a little sunday night rambling

I’m eating a lot of chocolate. I thought I was going to have trick or treaters last night, but no one came. So now it’s me, homework, and peanut M&Ms. I am not allowed to get more candy otherwise my jeans won’t make it to January.

I’m sitting here shoveling these delights in thinking. I just finished Philadelphia, the movie Tom Hanks won an Oscar for about the lawyer who got fired with AIDS. It was referenced in one of classes this past week and even though I own it and have seen it before, I thought I should watch it again. It’s a fine movie. My favorite scene is when Tom Hanks is on the witness stand and he is talking about being an excellent lawyer, about loving the law, about being able to, on the rare occasion, witness justice. It can give you chills.

So, I’m sitting here, in the dim silence of my room eating peanut M&Ms thinking about all of that. Because it’s Sunday and the crazy week of law school looms ahead and sometimes I really try to think about whether I love it or not.

My major philosophy is to say no to shit you hate. Life’s too short and I’m too old to play the let’s please everyone game. Ain’t no one got time for that. But that doesn’t mean it’s all roses and daisies and netflix all the time.

Starting a conversation with “I go to law school” leads into warped responses. Most people are impressed/think I’m crazy/ think I’m some kind of salvant. (I always feel the need to correct those people and be like, lawyers are people too.) A majority of the time people want to talk about how hard it is, about the soul sucking, time sucking, terror of it all.

Maybe I should be knocking on wood. I did just fail two sets of multiple choice practice exams for criminal law (that goes back to not a savant and you don’t have to be a genius), but I refuse to acknowledge all the gibberish.

Is law school hard? Sure. I mean, it should be. It’s a professional training ground for people that are going to be politicians, judges, policy makers, professors, and litigators. I’d like to think we were prepared for that. Do I think that the 1L experience is made to be drive us all slightly mad? Debatable. I think everyone doing anything for the first time goes a little crazy.

I’ve had the immense pleasure of spending three years raising teenagers. Have you ever had to watch someone fall out of love with their high school romance and try to put the pieces back together? Have you ever tried to explain the complexities of teen suicide or self harm to those it hit hardest? Divorce. School violence. The tears haunt you, the “I need yous,” the moments they curled right next you and you just prayed you didn’t have to move, that should they decide to talk you would find the words.

That. That was hard. The ER visits. The calls from parents wondering if life was ok. The reassurance. We were babies raising babies.

That was 24/7 and immediate. The conversations that are now done I still play in my mind.

I decided to take a chance on law school because I want to be a diplomat. A player on the international policy scene. I am passionate at being at the (head) of the table and ensuring that no girl will ever have to wonder about breaking a glass ceiling.

I believe in conversation. I believe in conversation interpersonally. I believe in conversation on a micro level. And I want to see if conversation, with the right people, can change the world on the biggest platform, the largest stage.

So, yeah, law school is hard.

When is the good stuff ever easy?

(And those conversations...the ones with the teens...some of the best, ever.)

because what's Philadelphia without bruce?

soundtracks

I'm sitting here, curled up on the corner of my couch with Netflix on silent (really it's just taking forever because the internet cannot handle the tab requirements of teenagers). It's a rare moment of being in my room with nothing to hold my attention, so I drift into my own thoughts, and then I hear it. The soundtrack of the last three years.

There are muffled voices and shrieking hysterics and the running of feet down a hallway of upperclassmen girls, my babies. They close doors and drop down bags and turn on music. They laugh and tell stories with loud voices and I'm imagining big hand gestures, to further the drama no doubt. They move on, from one room to the next in an ongoing of homework procrastination. Music gets turned up a little higher, showers turn on, make up comes off. I imagine book bags sitting on the ends of beds and windows opening to let in the night breeze with no mind to the incoming mosquitos. They too want to hear the hustle of the outside as others rush to sign in, mindlessly laughing and skipping, already late, already not caring.

They take up so much life, my teenagers. They feel everything all the time and they exhaust me. But, man, are they wonderful. Their future scares and exhilarates them. They are embracing it arms wide open, jumping off the edge with full faith that the parachute will appear.

