stupid adventures in francesland

It's been a while. And I've been adjusting.

In the past three weeks, I've managed to graduate college, start two grown up jobs, help out with my best friend's wedding and for the first time in a good three years, I'm single.

Barf. I hate talking about relationships on the internet, and swore I never would on this blog, but this story wouldn't make much sense without it. And it's a pretty good story.

Single life is weird, and for the past month I've been figuring out life on my own and I've realized that, although I used to brag about independence, maybe I'm not as good at being alone as I thought.

Of course it's easy to say that I'm great at being alone and that I love time by myself when I always have another person there to call, but now... It just me, and that's a very strange thing.

I started out calling friends profusely (sorry, by the way) because my singleness coupled with getting home from work and having nothing to do caused me to go a little stir crazy. Then four days ago I bought Netflix and watched three seasons of How I Met Your Mother. Things were looking up.

But yesterday, after I realized the only reason I actually left my otherwise deserted apartment (roommates, are you alive?) was to get WingStop, I was determined to go out and show myself a good time.

I saw online that the Paseo (OKC's art district around 23rd) was having an Arts Festival this weekend. I've been wanting to go so badly, but unfortunately the people I had talked already had plans. I pouted about it for a while, then I had the epiphany. It went something like this:

I said to myself, Self, you sat in your apartment all day yesterday, and you want to go out and have some fun, now this is your chance. You don't need no stinking friends or boyfriends or nobody to have fun. Channel your inner Kelly Clarkson, go be independent and show yourself how great being single is! You go girl!

(That inner pep talk may or may not have taken place in front of my mirror.)

So, I put on some cute earrings and put my hair up in an artsy bun and headed to the city. Ridin' solo.

I parked about seven blocks (this is important later) away from the festival because I didn't feel like paying to park and I'm a young college student that can afford walking a bit. I came up over a hill and was greeted by some smooth jazzy music and and an energetic yet not hectic buzz of people milling around the tents.

Just as I got to where the band was playing, a very nice woman came up to me, extending a small fan my direction. "Would you like this? I'm on my way out and it's a good thing to have." I accepted the woman's kind gesture with a probably crazed smile.

I fanned myself and walked through the tents. I felt great. Best decision I'd made all week. I can totally do this; doing stuff by myself is awesome! The best way to describe my jubilance is this scene from 500 Days of Summer. I was walking on sunshine.

This next picture is an homage to one of the best blog posts on the internet. If I only had $135...

I made my way around when I stopped to get some fair food. I try my best to avoid it in company, but heck, no one knew me here; I had no need to impress anyone, bring on the corndog and funnel cake (for the record, I only ate a corndog)!

After about an hour and a half, I went back to one of my favorite vendors and picked this adorable thing up. Everything from this tent was "art"-cycled. And that trash is now cute treasures like this.

But something else happened in that tent. A woman approached me, asking where I'd gotten my fan. I told her a woman had just given it to me, so in the spirit of paying it forward, I smiled and handed it off to the woman, who thanked my on my way out.

This was my first mistake. Albeit a nice mistake, but still...

Soon after I made my way to the next tent where, as I was rummaging through some oil prints, I noticed that I was sweating.... A lot.

Now, let's back up a week, a.k.a the last time I drank a glass of water. Okay, now you're caught up.

I was wiping drops of sweat from my forehead and found my back drenched when I went to scratch an itch. I didn't really pay it much mind as I left the tent with a couple more prints.

However, a whopping thirty seconds later, the place began to spin and bright orange dots blurred my vision. Crap. 

I immediately locked in on a patch of grass and slumped down with my bags. I sat there until my vision cleared again, took a couple deep breaths, then stood up to head to my car. Second mistake.

It became very apparent to me that I needed water, so I dragged my feet to the nearest food vendor and muttered, "Water." I'm almost positive I ordered with my eyes closed so everything wasn't spinning.

"Here you go," said the cheery woman in the funnel cake cart. Her tone of voice changed, though, when she looked at me again. "So, how hot is it out there?"
I looked up at her, squinting. "I don't actually know," I said. At least I think I said that. I might have just grumbled.
"Yeah," she replied, "because you're, like, really sweaty."
From there I just gave a single nod and walked away. I opened the bottle and downed half while I walked, thinking it would help as I walked back to my car. Third mistake.

After about fifty more feet, I was walking through the tables set up in front of the stage where the blues band had been playing. At this point, the sounds around me had dropped an octave and were no longer understandable. The dots in front of my eye returned with a vengeance, making it almost impossible to see anything, and my hands began to tremble. Double crap.

The only thing I could think was to find a chair. Find a chair immediately so you don't collapse and make a scene. So with significantly limited thought, I sat fell into a chair at a table directly in front of me.

What I didn't notice was that I had taken a clumsy seat at a table filled with 65 year old women, who stared for a moment then collectively left me there. I couldn't even care, I just threw my head down on the table and lay motionless.

For a few minutes my outlook on the immediate future was pretty bleak. This is where I die. I'm here alone, in the Paseo, at an arts festival, and I will die here. This is why people that are single don't go places. This is why I should have stayed home. I hate adventure.

