Emotionally Involved

I am sitting on my bed, listening to the BYU vs Air Force game on my alarm clock radio because I don't get the channel it's broadcasted on on my apartment TV. Air Force just scored a second touchdown, putting them ahead of the Cougs 14-10. It's right before halftime. And I'm depressed because a) I'm forced to seclude myself in my bedroom to listen to the game and b) the Cougs are losing.

And I ask myself why I allow myself to get so completely emotionally involved in things. In lots of things, Cougar football being only one of many.

I believe that getting emotionally involved in things is a good thing. Life is boring if you're not passionate about something. But I feel like I get incredibly worked up about just about everything. My friend Jonathan always makes fun of me for getting worked up about things. I get charged up about something and my voice rises and I speak more emphatically and Jonathan says, "Oh no, Lindy's getting passionate again!" And the worst part is that I don't realize I'm doing it. And when he mentions it, inevitably I go red and hide my face behind a pillow or my sweater or my hands because it's embarrassing.

And BYU just got intercepted in the endzone with 11 seconds left until halftime. So the Cougars get no points, and Air Force gets the ball at half. My depression deepens.

It is especially embarrassing when I get passionate about something tiny and stupid. Like where to load a plastic serving spoon in the dishwasher. Who cares? As long as it doesn't fall into the bottom of the dishwasher and melt on the heating element, who honestly cares about where you load the stupid spoon? Apparently I do. Merely one of the many inane arguments I've gotten into.

So why do I do it? It usually just ends up biting me in the butt. I get embarrassed, or someone gets offended because of it. Am I just a passionate person? Perhaps. But I don't know if that's a good thing or not.

I guess I'll remain here for the next two hours, sitting on my bed, listening to the game, hoping that my Cougars will play better the second half so I won't be angry the rest of the day. And if they do lose, I guess I'll just have to work to keep my emotions in check, even though that would mean that we would have no shot at the Conference title and it would make a win against Utah next week even more out-of-reach than it seems now. It's just football, right? Then why do I care so much? Oh, right, because I'm me. And I'm emotionally involved in everything.

Boy Craziness

Wow, it has been a log time since I last posted. It's about time I get back on here.

At the end of the summer, I was really excited for the fall to start, because we had a huge turnover in my apartment complex. Something like 160 new people moved in. I'm not gonna lie, I was extremely excited for new guys to move into the ward. But I didn't really think I'd get all that excited about any of them. You see, it has been a good seven years since I have had a full-blown crush on anyone. Seven years! And that's no exaggeration.

It had been so long since I had had a crush that I was convinced I was broken. I thought I was incapable of liking anyone, of being interested at all. It was kind of scary, actually.

But then the fall came. And the first Sunday with the new ward, I found someone that I started to like. And that crush hasn't gone away! Yay for no longer being broken!

Except for one little catch . . . I think I've gone to the other extreme. I'm really interested in a certain guy in my ward, and I'm marginally interested in at least two other guys. Not to mention the guys that I could definitely be interested in if they showed any interest toward me. I swear that I have never been so boy crazy. Ever. Not even in high school. Okay . . . I was probably this bad in high school. But I don't know what my issue is! It's driving me bonkers. Whatever or whoever fixed me did far too good of a job.

Change

I used to hate change. In high school and even in the first half of my college career, change terrified me. I was much happier when things just stayed the same. And when things did change, I wanted those changes to be few and far between. I felt comfortable with the familiar, and I wanted to be in the familiar as often as possible.

No wonder the move to college was a terrifying one for me. No wonder I stayed in the same apartment with practically the same roommates for two years. No wonder I stayed in the same crappy relationship for four years. I was petrified at the thought of changing things because then I would have to face the unknown.

So no wonder, when I finally did start to change things, I finally felt like I was growing. Without change, I didn't stretch myself. I didn't pull myself out of my comfort zone. For who knows how long, I was stagnant, not progressing, not moving forward or backward. I was hanging on to familiarity, hanging on for dear life, because I knew that once I let go I wouldn't know where I would land.