But right now, they are savoring all of the finales. The final tech week, the last project. The last time their boyfriend will wait for them in that secret spot that we all know about. The last whispers before they part from each other.

So they scurry and they run. They begin to lessen their focus on how much they may (or may not) need me and focus on their longing for each other. For simple, for predictable, for routine.

I sit and let it all circle around me. The beautiful wonder of it all. I sit here and know that downstairs sits a woman not too different from me who is trying to decide if this is a job for her. And I silently hope that she is in awe of us-- the people who know the names and the backstories, who call them "honey" and "love" because we can and they let us -- I hope that she is dizzy keeping up with it all. More, however, I fear that she will easily replace us, those of us leaving, and our memory will dwindle.

I sit and let the soundtrack swirl. And then Netflix loads. And my night off calls and I let go. I let go of the strings and the noise quiets.

For now, they are the soundtrack of my life. And soon, we will part. But not now. Now we dance together, blind to any interloper.

19 days left. Nineteen.

Don't blink.

lessons from mamma c

Me and Mamma C // May 2014

There has been endless mother's day love on Facebook today. And it's delightful. More because our mother's make the eighties look so awesome and I really wish I could raid those closets for some real winning outfits (seriously).

I have a number of very good photos with my mother. But what makes her so awesome are those tidbits of knowledge she spouts in the middle of regular life. Bonding with my mom happened late nights, during the commercials of Gilmore Girls and Lifetime movies, and on the ride to and from school. That was our world. And now we text all the time. With emoticons. I LOVE emoticons. Anyway, it's only been about a million years since I wrote something on this little blog of mine and while there is a lot to catch you batch of people up on, nothing is quite as inspiring as the relationship between mothers and daughters. So, here are some nuggets of wisdom from the great and lovely Mamma C. Long may she reign. (And probably find a multitude of grammatical errors in this post.)

words of wisdom from mamma c:
make a decision. good or bad, at least the decision will be made.
just because no one sees your socks doesn't mean you can't like them.
never doubt for a single moment that whatever you're worrying or thinking about isn't important. if you're thinking about it, that makes it important.
running sucks. what sucks worse is not being able to.
always laugh loudly.
talking about nothing means everything to someone.
you will never regret eating chocolate.
target has it. if it doesn't go to anthropologie.
never expect someone else to make you happy.
everyone has the one got away. the cool thing is what you learn from that person.
people go to bed angry. that's ok.
always have your own money.
many women have worked so that you have been independent. that is a privilege use it wisely.
"motherhood was my dream. you existing is all i've ever wanted. that certainly doesn't mean you have to want to be a mother. you get to be you. that's enough for me"

yeah...she's the coolest. but don't worry. i share her :)

Mamma C, the Target dog Spot, Me #selfie style // Seattle WA, 2015

the reason why

Pictures from the Jersey Shore, Belmar

I wish I had some big reason for why I’ve been so absent and not writing. Because it’s true, I do love to write and take pictures. I still believe one thousand percent that life was meant to be documented and see no reason not to take a million pictures of food or yourself, and if you have trouble sticking to the 140 character limit on twitter, man I feel you.

But seriously. I’ve been writing. It’s just been bad. Whiny. Underdeveloped, Lots of meanderings about nothing in particular...and we all know I crave writing about nothing in particular so those writings must have been really bad.

I’ve been sparring you bad writing. You’re welcome.

And now it’s the end of July and summer is going to end. And then I’m going to go back to Michigan and to school and to an entire group of people I love who are going to kindly ask me what in the world I did with myself all summer and I’m going to have nothing to tell them. Because seriously, I’ve been so unproductive that maybe that’s why my writing has sucked! There is nothing to write about!

Ok, so that’s a little harsh. Because I came home this summer with the intention to take it slow. To study and sleep and just simply be around to witness the lives of my family, especially my siblings who are all grown. And I was excited about it, I am still excited about it.

This summer I was supposed to read more. I haven’t really. I’m trying to get back into it, but the jive just hasn’t been there.

I was supposed to watch Game of Thrones with Zach. Truth: I have only watched half of season one and he is done (he, my sister, my brother, and every other human being on the planet who has started that show and then eaten it up).

I really wanted to participate in community gardening. I haven’t yet because I can’t figure out the website.

