Stubborn

I'm stubborn. Not always, but when something is important to me, regardless of its validity or rationality, I become overwhelmingly stubborn. I'm not going to argue that this is one of my finer traits but I won't say it's necessarily a fault either. Stubbornness is just one of my many attributes. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Left-handed. Stubborn.

If you know me personally or you've been following my blog then you'll know that I broke my leg about 5 weeks ago. I was at a holiday work party, had too much to drink, picked a fight with the stairs, and lost. It hurt. It hurt A LOT. But I think the embarrassment hurt more. I hate feeling embarrassed. I can only imagine what my co-workers were saying the next day. "Hey, did you hear about Megan? Apparently she got so drunk that she fell down some stairs and broke her leg! Classy." Embarrassing.

I know. It could happen to anyone, drunk or sober. But that doesn't take the sting out of it. When I was in elementary school, I was one of the "loser kids" that everyone picked on. I had issues making friends. The school even made me see the counselor to try to bring me out of my shell. 6th grade was the worst. I cried a lot that year. So when I started middle school, I decided I wouldn't let "them" see me cry anymore. I'd make fun of them before they could start in on me. If they tried to embarrass me I'd just laugh it off or stare them down. I even hit a few girls (I do not condone this behavior, by the way). But I never let them see me cry, not if I could help it. Stubborn.

After I broke my leg, I decided to remain positive. I wanted to keep my independence. I wanted as little help from others as possible. When they let me out of the hospital, I insisted on going up to my apartment with my mother, on the fourth floor. I was still feeling the affects of the anesthesia and pain killers, I was extremely unstable, but I insisted. My mom thought I was crazy. Two days later, on Christmas Eve, I decided I was going to sleep in my own room in my mother's house, on the second floor. The stairs are very steep and there's no rail. But again, I insisted. Stubborn.

I didn't ask for anything if I could help it. The problem was that I was still very unstable on the crutches and I couldn't get myself any food because I couldn't carry anything. One day, when my mother was at work, I waited patiently for my sister to wake up so she could fix me something to eat. She didn't get up until 11:30am and when she did wake up, I waited another hour before I broke down and asked for some food. Stubborn.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic to get back to my apartment two and a half weeks later. I got to be by myself, do everything for myself, no asking for help. I was back at work later that week. I was nervous to see my co-workers for the first time since the incident, but I went in. I smiled. I assured them all I was fine. It took me roughly 3 minutes to make it up the stairs to my office. I almost fell twice. But I made it. And I asked for as little as possible. Stubborn.

I had taken a cab to work those first couple of days. Then the snow storm hit and I worked from home for a week. This last Monday, I decided I was going to take the bus in. $35 a day for cab fare is more than my budget allows for. The nearest bus stop is roughly two and half blocks from my apartment, and it's mostly uphill. And the bus drops me off another two and a half blocks from my work. But I made it. I made it to work. Up the stairs. To my office. Stubborn. Jimmy was nice enough to offer me a ride home that night. I was so grateful.

Yesterday I woke up so stiff and sore that I could barely get out of bed. There would be no bus ride to work that morning. I took a cab, and was still exhausted all day. I kept flip-flopping on whether or not I would take a cab home or the bus (Jimmy didn't have his car that day). When I went to leave, I got downstairs only to find that everyone else had already left. I really didn't have money for a cab. So a bus it would be. Stubborn.

After fighting with my key in the office door for 5 minutes, I finally made my trek, in the rain, to the bus stop. There is no shelter or bench at this particular stop. And I was about 15-20 minutes early. I felt tears coming on but I controlled them. I texted some friends, hoping they could cheer me up. The bus finally arrived. I hated having to ask for the lift. I got off at 4th and Jackson so I could transfer to another bus that would drop me off closer to my apartment. Another 20 minute wait in the rain. I had a bench this time though. I started crying a couple of times but only a little bit and not for long. This was the first time I had really, truly, cried since I broke my leg.

An hour and a half after clocking out, I finally made it to my apartment. I limped in, collapsed in the nearest chair, and began to sob. It was the kind of sobbing that hurts, when you can't catch your breath, and you begin to think it will never stop. All of my muscles were trembling from fatigue. It did eventually stop 30 minutes later, but it continued on and off for another hour. I haven't cried like that in a long time.

