John Keats: All I Want for Christmas

Ahh. Christmas time. The aroma of pine, packages wrapped in gold, rosy cheeks, the jingle of holiday tunes, mistletoe...oh, wait. Right there. The end of Christmas cheer. Every year, with the decking of halls and roasting of chestnuts, I remember that I remain helplessly, pathetically, single. Though my static Facebook status never truly bothers me, something about the holiday season results in a subconscious awareness of my loneliness. I witness couples exchange a peck under the holly and ivy, and sip on hot cocoa at the local Starbucks. How cute. I gag at this cheesy display of affection, then realize this disgust stems from my actual envy. As I watch lovers stroll along the picturesque scenery of Chagrin, I, too, find myself yearning for a glove-covered hand to hold on to. I can only remain so hopeful after receiving a number of "Jingle Jingle, Ready to Mingle" party invites from my sister. But thanks to AP English, I believe I have found my male suitor for this Christmas season. John Keats. While researching the poet, I stumbled upon one of his love letters addressed to Miss Fanny Brawne. One thing led to another, and I found myself fawning over his chivalry for the next half hour. Just like a train wreck, I understood the dangerous potential for self-pity as I continued to read - yet could not stop. As soon as I believed my sense of dejection could not reach higher levels, Keats' letters only worsened my dilemma. I mean, he refers to her as "My Sweet Girl," and "tender Beauty." Come on! Her name is Fanny! I shook my head with each endearment, and slumped lower in my seat with every passionate plead. For those thirty minutes, I lived vicariously through Fanny and the adoration she so effortlessly received. She had him wrapped around her finger. Totally whipped. Oh how I wish I had someone like John Keats. My infatuation for this hopeless romantic reached new levels when he proclaimed, "you [Fanny] are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom," only in reference to his passionate love. I continued to drool over this sappy romance, especially upon hearing Keats' wish that "we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days...with more delight than fifty common years could ever obtain." My Santa wish-list: for a man to adore me so much, that he admits to a willing loss of personal freedom. Or for a man that wishes for our metamorphosis into majestic butterflies. Either or. After reading Keats' gooey letters, my smitten romance fantasy of gingerbread house decorating and trimming trees seems that much more realistic. Wether or not I find my Christmas courtship in the six days, I now know that my heart lies in the early 19th century.  As long as the holiday season continues to shove my single status in my face, I will try to remember that Christmas miracles do exist. Or maybe I should just rename myself Fanny. 

"Book" Club: Giddy women, Gossip and Gin.

Everybody talks. Including my mother. Right now, at this very moment, I attempt to experience a moment of solitude away from the howls of 50-year old women. Tonight, my mother hosts their monthly Book Club meeting: three hours of chatter, crab cake platters, and debates over poinsettias versus begonias.  Wether or not they actually discuss literature still remains a mystery. When I dare to descend from the safety of my bedroom, however, I can always count on hearing the latest gossip mixed with one or four glasses of pinot grigio. I secretly chuckle at their blemished gossip, trying to piece together the Police Blotter puzzle. I know all the juicy details, yet spare them my knowledge just so I can continue shaking my head. Upon my arrival in the living room, they frantically reach for their novels and assemble their reading glasses with shaking hands - desperately hoping to fool me. But behind those barely-turned pages and tortoise shell frames, lay the masterminds behind Chagrin Falls' very own Town Tattle. Their pathetic, middle-aged whispers remind me of the many New York tattlers in The Great Gatsby. Like Myrtle, Tom, and all the socialites in between, the members of my mother's Book Club tend to thrive on floating rumors. I grimace at their flawed information and unreliable sources. Just when I thought a discussion on 50 Shades of Grey amongst a group of empty-nesters could get any worse, their inner-middle schooler comes out to play. I find it quite cute, actually; the sparks of youth that surface from their laughter and gossip. I do not blame them and their hushed versions of "he said, she said," for I regularly partake in this talk as well. We, the Book Club members and myself, do not stray far from the shallow characters within Fitzgerald's novel. We can not control the scandalous information that comes our way, and naturally lack the sufficient discretion to prevent us from spreading it. Like those that attend Gatsby's parties, I observe the pepper-haired mothers exchange hearsay with eager eyes. Mouth's stuffed with olive tapenade and bleu cheese still have room to share hidden secrets.  I sympathize with their deficiency of willpower to withhold confidential information. When I look at this room of gossip-hungry individuals, I see myself and my friends. We, too, experience the consequences surrounding pre-conceived notions and conclusions. Even the trusting words, "do not tell anybody" can not compete to impulsive spilling of secrets. Wether you are a mother in the midst of a mid-life crisis, or a high schooler drowning in drama, rumors will always spread - no question about it. To gossip, or not to gossip? That presents the real question.