I wanted to take pictures and write a lot. Duh. That’s a big no.

Save all the money. (freakin’ LSAT prep took it. )

But like all great plans, sometimes it fizzles and there is no use putting pressure of people; witnessing lives is about a lack of expectations, and about just being around to be around.

Here’s what I’ve done (not all bad at all, but I just want to be clear):

Watched so much Criminal Minds I think I should be hitting repeats at any moment.

Found out how to get to Target without directions (this is a HUGE win people)

Unsuccessfully taken the LSAT (BOO) and signed up for a tutor

Ran errands, grocery shopped, car washed, vacuumed, scrubbed and tidied all around

Shopped for three child birthday parties (bought adorable outfits, i am a HIT with two year olds)

Run. I run a lot. Not like a lot at one time, but often. I prefer to run in any season that is NOT summer so just being out there is good. Get’s me moving and stops the thinking.

Traveled. Every summer I usually spend all my money on a month of travel. That’s that happens when you have lived all over, you have friends all over. And while I miss those I haven’t seen so very much. I did get a quick getaway with Mamma C to New Jersey and a Fourth of July vacay back to Michigan.

See, so being a woman of leisure has it’s benefits. I get to answer phone calls and emails in the timeliest of fashions. I’m always home for dinner and nightly girly TV with Mamma (season finale of the Bachelorette is MONDAY people! get ready!). I get to sleep in and wear pjs all the time.

This isn’t how I thought this summer would be. This certainly isn’t how I thought twenty six would be, but I am going to try to put away all the what ifs and hopes. I am going to stop comparing my vacation with everyone else’s on Facebook (all you people at the beach and Paris…).

When I was in Peace Corps all I wanted was simple.Now I have it. Right now. So, if I don’t write for a bit, I’m busy doing nothing and trying to savor it because summer is going to end...

and then you get a ferris wheel

some days can be harder than others. some days it's the internal struggle of whether you eat your feelings some more or you just sit in your bathroom in the dark and have a good cry, mascara and snot running simultaneously.

twenty-four hours just isn't enough. right now i need twenty-eight or thirty. thirty hours would be great. and i wouldn't sleep, i promise. i'd study more so my mom doesn't get worried and i'd run a little farther and i'd schedule a whole hour for meals, maybe i'd even see breakfast. and then maybe, in those small moments before bed i'd be able to read this book i've had bookmarked at chapter two for three weeks. or i'd stare at the ceiling and stretch my legs while listening to vinyl...i haven't done that in ages.

sometimes you have to schedule it. the scenic route home so you get one more song on the radio, the thanks that the person painting your nails doesn't speak English because then you can ponder the significance of russian navy nails matching the swimsuit you won't be wearing to the beach because it's too cold, and then get wrapped up in the documentary on the TV-- the Discovery channel, it's actually the coolest thing.

and you have to be grateful for that time, and not judge it against the time that could have been spent doing other things.

and you have to hug the people around you who force you to get out: to play carnival games and eat cotton candy. for the one who will sneak you out to see the ferris wheel before the kiddies get to it, only slightly judging you for taking 8 pictures of it and wanting to put them all on instagram.

this is a time of year when emotions are high, time is fleeting, and every moment counts. and i want it all to last a little longer. to linger.

but i'm ready.
the final countdown.
and, you know, a ferris wheel.

happily.ever.after.

They all could be famous one day.

Those faces I see coming and going every day. Sometimes they are on stage in costumes and more makeup than I dare image. I see it crumbling off  hours later as they shovel in spoonfuls of ice cream. As they yell over each other trying to keep my attention from my computer screen.

They could be famous one day.

When they speak there are hushed voices. When they sing people stop and listen. With the standing ovations and packed recitals, they always stand center stage. You can see them in person or live stream it to wherever you are. When the volume is high every voice is distinguishable and individual.

They could be famous.

Because they have raw talent and educated minds. Because they are strong and independent and determined. Because they have big dreams and a plan to get them there. Because they believe that everything, even the fairy tale, is possible.

Someday, their name will be in lights and their autograph will be worth something. Someday they will be their own business with assistants and managers.

But that is someday.

Today. Well today they get to be seventeen.

