I was sitting to peer under the table, lo and behold, it was there. I spotted my passport, tucked innocently against the underside of my table. Mocking me in its black leather carrying case. I must have put it there because I was worried that it would get lost if I put it in a place with heavy traffic. And yes, with my passport, there it was. That practically tangible wave of equal parts relief and self-hatred.

After recovering from the litany of curses that exploded from my mouth, directed both at myself and my passport (but mostly at myself), I resigned myself to tidying up the mess I made. But, because of all the effort I expended over the past day, I could not be arsed to care enough to put everything away completely.

My room is still sort of a mess and I am still sort of a mess, but at least I know exactly where that damn passport is. The worst part of this entire matter, however, is that that hiding place is completely within my line of sight when I’m lying in bed.

On the bright side, I found my thesis and my bookshelf has books on it now. It only took twenty-four hours of blood-curdling anxiety to make it happen.

impressionable

So, I’m trying to come back from my extended hiatus, especially since my last attempt didn’t go so well. Hi. True to form, I am going to provide meta commentary on the fact that I haven’t been writing here for a while in a quick statement (sorry), then breeze past it and resume my habit of meticulous analysis and unnecessary observations.

As I take a look back at my academic career that I haven’t fully accepted has come to an end (maybe), my mind inevitably drifts to the influences in my life that have shaped the way in which I think.

I’m talking, of course, about female role models.

Like most women of my generation, much of my personality was shaped (and is continuously shaped) by figures in popular culture (that’s not to say that real, concrete women in my life haven’t played a huge role in my development, but this is not the medium to discuss my personal heroines). And, like most women, Audrey Hepburn and Coco Chanel have played instrumentals in the formation of my conduct and style, because who the hell doesn’t want to be classy and fabulous at all times.

But, what I think is under-appreciated about both these women is their emphasis on simplicity. While it would be amazing to be decked out in Holly Golightly-esque outfits every day (p.s. did not fully grasp the implications of her “activities” until I was much older), the image that comes to mind when I think of Audrey Hepburn at her best is when she is practically bare-faced and dressed monochromatically with minimal accessories. And as for Chanel, didn’t she say that if you look in the mirror and the first thing you notice isn’t your face, then you should take that item off? I learned the hard way that over-accessorizing detracts focus from you, which is simply unacceptable.

I was exposed to these women at a young and impressionable age, which I suppose is to be expected, but when I look at some of the other women I consider highly influential in my life, I realize that it might explain a lot. Some are more normal than others, like Hermione Granger who reassured an eleven-year-old throughout her teenage years and beyond that possessing an intellect is not something about which to be ashamed and reminded that same teenager that being a damsel in distress is not the only option when the world is crumbling to pieces around her. Hermione contained within her the power to literally save the world, and that same power exists within each of us.

As I grew older, I formed a similar attachment to Virginia Woolf. Not that her writings are flawless; I sometimes find her focus too narrow and sheltered, and her privileged background makes some of her musings inaccessible. But her emphasis on consciousness and self-examination in a greater cultural context certainly inform how I piece together my own writings. Another area of contention I have with her writing is that she asserts that good writing should be free of bitterness. While bitterness may be a paralytic to some, I find that it is a brilliant place for me to begin writing, and I accomplish quite a bit by examining a subject that makes me bitter and dissecting the possible reasons for my reaction.

Strangely enough, I am also always intellectually inspired by Victoria Beckham. Yes, Posh Spice. I mean, she’s been a constant figure in my awareness since I was a child. I love that she always looks fierce, if a little pissed, and as someone with resting bitchface, I appreciate that she has made looking angular and intense an art form. I am also not ashamed to say that I have read her book multiple times and she is surprisingly wise and delightful. Who says that having a bitchface means that you can’t be funny too?

I was, and still am, quite taken with Anne Boleyn. I think that one of the biggest clues that I wasn’t quite a normal child was that I would spend hours poring over large history texts about King Henry V and his six wives instead of watching TV or paying attention to where I was walking (on a side note, thank you mom for leading me by the elbow through parking lots because my face was too occupied in a book to look for oncoming cars). Anne Boleyn remains my favorite wife because of her sheer ambition to the point where she was kind of scary. She managed to do something thought impossible, or at least highly improbable, and, in a way, blazed the trail for the women that followed her (bloody) path. And whether or not the rumors about her extra finger or nipple are true, I like to think that she completely owned those disfigurements with a fuck-you attitude and did whatever she wanted regardless. I might be projecting, though.

On a similar note, I think I might have watched The Royal Tenenbaums too many times as a child, because there was a period in my life when I sincerely wanted to be Margot Tenenbaum when I grew up. Not only was she a playwright, but she was also a member of the resting bitchface club with a penchant for eyeliner that rivals my own appreciation. But beyond her enviable aesthetics (you get me, Wes Anderson), she manages to create, despite her apparent bitterness. And, deeper still, behind her rather dour exterior is someone capable of love, as long as that love is earned. Her affection is so much more meaningful.