I was angry. I was mad at myself for getting into this situation; I was mad that I couldn't force my body to cooperate; I was mad that I was feeling sorry for myself; mostly I was mad that I'd lost my will to be stubborn.  I had to admit defeat. I was not ready to start bussing it to work everyday. I could not keep up a positive attitude. I wouldn't be able to make it into the office the next day (today). And I had to tell my co-workers that I couldn't make it in. I was not as capable as I wanted them to think. I was embarrassed again and too tired to be stubborn.

I ate cereal for dinner that night and was in bed by 8pm.

I'm not sure what any of this means or says about me. I guess it just means that I'm human.

Overcoming the Fear of Painting

I've often said that I've been an artist ever since I was able to hold a crayon. It's true. I love to draw. And I'm an emotional artist too (is there such a thing as an unemotional artist?). When I was four I got mad at my stepfather and tried to write angry things about him on my bedroom wall with a blue crayon. I was no longer the only one experiencing anger. Oops.

I drew with crayons and markers, enrolled in after-school water color classes, I cherished my colored pencils and oil pastels, and I took several ceramics classes (although I wasn't that great at it). In high school I signed up for art class so many times that they had to rename some of the courses so I wouldn't have too many redundancies on my transcript. True story! I got to set my own assignments and choose the mediums I wanted to experiment with. I played with acrylic paints, conte crayons, graphite and charcoals. I fell in love with charcoals. It was there that I learned the most about color and shadows, form and structure.

It was only natural that I would later attend art school. One of my favorite instructors was an amazing illustrator named  Dave Danioth. He taught me how to manipulate mediums and not fear color. I got to play with scratchboard, markers (the good kind), screen printing, india ink, gouache and bleach. Yes, you can paint with bleach.

Now here comes the confession...

 I've never, not once, ever, used oil paints. Why? I'm terrified of them. All of the chemicals, the long drying times (I'm extremely impatient), the impossible stains, the inability to successfully use water, etc... Aside from all of those (completely legitimate!) reasons, I'm also scared that I won't be any good at it. Silly, right? Who cares if I'm not good at it. There are lots of things I'm not good at! There are plenty of crafty things I can't do! (Shut it, Sam!) But people have been painting with oils for centuries - artists have been painting with oils for centuries. Most of my favorite artists and many of my favorite pieces were executed with oil paints. I think I would be very upset if I weren't able to somewhat successfully render with oils.

Last Fall (2010) I took a course on Contemporary Art and Design. We studied Rothko. I was inspired. That Christmas I asked my mother for some oil paints. I've had them for over a year now and haven't touched them. Still scared.

But...

I've been snowed in for a week now. Due to a broken leg, I haven't been able to leave my apartment even to play in the courtyard. I've left the building precisely once to retrieve necessary food staples at the corner mini-mart and I thought I was going to die. I've caught up on all of my TV shows, cleaned my kitchen, posted a new blog and am currently working on a second post, I've painted my cast (with acrylics), re-painted my cast (again with acrylics), grudgingly watched a documentary that a friend has been pestering me to see for nearly a year now, checked my facebook approximately 2,343,751,389 times and I'm bored. SO BORED. So this weekend I'm going to set down a drop cloth, open a window, grab some paint thinner and brushes and break out my oil paints. I'll post pictures later... or not. Either way, I'll let you know how it goes.

Morning People

Between graduating from school, enrolling in therapy, quitting my barista job, finding a full-time graphic design job, and breaking my leg, I've had pretty eventful year. And I've learned a lot. A LOT. I've mostly learned a lot about myself. For example, I always assumed I despised morning people. As a barista, you get really good at making fun of and bitching about perky morning people. Even my best friend, Sam, hates mornings. I'm sure she would have eaten her young years ago if it weren't for the fact that she doesn't eat breakfast. We've had several conversations about the injustice of mornings and morning people.

Recently however, I've come to a rather stunning realization. I am a morning person. And I have been my entire life. It hit me one morning a couple of months ago when I was riding the bus to my new job. There was a gorgeous sunrise that lit the sky on fire. I couldn't help but smile when I saw it. 