They get to skip around outside hand and hand with their best friend. They get to have a major crush on the boy next to them in ecology. They get to learn how to skip rocks from their roommate. They get to lay on blankets in crop tops and short shorts with huge diva sunglasses and no one will bother them.

Today I get to witness their lives as they are right now. Delightful beautiful messes all of us. The drama of relationships and college and senior year. The question of which prom dress to wear, who is dating whom, what’s for dinner-- those are hot topics. I provide the never ending candy jar and a couch that is always open for long chats and semi naps.

That’s what I do. I witness lives.

One day we could all be famous. And live happily ever after.

Today, today, we get to be together.

mamma c: long may she reign

It’s amazing what time does to people. It morphs them and changes them. Each minute leaves a mark in some way. Nothing goes unrecognized.

From ever since I can remember she has been here. Right by me. Someone asked me once what my first memory of her was, but there is no way to separate her from me in my head, and in those early memories, there is just us. Together.

Time has not been easy on her. Those stories that spill out of her-- that I didn’t even know existed until late nights one summer when I was much older-- those stories tell a life that I can only imagine. One where the children were the grown ups and the faults of parents were too strong to ignore. I see her as a little girl with dark hair and a stern face. There wouldn’t be visible softness, just an inner light that would refuse to go out throughout any of that.

She says all she ever wanted was us. No matter how old we are or how dysfunctional we act, we were dreamed into existence by her. We are her softness, her smile, her hope.

There is nothing I am that is not because of her. She taught me to trust the world, to believe in goodness, to give more than I take, to love because it feels good, and to dream because all things are possible.

I am her biggest accomplishment and she is my biggest gift.

Happy (now belated) Mother’s Day Mamma. Long may you reign.

one grey hair at a time

I turned twenty-six this past Sunday. (Yay birthdays!) And, I was sitting at dinner surrounded by margaritas and queso dip and my dear friend Maggie, the queen of good questions and conversation starters, asks me: “So Mary, what was your favorite moment of being twenty -five?”

She was probably hoping for a good story. An all nighter. That one time I made out by the lake (which has NEVER happened mother, I assure you). Something juicy. What she got was probably much more representative of me. What she got was honest.

I said something like this:

I hated turning twenty-five. It seemed old. Solid. People who are twenty-five seem to be more put together, more direct, there is something about them that you expect just comes with the age. And I felt none of that. Plus, I knew that I would be twenty-five and working this small life in northern Michigan and I was terrified that I was somehow disappointing my sixteen year old self. That she was looking at me from somewhere in utter disbelief -- that all those late nights, the lack of social life, the grades-- had landed me here.

But instead, twenty five came, because I have absolutely no control over time, and nothing horrible happened. It became a complicated year. And somewhere between Thanksgiving and New’s Years I took a deep breath and let all that other crap go. Somewhere in there I became totally okay with being in my mid-twenties, no matter what it actually looked like. Because there is so much about coming of age and growing up that is work that never gets glorified or considered a success. No, I don’t have a husband, or a baby, or a small business. I don’t own my own home, I haven’t graduated from anything beyond undergrad. But I am here. I am strong and independent. I am getting better and better at being in my own skin, no matter what it looks like or how much it weighs. I have opinions and likes and desires. I can decorate and name my favorite band and give advice. I write and read and listen to vinyl. I bought a car and pay my own bills. I know how I like my eggs and my coffee. I have dreams and a way to get them. I am every bit my own person. And I built that. (Well, me and a village.)

And so that makes me feel good. That makes me proud and deserving of celebration.

It’s a beautiful thing getting older. It’s a gift not everyone gets. And no, twenty-six isn’t old. But it’s old enough. And wonderfully enough, it just isn’t that scary. (Next year...well that could be different…)

wait for me

You told me once you couldn’t do this without me. Sometimes I think about what it would be like without me here, without this relationship in front of us, trying to untangle the good from the bad, the me from the you. I sit here and stare into those blue eyes of yours getting pulled from whatever we are chatting about into visions of the sea, until I blink, and am pulled right back to this present moment; I smile up at you because you’ve always been so much taller than I am. And you squeeze my hand.

