This is just to say...

I think the hardest part about writing these blogs is coming up with a place to start. You excavate through your dusty mind and search endlessly for some bright and clever idea to write down and expand on.  

You obviously don't want to get too personal that's quite a big risk. And expressing that to not only your peers but the entire internet? Yikes, it's probably best to cut back a little. 

But right now I guess I'm going to be a hypocrite and get a little personal. 

One distinctive memory I have is when I was younger, around 4 or 5. Instead of going to preschool, I went to a daycare that taught me all my ABC's, colors and all that jazz. Going to this daycare, I was just happy to see everyone and anyone who was willing to play with Polly Pockets and watch Disney movies with me. But while I was there, I ended meeting one of my best friends.
We had so much in common it was ridiculous. We were both born around the same time, at the same hospital, and we would both sing along to all of the movies we watched and memorize every line and scene. She was the sister I never had and only dreamed of having.
But one thing I remember about this friendship is when we used to race each other. At the far end of the yard outside the daycare, there was a picnic table slowly rotting away. Almost every day we would look at each other and say, "Race you to the picnic table," and off we went. Sprinting and running as fast as we could, the wind would whiz so fast against me it felt ice cold against my cheeks. I remember feeling my heart beat faster and faster as each step off the ground brought me closer to the picnic table. And before I knew it, I had made it. I had won the race like I always had time after time again.
But I didn't like winning, I hated winning. It put this feeling in the pit of my stomach that made me feel so ashamed and disappointed in myself. Now why would winning make me feel like I was ready to vomit? It's because every time I reached that picnic table first, I would look back behind me; a smile spread across my face, and notice that my best friend, the sister I had always wanted, wasn't even half way there and had eyes filled with tears.
So what's the point of me telling this story? I guess it's because it's a story that needs to be told. It's sort of a fable I guess, a story about winning not being soley about it's shine and glory. Sometimes it's not important to win every race or competition. I guess the lesson in this story is remembering the ones you left behind


Growing up is Hard to Do

I think initially my ideology of growing up when I was younger was sliding my tiny feet into my mother's high heels and stealing her lipstick when she wasn't looking. I would pretend that I was a doctor and make sure that my dog would schedule appointments to have a check up done by yours truly. Carrying around a fake cell phone, I would walk around the house pretending to have an in depth conversation with a best friend that didn't exist.

 

But despite thinking that I knew everything about being an adult and how the world works at age 10, I was no where near as informed as I would've liked to be.

 

The sad part about growing up, to my surprise, was finding out that not everything is as perfect and seamless as it seems. I grew up finding out that my dad; who I thought was this heroic figure who could save the world and end poverty all in one day and still be home in time for dinner, was hiding his addiction to cigarettes. Every hero has his weakness.

 

I also grew up finding out that my mom; who I thought could be at 3 different places at once and could handle any problem or issue the world handed her with a smile, was stressed out beyond belief and hated the job she was in. I guess hating your job isn't anything odd in the society we live in today, but she disliked her job so much that it she couldn't be satisfied with anything because she was so unhappy with her life.

 

So I guess I can't really pinpoint an exact moment between the transition of myself driving my Barbie car around the house to driving an actual car to pick up my friends, but I think along my journey to that point, I've looked at the world around me as it slowly diminished from the picture perfect image I had believed it was a majority of my youth.

 

Growing up is probably one of the hardest things to do, and every day I grow up just a little more than the day before. And it's not that the sudden realization that someone's imperfection makes them a bad person, because it doesn't at all. It just a friendly reminder that no one is perfect and that we're all human. Even someone you idolize as a perfect being is not all they're cracked up to be. 

 

But knowing now that not everyone is perfect is a comforting feeling. Knowing that you can make mistakes and not have to compare yourself to a superhero is a huge weight off your shoulders. So I guess that superheroes don't really exist in reality, and sometimes you find that as they're trying to fly they end up stepping on their own cape.

 

Getting it wrong

I feel like failure is such an awkward thing to talk about; no one ever really wants to admit they've failed, it's pretty embarrassing  But I think for me personally, failure stems from setting such high expectations for myself. I divide my life into different aspects, such as being the "perfect daughter" or being the "best friend I can possibly be," and when I don't live up to my expectations in those categories, I feel like I've failed.

It seems stupid to do such a thing, but it's something I've done almost my entire life. My parents have always raised me telling me that I can achieve anything because I'm worth it, and from that I created these high expectations in myself because if everyone around me believes I can achieve it, with the exception of myself at times, then why not shoot for the moon?

