My whole body aches. My neck, in particular, is sore from resting my head on the car window. And then… then I remember that I’m in Germany. I’m in Germany, traveling with some of my favorite people. The excitement wakes me up, and my exhaustion wanes slightly.
It’s the little things that make happy moments, not the grand events. Joy comes in sips, not gulps.
As the year wraps up, I hope you’ve braced yourselves for the onslaught of “year-in-review” and “2017 bashing” videos and posts coming your way from all sides this weekend. I’ll let the big news agencies and everyone else cover the heavy stuff.
Instead, I’ve taken a much more lighthearted approach. From January to December, here’s my year, summed up in 25 Facebook statuses. I went through all my posts from the last year and picked my favorites. Never forget, 2017 was the year that Starbucks dazzled us with unicorn frappuccinos, the Harry Potter series turned 20, and poop emoji’s are still a thing, leaving sociologists and cultural analysists with plenty of material for future research.
I’ve been gone for some time, and to be honest, I’ve really missed all of you! I feel somewhat guilty for just falling off the grid with no explanation…
So now I’m gonna do that thing bloggers do from time to time, when they feel they have horribly failed their audience. Every bad apology has a few lame excuses. Here are mine:
“Wait?! You weren’t born in Mexico? But your Spanish sounds so Mexican. You have that rhythm, that accent, that I associate with Mexicans,” a Colombian friend recently told me.
“Will liked to live so that no one could find fault with him, and to do that he had to live as nearly like other people as possible.”
—John Steinbeck, East of Eden
“We are like children building a sand castle. We embellish it with beautiful shells, bits of driftwood, and pieces of colored glass. The castle is ours, off limits to others. We’re willing to attack if others threaten to hurt it. Yet despite all our attachment, we know that the tide will inevitably come in and sweep the sand castle away. The trick is to enjoy it fully but without clinging, and when the time comes, let it dissolve back into the sea.”
Brother: I read your blog about healthy eating. Those are my favorite kind, the ones that are short and relatable.
Me: Thanks for reading my blog. I don’t always know when you read it.
Brother: Yeah, the ones about swimming too, and the one about the beach.
Me: Beach? Which one are you talking about?
Brother: The one with the couple having sex on the beach.
Me: What? I didn’t write about that on my blog.
Brother: Yeah, yeah you did. And there were like Pokemon Go players too or something.
Me: Wait… Do you mean the story about the blind man and his wife at the marina, the one where she’s describing to him what she sees?
Brother: Yeah!!! That was the one.
Me: HAHAHAHA I can’t believe those were the two stories you mixed up.
Me: I mean, I did tell you a story about seeing people having sex on the beach. And I guess both stories involve water and a couple.
Brother: I’m sure they were at two very different stages of their relationship.
So yes, there was one time I saw a couple having sex on the beach. And no, I don’t mean the cocktail.
It happened about six months ago. They were on the side of a sand dune, right by the entrance to the beach. The audacity. It was a cold day. The beach wasn’t crowded, but people had still come out to see the sunset. Several people honked at them, others yelled, and a lucky few were oblivious to the live performance.
I had been a part of the few in ignorant bliss. That is, until my other brother told me, “Hey Evelyn, did you see that couple having sex over there?” Because that’s what you do when you see people having sex on a public beach:
You tell your little sister so she can be scarred for life.
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O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!
America, The Beautiful Lyrics by Katharine Lee Bates – 1913
Every now and then, my father will tell me a story about my grandfather that will surprise me. Like how he got shot once, fled on horseback, and even though he reached safety, the bullet was never taken out. It’s moments like that one when I realize my grandparents had a very different life than I do.
I tend to reflect a lot on my family history, mostly on the vast life differences between generations. I especially thought about this during my college graduation. As I sat on the metal chairs facing the commencement stage, among all the other graduates, I kept thinking: How did I get here?
“‘Fat’ is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her. I mean, is ‘fat’ really the worst thing a human being can be? Is ‘fat’ worse than ‘vindictive’, ‘jealous’, ‘shallow’, ‘vain’, ‘boring’ or ‘cruel’?”
I always felt like if I didn’t mention it that maybe people wouldn’t notice. Or it could just be this sort of polite secret, like, open secret that we didn’t address, because it felt so shameful. It just felt impolite to talk about, like me not wanting to burden you with my failure. […] Yeah, and just give me a little more time. Let’s not talk about [my weight], and I promise I’ll fix it. […]
The way that we are taught to think about fatness is that fat is not a permanent state. You’re just a thin person who’s failing consistently for your whole life.
—Lindy West on This American Life “Tell Me I’m Fat” with Ira Glass
A couple months ago, I stopped by a local gym to get membership prices. I had heard it wasn’t too expensive. Plus, the gym had an indoor pool, which was a big selling point for me since I didn’t want a repeat of last year’s crazy tan lines. (They were pretty bad, like random-people-stopping-and-staring bad.)
Calvin: Why are you crying mom?
Mom: I’m cutting up an onion.
Calvin: It must be hard to cook if you anthrpomorphisize your vegetables.
― Bill Watterson,
One of my goals this summer is to learn how to cook healthier. Like most things in life, this is easier said than done, especially when my culinary knowledge is severely lacking (e.g. I can name more works by Charles Dickens than I can herbs and spices).
Thus, following a recipe takes a lot of private consulting with Google, YouTube, and my mother. I’ve been humbled through the process, often having to step out of my comfort zone of cereal and milk. And I mean that “stepping out part” literally; I’ve spent much more time walking around in a daze, up and down grocery store aisles in the search of strange, obscure ingredients.