Sunrise over Georgetown, Seattle

I then preceded to go to my favorite coffee shop (The Essential Baking Co. in Georgetown) to grab a mocha and lemon bar. From there, it was over to the office to start my day. It was about 7:30am. I was the first one in. I was able to boot up my computer, check my email and sip my coffee in a quiet peacefulness; no phones ringing or office dogs barking, no one demanding my attention at that exact moment. Just me, my coffee and my quiet routine.

I love routines. I operate best when I have my set routine. I can handle obstacles and upsets like a pro; I occasionally enjoy those too. But as far as mornings go, I love my routines. Ever since I was little I've have a morning routine. My mother would quietly tip-toe into my room to wake me up; she'd set my brother and me in front of the television with a cup of Cheerios or Teddy Grams and we'd watch Sesame Street or Zoobilee Zoo while she got herself ready for work. It was our quite time. In a home full of chaos, mornings were always the same. They were stable. They were safe. They were peaceful.

I believe my mom is a morning person too. It's always been a sort of bonding time for her and me. When the rest of the house was asleep, we'd wake and share coffee, breakfast and a newspaper together. Ironically, I have a vivid memory of a tee shirt she used to wear frequently on the weekends. It read in bright bold letters "Perky Morning People Should Be Shot!" We're far from "perky" but we're definitely morning people.

Homemade Mocha in a handmade ceramic mug made by my mother <3

I think being a morning person is what drew me to being a barista. Getting up at 3 or 4 or even 5 in the morning sounds like such a pain in the ass. It's unnatural to have to set your alarm for any time before 6 am. And yet... I could shower, dress and head for work in a complete haze. Once I arrived at work, I was able to start my real routine. I could set up the cart, put all of the pastries out, count the till, start up the machine and organize my day. I could do it on autopilot with my eyes closed.

Having a morning routine, starting my day on my terms, easing into the unpredictable chaos of the world, has kept me from killing many people. My mornings are for me. Some people cherish their time at night to unwind. I need my my mornings gear up.

I might have to resign myself to being a morning person, but this does not mean that I will tolerate overly perky morning people. Just because I'm awake early does not mean I want to deal with your loud, obnoxious, excessively joyful quirkiness. Shut up, sit down, and enjoy your coffee. 

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I'm going to leave you with this. I grabbed it from a friend's facebook page and I thought it worth sharing. Enjoy :)

Playing Catch-Up

Thanksgiving set me back. A lot. I will never again set out to write that many posts in one week. Well, probably never. I just don't have the motivation to follow through with a task like that. Besides, with the last of the Thanksgiving dinners, there were far too many things I wanted to share but couldn't for fear of offending someone.

Anyway, a lot has happened during my blogging hiatus. For starters, I am no longer a barista! (That's not entirely true - I'll always be a barista, I'm just no longer a professional barista) At the end of the school quarter I quit my job at the coffee cart based on a promise of going full time at my new job. Although I will miss my coffee slinging days - the customers were great (some of them anyway), the job was easy (when I didn't have to deal with my boss), and let's face it, I was damn good at it! - I am excited to start a new part of my life!

Or at least I was.

Three days before Christmas, I attended a Christmas party at my new job, went with some coworkers for an 'after party', fell down some stairs and broke my leg/dislocated my ankle. I spent nearly all day of the 22nd at Harbor View Medical Center being poked, prodded, questioned (Seriously, how many times do you need me to recite my DOB, address and social security number and how many times do you want me to tell you that there is no way I could be even remotely close to pregnant?!) and tortured. Oh, and I had to go in for surgery. I've never had surgery before. The plus side: when you're in an ER, full of morphine, and the doctors tell you you're going to need surgery that afternoon, you don't have enough brain cells or time to get nervous.

Instead of going full time as a graphic designer, I am now forced to live out the first couple weeks of the new year at my mother's home where she can bring me meals, do my laundry and fetch things for me. It sounds great but it's getting old, fast. Not being able to do things for yourself because you're unable to walk or unable to walk and carry things simultaneously is, in a word, lame. I've been a able to do a little work from home but nothing even remotely close to 'full-time'.

So here I sit, gimpy legged, counting down the days (43) until I can get my cast off and walk on two legs again. Oh, and today is my Birthday. 28 years ago today I was born... and I couldn't walk... and today... I still can't. *womp womp*