But, after finishing the bottle of water and the good Lord bringing in some cloud cover, I started to feel better. Fifteen minutes of staring off into space and trying to get my directional bearing, I got up and walked back to my car. And let me tell you, the AC in my car has never felt and probably will never feel that good ever again.

All in all, I'd say it was a great day. You know, despite almost passing out in front of hundreds of people, I made a big, self-validating step towards being okay by myself. And it's also scared me into drinking about of gallon of water since. Progress, people.

So, in a nutshell, that's how I spent my Memorial Day.

"The best laid plans...

... of mice and men often go awry."

You know that expression, right? Allow me to not go literary on everybody (this is a blog) but to synopsize it as such: even if you have the most foolproof of plans, they still end up flawed.

Story of my life.

It's such an accurate portrayal of my life that I DON'T KNOW WHY I STILL MAKE PLANS.

But I do. I did. My plan was to have my room clean before graduation (which I haven't told you about), tell you about my graduation (I just said that), and talk about my new job before I started it (I started today).

From what you can infer from that mess of a paragraph sentence (?!) above and the ever-disastrous condition my room is in, you might be able to tell that my life is in shambles.

Please don't nominate me for Hoarders.

I'm being overdramatic (nuance), but all the same I've been frustrated with myself for not sticking to my superblogger plan to say everything the moment it happens everysingleday. It's bothered me so much that I thought about just glazing over things and catching up for the sake of being timely.

But I don't think that would adequately do the stories and sentiments justice. And if you know me at all you know I like to tell stories.

So this post will serve as a lesson to myself, and maybe to you as well, that sometimes most of the time you never can plan everything out perfectly. Especially with something so trivial as a blog. Sometimes you just have to let things fall into place. Now I only wish the same was true for my room. I'm starting to forget what my floor looks like.

This blog, ultimately, is about transitions, about change. If I glaze over it, where's the point?

Anyway, the graduation story and the first-day-of-work stories will be told in all of their frazzled, disjointed glory. Later. Because I can. Sweet liberation.

That and because it's 10:30 and I'm already eyes-bleeding tired. Thanks Monday. 

I'll regret putting this photo on the internet someday I'm sure. Yeesh.

Good Night.

Blogstalgia.

Hello and Happy Wednesday!

Finals week is half over! Wahoo!

So let's talk about something...

I've been particularly sappy and weepy recently. Why? It starts with a "G" and ends with "RADUATION". Now, I wouldn't say I am the most nostalgic person in the world by any means, but holy crap people, graduation is in 3 freaking days. Excuse me while I scream.

I don't know how to handle it. Really, I've been crying in public more than normal and for no discernible reason. I just cry.

I've decided that redirecting my crazy-person behavior to this blog (that is tear proof) would be beneficial for everyone. So, allow me to wallow in cathartic sentimentality with some photos, memories, and stories from FRESHMAN year. This is going to be unbelievably embarrassing  awesome.

This is me the day I moved in to Walker Tower as a freshman (how did I make friends?). Yes, youngins, this is what life was life pre-dorm renovation. 

How about we take another look at this gem of a dorm room, shall we? 

Does everyone agree that my stuffed snake with the OU hat on exudes collegiate maturity? I thought so too. 

I remember the first night I slept in my tiny purple bed. I laid my head down and looked up to see the underside of those shelves. There was graffiti EVERYWHERE. And from most decades, too. I remember one message written in red with a heart around it that read something like "Jennifer loves Michael, 1977". My roommate Caiti and I laughed to keep from crying and shuddering. The renovation came at a good time. 

After a semester of living in the 18th century dorm option, my roommate and I relocated to a normal person room, where we made what turned out to be one of the best collegiate decisions of my life: 

We put a hammock under her bed. Pardon the banana (snicker).

This is the Fab Four. And they'll all hate me for posting this. 

 And yes, that sweat-nastiness is from Retro Night at Camp Crimson. My FIRST camp to be exact. 

We met at camp and hung out almost every day of our first semester. You think I'm joking. I don't know what I would have done without them (and my other whitehands) because I hated everything for the first month of college. Example: I was lying (yes, in the fetal position) in a booth in the Caf sobbing during the second week of school because I got a C on a quiz and they convinced me that life was still worth living. Solid friends. 

I will also say that we still have small group reunions, making us probably the longest running small group of all time. Hands Still White fo' life. 

I became an insane rock climber. Not insane as in good, but insane as in I did nothing else with my spare time. And my arms looked AWESOME. 

I learned french. Well, sort of. We did sing about juice on the last day of class. 

There are so many other moments from my first year that seem like they happened both yesterday and a decade ago. Everything was so different, so easy. Sniffle. 

Do any of you have favorite memories? Does Freshman years feel like a dream to you? Let's talk about it. 

:)

Back in the Saddle Again (...Again)

I'm the worst blogger ever. I'm sorry.

Okay, now that my lack-of-posting apology is officially published, we can go back to our regularly scheduled impulsive and quirky programming. 

(insert gratuitous happy-to-be-blogging-again) photo here:

Apparently, I'm crazy.