For example, I try to be "the perfect student" by working hard, studying and getting good grades. Now obviously, nobody's perfect, but I still set expectations for myself to be the best I can possibly be. Until I get a big fat 70% on my last math test, then I feel like I've failed. And in reality, I didn't fail, but to myself I did.

Or even when I try to be the "perfect daughter" to try and please my parents. But when my mom or dad gets frustrated with me for getting engrossed in a film instead of emptying the dishwasher, I feel like I've failed them for not just doing what I'm told and instead doing what I wanted to do.

It's actually really exhausting and quite annoying doing this, but I don't think I'll ever stop living my life this way. Although it does bring about a lot of unneeded stress and can make me feel a little bad about myself sometimes, in reality it helps me stay on top of things and keeps the momentum going for me to work harder.

But the key factor that I think everyone, including myself, needs to keep in mind is that there is no such thing as being perfect. Everyone is human, everyone makes stupid choices and experiences failure and regret. However, regrets are only mistakes you don't learn from.

Significant Place

My family and I have never really had the opportunity to go on an amazing vacation due to money and finding the perfect time to go. So when I was about to go to Venice, Cape Cod was probably the furthest place I remember going.

Obviously, Venice is MUCH farther away from Cape Cod, and when I got the opportunity to travel to Europe last summer, it was something I couldn't possibly pass up.

Although I visited several other places that summer, Venice is the one place that I remember so clearly and I was emotionally distraught when I had to leave. Maybe it was how the entire city was so closely knit together; the buildings right along side of each other created a sense of family and like I was apart of them. Or maybe it was how complete strangers welcomed me with open arms and asked me to dance with them in a dance festival held in an open town square. Whatever the case may be, I can remember feeling a sense of belonging when I was there, something that I've searched for my entire life perhaps. There was just something about this city that made me feel as if I was home even when I wasn't.

And the funny thing is, I only spent one day in Venice. How could just one day in a beautiful city be one of the best days of my life? I mean, the food was amazing, and anybody that knows me well knows that food is something I hold very close to my heart. And when I got to ride on a gondola, that was pretty cool too. (FYI, the people who steer the gondola don't actually sing, I sadly found out that it's a myth when I asked the man to sing for our group and he just stared at me like I had 5 heads. Awkward.)

But the whole atmosphere of Venice made me feel as if I was in a home away from home, and I would do absolutely anything to go back.

Gahhhh writing about this is giving me nostalgia.

Early Memory

I can remember first laying eyes on this book as a kid and being completely hooked simply because of the title. I mean, how does a "Chocolate Factory" not peak a child's interest?

I still have this book today, and every once and a while when I happen to pick it up and go through it, I smile to myself as I glance at the crinkled pages and the worn down cover. I used to take this book everywhere with me when I was younger; to school, even to restaurants. You name it and I'm 99% positive I've brought it there. 
There was just something about this book that made it impossible for me to put it down. Maybe it was the mysterious and quirky ways of Mr. Wonka, or the occasional music numbers from the Oompa Loompas, but throughout the novel I found myself losing track of time as I glided through the story while giggling at the cartoon pictures. I'd start reading at 3 O'clock and before I knew it, I'd be floating down the chocolate river in Willy Wonka's Factory at 7 O'clock.

I think that's probably why I loved this book so much. It was a completely different world beyond my imagination that I could immerse myself in for a few hours. Being an only child, I had to get pretty creative when it came to entertaining myself. And as a child, I loved reading all different types of books. But this one especially stood out to me because I couldn't wrap my head around how it was possible to chew a piece of gum that turned the character, Violet, into "a blueberry." Or how good things come to those who wait; when Charlie finally got that golden ticket after a countless number of times of searching for it.

This book was my way of not only occupying my time, but also a way for me to expand my imagination. Even to this day I remember reading this book in awe and feeling completely devestated when it was over. (Even though there's the sequel; Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, it wasn't the same.) I even wrote on the very last blank page of the book, "This book made me very hungry." Don't ask me why I decided to write that, but hey, I was being honest, there were some yummy stuff in that book.

I actually came across a little girl the other day who was reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and it put the biggest smile on my face. I'm not quite sure why it made me so happy, but it just brought back those memories of me clutching the book in my hand, eager to find out what happened next. I guess part of me hoped and wished that she would experience the same things that I did; the laughs, the awe and the feeling of fingers gripping tightly to the book, eager to find out what happens next.