It's Halloween: So What if You're Scared?

            I’m going to be real honest in this post. Like, reeeeeal honest. Abe Lincoln wouldn’t even know what to do with himself.

I recently asked a friend what his biggest fear was, knowing that yes, it was probably too personal of a question or not personal enough—that funny in between thing. After I typed the question, it kept running through my mind. Dear God, how many answers I have for that one. I’m what you would call, oh, I don’t know…..the biggest lily livered, always in a dither, anxious, I-don’t-want-to-take-the-risk kind of girl. It’d take me all day to answer a question regarding what my most feared parts of life are. I’m too scared to even fully answer the question (see what I mean?).

Besides watching horror movies through the cracks of my fingers and refusing to descend into my basement alone, there’s one thing that has always brought a sickening feeling to my stomach—the dark. I kid you not. You are probably laughing, and actually I am too, because it’s one of the silliest things about me. I have to have some sort of light on in my room before I go to bed. I have a reading light that I keep on until I feel okay about shutting it off. And then—the dark settles around me like a thick blanket. I have to shut my eyes immediately in order to cope with it, otherwise I’ll start seeing Monsters, Inc. creatures emerging from the closet. If my cat wasn’t always at the end of my bed to keep me company, I’d probably die of a heart attack.

But, (per usual), I’m going to take this a bit further—analyze it like I did chapters in my undergraduate Modern Short Story class. Why am I so utterly, teeth-chatteringly terrified of the dark? The kids I babysit for are decades younger and they laugh at me when I ask if they want a nightlight.

The dark, to me, is the unknown. I don’t know what the heck is lingering in it, and odds are you don’t either. I can’t stand the not knowing, and the swiftness of my heart paired with the sweaty palms lets me know just how scared I am of it. When I don the turban and sit down in front of my crystal ball, I can barely breathe, because I don’t see a thing. I don’t know what’s coming for me, who’s out there at this very moment that will one day become my very reason for existing. I couldn’t tell you what’s going to happen to you or I or the rest of the world in the next few days, and, Mother of God, that’s the scariest thing I can think of. So, you see? I don’t think being scared of the dark is as irrational as it sounds. (The basement, well, that’s another story…)

            I think it’s safe to say we’re all scared of the dark, to some extent. Maybe you’re not greeted with anxiety attacks like I am, but I’d bet you’re not at your most comfortable, are you? 

Reeling in Yes, Making it No

            “A skinny venti cinnamon dolce latte,” she said, repeating my order. “And would you like whipped cream on that?”

            It must have been 10 seconds of my blank face staring back at her. Did I want the whipped, or didn’t I? There were only two options to choose from. One way or the other. This wasn’t a trick question.

But I found myself in the center of town, at a quaint little Starbucks, infected yet again by my number one most hated flaw of all time: the indecisive bug. I usually get away with turning to a friend and asking, "I'm not sure, what do you think?" But I was alone, and the angel on my shoulder was still sleeping at that moment. I almost opted to flip a coin to make the whipped matter easier when I heard myself mumble a “no thanks” to the poor barista I was torturing. Silence can be irritating, you know—especially in those early morning hours.

Alas, I made a choice, one that resulted in a lack of whipped sugary goodness. (Not what I would call a life defining decision, but certainly still a difficult one.) I couldn’t help but feel somewhat put off by myself, once again; the usual down putting phrases began to circulate my mind as I settled in a corner with my laptop and coffee. I got to an over analyzing point by my fifth sip of the latte. I started thinking about how many choices I’ve made after difficult debate—if it were possible, would I take them back? Would I reel them in and then throw out the line again, this time with a different decision attached? Would I even be able to admit to myself that maybe, just maybe, I had made the wrong choice in the first place?

I can’t say for sure. I want so very much to be able to say, “No, no, I would not change a thing,” and mean it. I think back to choices I made, to the path I tread, and I wonder…what if I didn’t do things the way I did? What would be different?

Everything. Obviously, right? It only makes sense. I would not be who I am right now—the Kerry chugging multiple caffeinated drinks at 10:54 PM would be some other Kerry, some foreign girl, one I like to think not as sophisticated or complex as I. But then again, maybe I should’ve prayed for simplicity. I’d like not to feel crazy everyday.

If I had the chance to go back in time a few months, and sit down across from the me I was a year ago, map out on paper everything the upcoming year would bring, circling the important days in red pen, and unfurl a plan of what to do and how to do it, I wouldn’t. I went through major changes this past year, and I’m not sure I would be able to go through with the choices I made had I known what the consequences were. No, I wouldn’t be able to go back and give the old Kerry pointers about what to expect and how to handle it all—the not knowing was what drove me to the decisions I came to in the first place. And, to this date, I’m not sure I could take those choices back if possible. Because I would not be the same.

            It’s funny how many decisions we make in a day. Black coffee, fruit for lunch. Take the back roads to work, listen to jazz and smile at the gas attendant. They’re all choices that we make, and believe it or don’t, but those little things add up: the smallest decision can bring about the biggest of changes. 