According to one life plan I wasn’t supposed to be here, where I am standing looking at you. Life was supposed to have something else in store, but then I took a chance and challenged myself again to face some personal fears. And God must have smiled on that decision because with that I got you. With you came a rejuvenation into my work and my love for the world around me. I began to see it all through you. It’s an adventure to you, it’s a world to be conquered, a world to love.

So I get you and those blue eyes. I love it when you call me by name, not a nickname like all the ones I give you, but something about my name rolling off those lips, the simplicity of it all. I blush when you seek me out, when you linger around to get my attention even if I’m talking to someone else. I love that we don’t really have personal boundaries and you stand so close I can compare my poor posture to your why-yes-I’ve-taken-a-dance-class stance. And every so often, when you sit down and I face you, our legs intertwine slightly and you play with my hands like no one else can see us. It’s nothing you say. Your eyes twinkle and you talk to me about your day and your work, meanwhile, our hands are pulling in and out of each other so softly it makes me tingle.

Despite all this, you say you want to hang out more, to see me, and something stops me. I delay you feeling like whatever this is, or could be, cannot actually happen. The timing is wrong I tell myself; it's all off. I cannot ruin this magic. Not yet. That risk is too big.

So I pause and I open my eyes and see yours starring back at me. Waiting for me. Waiting for whatever happens next.

tuesday

Today is one of those days where you keep rolling over to hover in the land of sleep just a little bit longer. There is nothing, not even a snooze button, that makes sleeping just a little longer so heavenly as knowing you should be awake with the rest of the world, but choosing yourself, choosing the back of your eyelids and hanging onto one more dream just a little longer. No one really cares how late you sleep in. So you let it linger.

Today is a day where you smell of sleep and dreams and leftover perfume from the day before. There is no hurry to shower, but when you snuggle against the warm side of the pillow you giggle at the way pajamas smell against the cold air and it all seems to fit with the snow on the ground that daunts the outside world. Why bother with that when there is a book within reach? Now you can pause between paragraphs and close your eyes dreaming of the way New York is described and let your mind wander. Images of the people you love and those around you move around in your head. While you think of calling them, the thought of opening your mouth to say “Hello” seems like too much effort. So you sigh in a way that leaves your face in a faint smile and you shift sides because your shoulder starts to hurt. The thought occurs to you that while it is nice to have this bed all to yourself having someone next to you, judging the book you’re reading, wondering what is behind those sleepy eyes of yours, well...that would also be lovely in a different kind of way. But not today. Today is for rubbing your eyes awake like a four year old waking up, hair all around you, not caring about any of it at all.

It’s quiet today and you can hear the clock tick and the humidifier run. Sometime, though you’re not sure when, a tuba starts playing and it makes you realize that you are not alone in the world and that the day is happening at a faster pace for some. But not for you. It’s slow. The hours are still and afternoon turns into early evening and you may wonder if your to do list is worth looking at--really when does laundry need to be done? Who is actually going to care if your nails are painted?

That’s later. Right now there is a book needing to be finished and covers needed to be thrown over your head like you’re hiding. Because that’s really what you’re doing. You are playing hide and seek with the world wondering if anyone is going to seek you out, not really caring because the hiding is so much fun. It feels good being away. You can flee last nights awkward conversations that you can’t get out of your head; you can flee the cute boy down the street; you can flee the expectations and the ideas. You revert. You prove you introverted self correct and you hide. Not really wanting to be found anyway.

Tomorrow will come and none of this will be possible. Maybe even in a couple of hours you will decide to take a long shower and put in a load of laundry, turn on your computer, and enter the world.

Not now.

Now is for you. And the almost finished book in front of you.

on a good day

Sometimes I go days without thinking about you. I am able to live in the moment and get all entangled in the lives of those around me. I take pictures, laugh really hard, study, dream, and dance in the car.

Then, just as if no time had passed, you come back in. It’s usually something small, a little text, a comment on social media -- a problem of the twenty-first century some would say. And just like that, I am stuck, staring at those couple of words, and I go back. Back to when it was you and me. When we made promises never expecting to break them. When you had my heart and my secrets.