I will also always have a soft spot for Clarice Starling because she was young and inexperienced, but was recognized for her potential. Throughout Silence of the Lambs, she works hard to prove that that recognition was deserved, even if it means coming face to face (and mind to mind) with the pants-shittingly terrifying Hannibal Lecter, where a single mistake could mean life or death. Not that she handled every interaction perfectly, but she learned quickly and impressively well. On a side note, I might be a little jealous that she has captured Hannibal Lecter’s attention, but I’m trying not to read too much into that.

So maybe I haven’t really gained anything from this session of self-examination, but I do know that I so relish every look of confusion and horror I receive whenever I disclose that my favorite film has to be a tie between Roman Holiday and Silence of the Lambs.

choose your own adventure

There are some people who treat their blogs as their confessionals. While I don’t necessarily condone this behavior (except I do share things like my dislike of wearing pants) and try to maintain distance, I have something that I need to get off my chest.

I cheat at “Choose Your Own Adventure” books.

“But that’s not a game,” you say, “and so it’s not technically cheating. Also, do people still do CYOA?” However you classify my shameful behavior, I think we can all agree that I’m doing it wrong. Besides, I’m sure there are people out there who do the same thing as me.

Before I get into how I choose my own adventure incorrectly, I should probably mention how difficult it is for me to read. You would think that after all these years and all these books, I would have a better grasp of my favorite thing to do, but you would be wrong. The problem lies precisely in what keeps me coming back—too much excitement for reading. Reading becomes scanning because I am way too eager to watch the story unfold, and, unfortunately, seeing is not the same as understanding.

So, I have to go back and re-read the passages, reminding myself the entire time to pace myself. It’s easy to get carried away though (especially with someone as impatient as me), so sometimes I revert back to reading at a pace that makes some words look like keyboard smash (safnkdja). It’s not until later that I realize that I didn’t grasp anything, and safnkdja isn’t a real word.

Besides the aforementioned lack of control I exhibit when it comes to reading normal books, that undisciplined behavior is amplified when the reading material happens to be CYOA. I always tell myself that I’m not going to cheat this time, but I know that I’m just lying to save face.

Once I reach a fork, I have to know what happens with each option, and subsequently know what each option within that option leads to. Because of my curiosity, I end up with each of my fingers employed as a bookmark to mark where the plot branches off and me flipping furiously to read all the storylines.

It’s not necessarily that I don’t want to be wrong (though I don’t), but more that I want to explore every option and analyze how certain choices lead to certain outcomes. Plus, I would hate to miss the information relayed at different points in the book. In other words, I NEED TO KNOW EVERYTHING. And if everything I want to know is just there, an illegal page turn away, why wouldn’t I do it?

I know, I know. Playing by the rules, discipline, and all that stuff about how I’m only cheating myself. But, considering how such an opportunity is impossible in real life, why wouldn’t you jump at the chance to see how every decision you make could pan out, even if the stakes aren’t that high?

If you still don’t agree with me, then you would be a really boring protagonist in a sci-fi movie. It’s the truth. Sorry I’m not sorry.

keep it sharp

I've accepted that there are a couple of things I do or care about that don't matter to anyone else. I'm also aware that I live in a bubble in which things I accept as normal are generally not. But since "mind over matter" is a widely accepted phrase, there have to be some of you out there who engage in behavior similar to mine.

Since physical fitness hasn't always been a strong (ha) suit of mine, I used to "train" myself mentally to (over)compensate.

I started this workout regimen with little puzzles and logic games. I made countless sudoku puzzles my bitch, and I obsessed over sporcle. Even then, I realized that the sense of pride I felt after completing something correctly was kind of douchey, but I continued nonetheless, lest my brain atrophy. I still indulge in the occasional brain teaser, but I keep it to myself (except for right now).

As awesome as those mental exercises were, they weren’t strenuous enough to count as a workout. So, I graduated to by experimenting with the control my mind could exert over my body. I had to have strength in something, and a mind was better than nothing.

For example, I would induce a yawn, then see how quickly I could curtail its development with my mind. The great thing about these training sessions was that they could be done virtually anywhere, so I commonly practiced during classes (especially in middle school) or at church. The same could also be done with itches, but I have found those to be more difficult to will away.

To this day, I don’t know how my face looks when I do this, but I think it’s for the best that I never know. You know, so I don’t retroactively die of shame.

I also used to do the same thing with sneezes, but then I read a terrifying article about brain aneurysms and stopped immediately. That would have been rather counterproductive.

[insert obvious shakespeare joke about names]

While going through the piles of books in my room, I found a legal pad that I had hidden for some reason. I say some reason because it was completely blank, so I have no idea why I decided to hide it. I figure it must not have been that important, so I started doodling all over it. If it turns out that this legal pad is significant, I'm going to feel really really stupid. But, for now, I was going to have fun.

The problem I have with doodling is fundamental in nature. I can't draw. Period. Anyone who has play Draw Something or Pictionary with me can attest to this fact. Also, I don't think I'm creative enough to think of little things to doodle.