And then I made a huge change in my life. A liberating change. An illuminating change. And since then, nearly every four months something has changed. Something big like where I live or who I live with. Last April, I moved home, the first time in two years, and I got two new jobs in four months. Then in August I moved into an apartment with five completely random girls. Then in December I moved to an apartment with one person I knew, and four that I didn't know. Then in April my five roommates were replaced with five completely new ones. And now this August I'm moving to yet another apartment, with one person I know and four more whom I don't know. And then this coming December, I'm graduating from college, and trying to make it completely on my own, which is probably the biggest change since coming to college in the first place.

And while these changes have been a little nerve-racking, I find myself excited for them. Relishing in them. Thriving off of them. Change is a wonderful, wonderful thing, and I know now how much I was missing when I avoided it. Whenever something changes, I feel like I'm growing and learning something new that I would never have learned otherwise. I'm figuring out who I am and what I want, and it's an amazingly freeing experience.

Destiny?

When I was at home for Father's Day this past weekend, I had this sudden urge to read my old journals. So, naturally, I started at the beginning. And I was amazed at what I found.

I was a nerd even then!

I used the word "whatsoever." What eleven-year-old says "whatsoever"? Especially in relation to the fact that there were no cute boys in my class. "None whatsoever." Good heavens, I was an odd child.

And then, a little further on, I noticed that I used the word "whom." Whom! Nobody uses "whom" now, let alone a twelve-year-old! My niece is twelve, and I don't even think she knows the word exists. I even used it correctly! (I checked, of course.)

And to top it all off, I wrote dialog. Whole conversations set in quotes, and punctuated properly. I know editing minors now who didn't know how to correctly punctuate dialog before college, and I was doing it at eleven.

I must have been destined to be an English major. With a brain like that, there's nothing else I could have done.

Let's Grow Up, Kids.

I don't understand why some people just can't leave high school. High school was probably the most awkward period of my life. Why would you want to stay there? The girls are catty, the boys are stupid, and life revolves around school. Sounds like so much fun!

I know so many people from my high school days who can't figure out how to move on with life. They went to college, but clung so hard to Magna and to their experiences there that they have never been able to really leave. Last night was a perfect illustration of these people to me, and made me realize how happy I am that I have grown up, moved on, and moved out.

Last night I went to an improv show at the community theater in my hometown. It was fun, I enjoyed myself, but I felt like I was back in high school, and I didn't like it. At all. Every one of the actors on stage were people that I knew in high school; some I went to high school with and others who were much older than me, but who still hung around the school. (I thought those people were weird when I was in high school--now I just think they're sad.) So now they spend all their free time at the theater instead of at the school. And the whole placed just reeked of high school: trying to impress people, proving their ability to be funny. It just made me sad that they have to revert to acting like high school kids to feel important.

The show was good, but everything from the people to the music to the jokes forcibly took me back to a place that I was all too happy to leave behind, and none too willing to return to. Sure, I had fun in high school, but being an adult is so much better. My relationships have more depth, my conversations have more meaning, and my life in general is more fulfilling.

So come on, kids. Let's grow up. Join us in the world of the adults. You won't regret it, I promise.

Inadequacy

Failure is my biggest fear. As much as I like to tell myself that I'm more afraid of small places or spiders or heights, I think I'm lying to myself.

I think I've come to grips with the fact that I'm not always going to be the best at what I'm doing, especially at BYU where it often feels like your best just isn't good enough. But coming to grips with that doesn't make it any easier to deal with.

I want to be the best at everything I do, to know that I am doing quality work, that my best is not only adequate but more than enough. But all too often I feel like so many other people are better at what I want to do than I am, are much more qualified for the jobs I want than I am. It's an awful feeling to know that your chances of getting an internship are slim to none when compared with the people around you.

Take today, for instance. We had a workshop in my editing class. All I had to do was edit three of my classmates' papers. That's all. Should be right up my alley, right? This is what I want to do with the rest of my life. It should be easy.

And so I thought it would be. And so I thought it was. Until I sat down to discuss our edits with a group of other editing minors and I saw the amounts of edits they had on their copies of the papers. Gad, it was embarrassing! I listened to them talk about the changes that should be made and realized just how much I missed.