Brew Me Something Good

It’s an amazing morning here, in my little town. The second one in a row. Autumn is literally swirling in the air—leaves are flying and I feel like I smell a pumpkin spice latte everywhere I turn. I’ve had the house to myself this weekend, and I have to say, I rather enjoy running a household. (But then again, I hardly think three cats make up what people call “a household.”)

I opened all the windows, pulled the shades up and bid the morning hello with a smile. I fed the kitties, switched on the coffee pot, and made a little morning fruit salad. Scrumptious.

As I settled in my favorite chair with this week’s current read (Start Something That Matters, by Blake Mycoskie) and a large mug of coffee, I felt one of those content, everything-is-so-right-in-the-world, moments, wash over me. 

And then I took a sip of coffee.

Bah-arf. 

Something had gone terribly awry in that coffee pot. Because this…this could not be considered coffee. After cringing for what felt like an hour, I looked in my mug—a normal seeming cup o’ joe. It even smelled java-like. But what a terrible tasting cup of coffee I had in my hands.

I will be the first to admit to not being a well-seasoned cook, pun intended. However, I’ve been upping my culinary game recently. I’ve dabbled in recipes, danced around the stove, so to speak. And you might be surprised to know that the things I’ve whipped up taste great—wonderful, in fact. As a recent college grad moving back home, I’ve gained major points with my parents because of my food.

But this coffee making thing…..I cannot get it right. Six cups of water, six, maybe seven, scoops of coffee. What’s wrong about that? Someone. Enlighten me.

And we wonder why most of my paycheck goes to Starbucks? Alas, wonder no more.

The coffee pot, or, most likely, all of them (they must have banded together in the department store and made an alliance against me, I knew it) has some sort of beef with me. It chuckles when I make attempts to brew something good.

            Why, for the love of God, can’t I brew something good? 

Find Me & Keep Me, For Always

They met at work, she young and pretty, he and young and clever. It started with roses, smiles, silly faces and not-so-funny jokes. Movies on Friday nights, and ice cream sundaes on Sundays. 

They met on the highway, in summer traffic; he hit her bumper gently, purposefully, so he could have the chance to ask her out. She hated him at first, cast him as the idiot driver that caused her to miss the beginning moments of a girls’ night. Until she saw her future moments, hand in hand with him.

It’s nauseating how many stories of romance there are out there—I’ve seen my fair share of chick flicks, and I’ll be the first to tell you how much they are a waste of time and a movie screen. They all end the same, always consisting of the same predictable nonsense that makes me briefly lose faith in humanity. 

But why? Why do I instantaneously associate nausea with romance? Why do I feel the need to absolutely loathe these kinds of stories? Because I’m afraid of them? Who am I kidding, here?

Here’s the thing (the truth, in fact): if I were given the choice, between dating myself and living the “perfect” single life and a handsome, successful, sociable, funny man, I would pick the latter. Does that make me a fool? A lying, cheap freak? I’ve been duped by the fairy tales of childhood. I admit it. I am a romantic. And I have a terrible, terrible, horribly irksome feeling that I always will be.

I fear that’s the worst diagnosis I’ve ever placed on myself.

The hopeless romantic. The dopey-eyed, naïve, "where’s my prince charming?" girl. Honestly, I don’t blame you if X out of this blog post without so much as a “wait, what did that say?” back click. I’m just another girl who pictures a romantic meet and greet with her future soul mate, a picture perfect moment, an I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening season.

So will pretending I don't care make it hurt less? I mean, what will happen once I finally discover (because I more than certainly will) that romance is always faux? That dreaming like Cinderella leads nowhere but to ignorance and a less respectful bliss? Will being prepared for the worst make the hurt go away? I have too many questions.

I think it’s safe to say that I respect the romantics who actually do find the romance—the Cinderella shoe and the I-don’t-care-if-you-respect-it-or-not bliss. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Not to care what they say, stick my foot out proud, and wait for my glass slipper to come. 

And That Is Why We'll Always Make It

            I feel like my heart is leaking. Liquid gold flowing from a small puncture at the bottom of my heart. 

And it spills, slowly, dripping down into my stomach and forms a puddle. Spreads from my heart and fills my veins, traveling its way into my fingertips and the palms of my hands. My heart, the leaky faucet.  

            This is how I feel when I think about my future. When I picture myself standing at the head of a classroom, explaining to a room of young girls what it means when James Joyce doesn’t allow his characters to get to do the things they want. What it means to be paralyzed, in your own mind. What it means to be stuck, in your very own ways.

            This is how I feel when I think about what starting something means to me. What it means to want to do something different and make it mean something. This is how I feel when I think about making moves of goodness. When I think about making vows of forever.

            No one is spared from l o v e. I hate to tell you this, but you can’t avoid it. Love drips from the heart. Sings in your blood. It will not trace a backwards path. You can’t run away from it, like a bill that must be paid, like a loan you owe the bank. You owe this to yourself, this love of yours—the love won’t let you wait. Love wants you now, and I’m afraid it won’t take you on your terms.

            Whatever it is you love, whatever it is or whomever it is that makes your heart want to move aside oceans and mountains, lakes and trees and bridges and meadows, you’ve got to let it do just that. Let it do its thing.

Let the love riot. Inside and outside of yourself. Let the love live.