I tell myself that we were too young to understand how good we had it. Those feelings, the flash of young love, it was too much for me to process, too much for smart people like us to trust. We got in our own way, sabotaged it, made excuses, and in the end let it go. It was the one thing I wanted and it -- you and I -- crumbled before my eyes. I failed. And then, in my truest fashion, I pretended. Pretended it wasn’t worth it, pretended you would go on loving me and that one day we’d come back to each other.

You told me once we may have shot in the future. And I clung to that. When I close my eyes, I see it on my computer screen, sitting there like all I had to do was click my heels three times and you’d be here ready for me, in the same way I am here ready for you.

Stupid us. We tried to be friends. We thought we could be that success story, the two people whose names were always next to each other;  we’d prove that we were mature enough to ebb in and out of each other’s lives and make it.

We’ve been at this for about eight years now.

Somedays I get dressed up for someone who isn’t you. I think about kissing someone who isn’t you. I dream of a future far away from you. Those are the good days.

the #polarvortex

The Polar Vortex is here! Yesterday we here in Traverse City clocked -18 with the wind chill. Needless to say, it is cold. And the wind is brutal. This is what Netflix and hot chocolate was made for. As far me, I'm spending some of my time off cuddled in blankets, eating s'mores, and tonight's big chore is doing laundry. Livin' large! :)

Here's what Interlochen is looking like. 

as someone who still gets winter break

Lucky me, I am one of the few people who still get a winter break. Ah, the perks of working in education. And first of all, you should follow me on instagram so that you get a full look, but in the meantime, here are some delightful highlights.

Lala in her full glory

the carter 3

Cousins as couches 

the virginia beach boardwalk

bobby

back at home + the current read

just a girl

from Paper Towns, John Green

I remember toward the end of my junior year in high school liking this boy and when we got back to school in the fall people asking me what was the deal between the two of us. While I had absolutely no idea of it at the time, I suppose there was some general curiosity into the social life of the wallflower and soon to be valedictorian that I was, and friends of ours starting playing matchmaker. Even though everyone’s attempts fell apart--timing has never been my strong point in relationships-- I recall telling someone that the reason I would always remember said boy was that through all the drama that was senior year, and for all the expectations I had accumulated -- Ivy League future, speeches, honor societies-- at the end of it what he saw was just a girl. And that I loved.

It’s something that I think about all the time, the idea of something versus that actuality of something, and how often in our lives it’s not something but rather someone. We have to knock them off the pedestal we put them on to save them and ourselves, we can’t live on pedestals and often we never ask to be put there in the first place.

Sometimes I think about how I have become such an open book in recent years. I didn’t use to be this way-- so loud, so opinionated -- but I think one of the reasons I am has come out of the way I have been perceived -- as having it all together, having the perfect family, being destined for greatness-- I knew I couldn’t live under the shadow of perception forever, so in order to beat it, I just began talking.

I’m still being told that I am intimidating. My resume is too long, my adventures too grand, my dreams too big, so I wait. I wait for the people who when they look at me, they just see a person, a girl.

Yesterday I was in meetings for four hours all talking about self-reflection and strengths. (Yeah, it was a little heavy.) At one point we start talking about how you would describe yourself if you couldn’t use the regular statistics. What would you say if you didn’t say where you were from? Or how old you are? Or your one quirky fact? What would you add to the conversation? Who are you?

After some thought, I think this is my answer...for now…

I am a dreamer, a loner, a creative. I long to feel purposeful and needed by those around me. I want to give of my time and energy to a cause and fight for it with everything I am. I am an overachiever, sometimes controlled my to do lists and high standards. I am loyal to a fault, have no patience for ignorance or cruelty, and have a soft spot for John Green novels and chocolate. I feel totally safe feeling small and have owned the fact that twenty-five is a beautiful age because you really are smart enough to know better and young enough to go dancing all night and then eat chocolate milkshakes at 2am. I am just a girl who may or may not be on the precipice of greatness. Do you see the girl?

this is me! picture from yesterday in my new sweater

the holiday season

Interlochen Holiday Party. ResLife Represents

hello hello! so i know it's been forever...and I have so much to write about! but right now i'm under the weather and years have taught me that one shouldn't publish things when under the influence of cold medicine. so please come back when there is more to say. in the meantime...

find me on pinterest. or instagram.

and i'll be back!

things unspoken part 2

This series continues to talk about some of the things I don’t usually write about here. My point is to find the words...and let the rest just fall into place.