What if I'm truly not cut out for this field that I've chosen? What if I miss so many things in my first job that I get fired? What if I fall to pieces from the pressure of editing? These thoughts terrify me. I've planned on this profession for four years, came into college knowing exactly what I wanted to do with my life, and those dreams haven't changed since. What am I supposed to do if this falls through?

I don't know, maybe my unswerving desire to be an editor is reason enough to keep plugging. Despite my insecurities and inadequacies, it's way too late to turn back now. I guess my only option is to step it up and make my best better.

Pointless

Have you ever had one of those classes that seems mostly pointless? One of those classes where you may engage in some interesting discussions, but all it is is talk? That feels like the only way it's furthering your education is because it fulfills a requirement, but requires no effort and almost no thought?

I hate these classes. They're such a waste of tuition money. And book money. And time. There are so many other things I could be doing--like the homework from my other classes. Or working. Or having a social life.

Instead I'm stuck in a stuffy room for two solid hours while my teacher talks at us. She thinks she's funny, but she's not. She's thinks she's my friend, but she's not. And she dresses terrible to boot. You'd think that a college professor would have the sense to dress nicer . . . or at least to dress in clothes that aren't stained . . .

It's a damn good thing there are only two more weeks of classes. I don't think I can stand much more.

The Parable of the Caulk

For the past few weeks at work, my co-workers and I have been busy re-caulking all the bathrooms in all the buildings of Heritage Halls. This isn't as easy as it might seem. In fact, it's the thing that I hate doing most at my job. I despise caulking. It's worse than lights, tub clogs, sink clogs, even toilet clogs. Why? Well, if caulk gets moldy and black, it cannot merely be caulked over, or the mold will simply work its way through the new layer. So in order to truly fix the bad caulk, you have to dig it out--which is a bloody pain in the arse. It requires an assortment of tools: screwdrivers, putty knives, chisels, razor blades . . . anything that will aid in ripping up the black caulk. And it never comes off easily or cleanly. I apologize to the custodial crew who had to clean up after our caulking storm hit.

Well, as I was doing this mind-numbing work for hours on end, I started applying this to my life and repentance. (I know, it's sad. It's proof that I was replacing so much caulk that I started thinking about it way more than is normal.) Surprisingly enough, the application is rather poignant to me.

We, as mere humans, are not perfect. Therefore, we will sin. It's just the way it goes; we can't get around it. When we sin, it's like our caulk is getting moldy. It is our responsibility to dig that nasty caulk out as soon as possible to keep the mold from spreading. And yes, it's hard. We're going to have to hack and scrape and cut that caulk to get it out, probably scraping and bruising ourselves in the process. But if we don't attack that spot quickly, before we know it that mold will have spread to the rest of the caulk and it will require much, much more time and energy to replace it.

We also can't just cover it up with a new bead of caulk, hiding the damage that has been done. The caulk will look pretty for a little while, but a new bead doesn't fix the problem, it only delays the inevitable. Eventually the disgusting grossness will eat through the new layer and show itself anew.

Bottom line, no matter how much you hate recaulking (and how disgusting it can be), it is a necessary evil. Repentance is the only way to get rid of the sin; otherwise it will just get blacker and blacker and more difficult to remove.

Procrastination

Why do something today when you can put it off until tomorrow, right?

Hence why I am writing a pointless blog instead of doing my editing homework. Who needs a style guide anyway, right? Who cares that I've been putting it off for nearly a week . . . that the members of my group were expecting me to get the stuff to them by last Friday . . . that I'm the only one who hasn't finished their part of the project . . . that they're all waiting on me in order to finish the project . . . that once I get started it really, honestly will not be that difficult to finish.

It's just that the getting started part is definitely the hardest.

Obviously.

Seeing as how I'm sitting at my computer (which I turned on with the intent to start my homework), surfing Facebook, thinking of more things I could write about.

I'm hungry. I wonder what's in the pantry.

I'm pathetic.

Contentment

The past year of my life has been a turbulent one.