Instead, I do my version of doodling: writing the alphabet over and over and seeing which letters are the prettiest.

Oddly enough, the letter that is most awkward for me is the letter "k." Yes, the letter with which my name begins. It always looks like shit to me, no matter how many times I write it.

Actually, I think my name might be the ugliest thing I write. It just looks wrong. And no, I don't think that it looks wrong because I've written it so many times that it doesn't look like a real word (does that actually happen?). I just don't think that it fits my handwriting.

After all this fixation on my name, I started thinking about whether my name "fit" me. Keep in mind, I am terrible at determining whether names fit people or not. When you say, "oh, that person looks like a [whatever, doesn't matter]," I usually agree with you because I want you to like me. that skill is completely beyond my capabilities.

Considering how much doppelgängers creep me out, you can imagine the awkwardness that arises when I meet someone with the same name as me. Once, I met this girl who shared my name AND birthday, and I swear my discomfort was tangible.

But I'm sure that that sort of tension exists with other people and not just me, because it's weird that something that literally shapes your identity could be shared with someone else. There has to be some inherent competition present.

Other people are weird and petty, too. They just have to be.

out loud

Some people talk because they like the sound of their own voice. I have a confession to make: when I write these posts, I read them aloud to myself. I like making sure that the words are arranged in a coherent way that still sounds like me. I don’t know when I developed this habit, but I do know that it is incredibly annoying to other people, hence why I spend so much time alone. I also make hand gestures, especially when frustrated (which is a lot).

my work nest. the tiger doesn’t judge.

But yes. Voice. Voice is important. Not only in writing, but in reading as well. Some of my earliest and fondest memories are of my mother reading aloud to me, employing various dialects and pitches to signify different characters. To this day, I cannot pick up those books without hearing my mom’s voice or seeing her face contorting to accommodate whatever character she was portraying at the time.

Seriously though. Every letter/character in Chicka Chicka Boom Boom had its own personality.

In lower school, the teachers used to go around the room and have each student read a passage from a book according to where we were sitting. This scenario ought to have been terrifying for me, but it wasn’t.

I have vivid memories of counting to see which passage would be mine, how long it was, and if there were any words I didn’t know how to pronounce. I remember practicing over and over in my head so that my delivery would be flawlessly executed. I remember the rush of adrenaline when it was finally my turn, and the pride I felt after I finished. I remember waiting in agony until it was my turn again. Was I obsessive from a young age? Damn straight, but young Kayla had skills.

 pictured: skills

I may be a few feet taller and possibly a few years wiser, but I still find myself speaking aloud while reading. And I still like it, even if I’m the only one listening. Of course, an audience does make it better, if a little less weird.

Moral of this story? I will read aloud to my future children whether they like it or not.

copycat

As I enjoy my (potentially) final summer break, I can’t help but think about a concern that has loomed over my head since I started my education.

It started out simply—if you copy another kid, you get called out and people like you less. You become a social pariah until someone else screws up worse than you. Or pees his pants or something else equally mortifying.

What scared me then, and continues to scare me now, was being falsely accused of copying someone else. However, that fear has shifted to the academic realm. Plagiarism is scary.

When I was in high school, one English teacher was particularly strict about plagiarism (not that plagiarism is something to be taken lightly). She mentioned a website that dissects papers and highlights every bit of text that came from somewhere else, like a passage from a novel or an opinion from another writer. But, the website also contains papers from other students, it can track whether the author of the paper copied it from somewhere else. After highlighting all the foreign text, the teacher has to decide whether each source was properly cited.

 Considering that teachers have been drilling proper formatting for citations into my head since I can remember, I shouldn’t have worried so much about this website. But, since I am who I am, I found something about which to obsess.

Think about it. There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet, and everything I have ever reading is just these letters, arranged in various ways. But there are only so many possible permutations, and there is a chance that the conclusions I drew from reading something could be similar to the conclusions someone else drew after reading the same thing. We might even express our thoughts in a similar way, using similar words.

But, if that person’s paper is fed into the website before mine, I could be accused of plagiarism, even though I’ve never seen the other paper. In this hypothetical, I would be screwed, and would sound like an idiot trying to defend myself.

As I extend the scenario further, dipping into things like doppelgangers and parallel universes and all that, I find myself freaking out more and more. It’s like that cliché about how I’m special, just like everyone else or whatever. It’s really unsettling to think about and as I start to think about clichés and how anti-clichés are becoming clichés too my mind becomes a mess of panic until I find something to distract me.

I suppose this would be where I would put something revelatory about how I’ve gotten over it and am completely normal now, but that would be a giant lie. I’m still terrified about being a copycat, and will continued to be terrified for as long as I continue writing. It’s just something I have to live with, like my frustration with eating string cheese (THERE’S NO WAY TO EAT IT SO THAT IT’S PERFECTLY SYMMETRICAL).

Everything will be okay.