There is a running joke in the movie The Runaway Bride where Julia Roberts’ character doesn’t actually know how she likes her eggs. She just eats them the way that her significant other eats them and has absolutely no opinion of her own preference. Then, towards the end, there is a scene where she stands with plates and plates of eggs, searching for how she likes her eggs.

This is exactly how I feel about music.

It’s an odd thing. Here I am, twenty something in a culture where generations are molded by the music they listen to. I could walk into any high school, college, bar, group of people and have groups identify themselves by the music they love or hate. What music you listen to seems to define what kind of person you are and what group you belong to.

Now this may seem like a weird subject to talk about in a series that is about disclosing...

But here’s the thing.

I HATE it when someone asks me what type of music I listen to, who my favorite group is, what is on repeat on my ipod. And more than that, I don’t ever tell people that because it seems so uncool.

I grew up listening to the music my Mom listened to--a nice blend of 90s country and soft rock. I know the words to every Faith Hill and Colin Raye song. At one point I think we had every album Celine Dion put out and my sister and I can still recite the words to The Bodyguard soundtrack (the good times of Whitney Houston…)

My Dad on the other hand was a die hard rock fan. Smashing Pumpkins, U2, The Stones, Queen...when he would drive that is what was on the radio.

By the time high school rolled around I played in the world of top forty. Nothing too scandalous, but sure, I like to think I wasn’t totally out of it.

Then, my siblings started driving and I was in the car with them. I didn’t care what was on the radio so it became their preferences. Years past and top forty became slightly passe and we moved to alternative rock and local bands. While Bobby’s musical taste is expansive, Laura’s is mindblowing. Girlfriend knows her stuff and listens to true alternative and indie. They are great about making me mixes and recommending artists. Et VOILA! I have a random assortment of music on my own.

But about two years ago I sat there looking at my iTunes account realizing that it was the most random grouping of songs. I wanted it to resemble more of what I liked. And then it dawned on me, I have absolutely no idea.

A couple of days ago someone said to me, “We can put music on, but I have no idea what you like…”

The hard truth is that I’m not attached to music the way most people are. Top forty doesn’t feel like I’m selling my soul to the industry. Country music isn’t about tractors and living in the south. Rap isn’t totally offensive. The Beatles are great because they are THE BEATLES and that doesn’t mean I don’t know anything else about them. I have more Taylor Swift on my ipod than I’d like to admit, but she’s great to run to and that’s really what I use my ipod for. When I get into a car I am never the one to DJ. It’s just not my thing.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not slowing getting in touch with some favorites. And believe it or not, some of them even my sister hasn’t heard of--a feat that makes me so very proud.

What kind of music do I like?

Well…

I lean towards strong female lead singers. Adele, Lorde, Jessie Ware, Sara Bareilles. I like a little indie: The Civil Wars, Lord Huron, The Lone Bellow. I am totally in love with slow music that you want in your head all day (and that’s not whiny): Michael Kiwanuka I could listen to all day. I totally have a soft spot  songs you’ll find on the radio, there is always a time and place for Beyonce and Katy Perry, and yes, even Taylor Swift.

Yes, there are ton more on my Spotify and iTunes account. (I didn’t even touch on Maroon 5, Mumford and Sons, or Justin Timberlake…)

At 25 I’m starting to navigate the neverending black hole that is music. I’m trying to keep my cool and understand the vast deepness of the genre, and find my place within it. I want to be able to rattle off favorites and songs and blow your mind with my underground taste. And, it’s very likely that won’t happen. It’s more likely that I’ll have you laughing at the fact I know the words to that song on the radio, whatever that song is, and sing along in the grocery store. But what I want is a playlist to turn on at midnight when it’s just me in my room, when the day has been long and hard and so good, when I sit on the floor, legs outstretched, back against my bed, I can close my eyes and hum along. I want music that fits my life. That’s slow and steady and filled with lyrics that mean something. With a special place for music you just have to chair dance along to, for just when the moment calls for it.