A little over a year ago, I broke up with my four-year boyfriend. We had been together since we were sixteen. By the end, it had turned pretty bad. I guess that was to be expected. What sixteen-year-old can really, truly have her life planned out? Definitely not me. For a long time, I was angry. Angry at what he had done to me, angry at how thoroughly he had hurt me, and angry that no matter how hard I tried I still seemed to think about him way too often.

I also realized that, because I was with one person during my crucial finding-myself years, I never fully found out who I was without him. So this past year I have been doing some exploring, making some big changes to see what I really like and don't like; who I truly am and what I want for myself.

And finally, after a year of tears and heartbreak and frustrations, I've come to a point where I am content. While I don't have myself fully figured out yet, I'm happy with where I am and with the progress I've made. The anger has completely gone; I cannot fully describe how light and happy that makes me feel.

Bottom line, life is good. Life is amazing. So full of possibility and promise. I'm a blank slate, ready to let the Lord work on me and make of me what He wants me to be. I am a strong woman, an independent woman, who is fully capable of being successful with or without someone by her side. I am going to live life to its fullest, enjoying every moment of it. Life is too short to waste.

My Nerdiness Revealed: Editing

I am a nerd. There really is no question about it. I think the fact that my blog name is a Shakespeare quote is evidence enough. But I'm not a nerd in the LARPing, WOWing, Dungeons and Dragons sense, thank heavens. No, I'm rather particular about where my nerdiness focuses. So this series is about those things that I'm most passionate about, which is where my nerdiness is revealed.

My first passion is editing. I have always loved books and really good writing, but it wasn't until college that I realized just how much I love grammar and words. I especially enjoy the ability to look at a written work, see the things that need to be fixed, fix them, and help the author look good. It's extremely satisfying, and the thought of doing it for a living is extremely exciting.

I think the thing that makes me the most nerdy about editing is the fact that I absolutely love The Chicago Manual of Style (that's the big orange book in the picture). It is truly the editor's Bible and never leaves my side when I'm doing anything editing related. It's chock-full of rules and guidelines for things such as hyphenation (in fact, I'm itching to look up chock-full to see if it's hyphenated, two words, or one word, but I'll refrain), semi-colons, abbreviations, capitalization, etc. If there is any kind of doubt about how to write anything, there's something in Chicago that will help. It makes me happy.

You want to know just how much I love grammar? I have a favorite punctuation mark. Yes, it's true. You want to know what it is? An em-dash. I love the em-dash. It's so versatile, so fun, so full of voice and style. An em-dash is a dash the length of the letter m in whichever typeface you're using. It can be used parenthetically, to show an interruption, or to show an abrupt change of subject. You may wonder why this post is so lacking in them; it's because this program doesn't have the ability to make them. They would only show up as two hyphens, which is not correct. Geez, I'm sad.

There is a slight downside, though, and that is just that often people are afraid that they'll say something wrong around me. For example, recently I put together a book for my mom's Mother's Day present, and when my dad emailed me his portion of it, he said, "Don't be too harsh on me, Ms. Editor." And in fact, I didn't change a single thing. See? I can restrain myself. (Well, that and my dad is a really good writer so I didn't need to change anything anyway.) The flip side (hyphen, no hyphen? Must see Chicago . . . ) is that anytime I make a mistake in speech (which happens a lot), I get hammered for it, because I'm the English major/editing minor. But despite all that, there is honestly nothing else I would rather be doing. I feel so at home in my editing field that I know for sure it's the right place for me.

The hard part now is finding a job . . .

Atonement

This is my proudest moment as a poet. I'm not a poet, so the fact that I wrote a decent sonnet is something for me to be proud of. Don't judge me too harshly, please.

The pain envelopes my pierced soul, a shroud
that puts all joy beyond my reach and makes
me tremble, cold, beneath the darkening cloud
of sin that hangs within me. Satan takes
my hand; he wants to claim me as his own.
Yet I resist, for in my heart I know
that I am not yet lost, not yet alone.
Oh Savior, hear my plea, to thee I go!
And then, a light shines brightly in my mind;
the mist is gone, my eyes see clearly now.
My Lord, my God, Redeemer of mankind,
has saved me, though unworthy, from my wo.
The tongue, inadequate, cannot express
the joy that comes through Him who felt the press.