Expect the Unexpected

20 days until Christmas. 26 days until New Years. 43 days until my birthday. 172 days until Blossom. The clock of life constantly ticks away in my mind, tallying the days until the next extravaganza. I, the proud downloader of the countdown app "Big Day," find myself calculating how long I must wait before the future turns to present. I scribble numbers in the margins of my planner, put post-its on my bathroom mirror and circle calendar dates in crimson red. I even find myself counting down until an appropriate day to begin counting down. All in anticipation for the "Big Day." Well, in my case, a plethora of big days. My friends and I discuss weekend plans and make seasonal activity lists in hopes of creating the glamorous lifestyle we all envision. However, our favorite thespian once said, "Expectation is the root of all heartache." Shakespeare's morse code has never made more sense. By setting up expectations, we simply set ourselves up for disappointment. Anticipation, the most dangerous form of hope, grows in size the more we feed it. Expectancy lingers in small talk, plays like a movie in our minds and puts butterflies in our stomachs - only to let us down in the end. Sometimes, all the hype successfully amounts to our expectations. The countdown to Friday never fails, nor does the wait for Thanksgiving dinner. Most times, unfortunately, all the build up proves anticlimactic. After waiting for months, Rihanna's newest album failed to impress. My attempt at a making Frosty the Snowman after the season's first (and short-lived) snowfall ended pathetically. My latest order of Spinach con Queso at the Rusty Bucket had too much spinach and not enough queso - a colossal disappointment after the hours I spent salivating in anticipation. While we cannot tame optimism and excitement towards high expectations, we must understand their potential to dissatisfy. The allure of assumptions and the unknown distracts us from the joys of reality. I do not believe that expecting the best will always end badly. However, when things do not go as planned, we become blind to what good lies in front of us. If we live 300 days in the future, those 300 days leading up will blur together before we have time to appreciate them. But in case you wonder, t-184 days until summer.

Brace Face

I found it hard to imagine that I would see happiness ever again as the nurse pulled a tube from my stomach, through my esophagus, and out my nose. She smiled as she did this - for reasons I do not know - and I gave her a brusque grin afterwards to mimic her creepy satisfaction in this post-op routine. As soon as she left the room, I secretly berated her with stuffy murmurs from my immobilized mouth. My progressing jaw surgery recovery reminded me of what Andy Roony once said: "Everyone wants to live on top of the mountain, but all happiness and growth occurs while you're climbing it." While discussing his words in class, I agreed with his belief that fight itself yields happiness, rather than the eventual outcome. Only after spending thirty minutes to spoon half a Jell-O cup into my mouth, however, did I truly understand him. This relentless fight for gelatin represented an unmatched sense of accomplishment and pride, resulting in a slight victory murmur from behind my metal grill. Everyone experiences a rock bottom or some sort of personal crisis, and I believe no one should feel ashamed for it. In fact, I believe we should anticipate these lowest of lows. For without them, moments of joy would never truly surface. A positive attitude generally bears the best results in moments of strife, attempting to find the silver lining at the end of the burning tunnel or whatever. I tried this optimistic method for a few days and embraced my new chipmunk-esque look. But a week of massaging my swollen gums has taught me that sometimes, throwing a pity party and basking in self sorrow represents the most realistic approach. Still, whatever the outlook on my pathetic struggle, it has cleared the path for an unprecedented amount of gratitude. I used to despise my braces and resent my sacrifice of senior intimidation. Now, well, I still despise my braces. However, after experiencing the worst of my jaw reconstruction, I find myself thankful every day for this cosmetic opportunity. With every ice application to the yellow sores on my chin comes a greater anticipation for the day my orthodontist frees myself from brackets and wires. A more appreciating self will result from the ten-month long journey of braces and surgery, rather than the set of pearly whites at the end of the road. With every downfall comes a natural gratitude for the simpler things in life. Even if those things include solid foods.

Must. Stop. Analyzing.

AP English, what have you done? I thank this class every day for my ability to write a coherent essay and look past the obvious. But my analyzing antics seem to haunt me with every book I open. Even joy reading has become a thing of the past. I cannot turn a page without itching to grab a pen and box an assertion or highlight a juxtaposition. Why read if I cannot assign some sort of device to every quote? So many indirect characterizations gone to waste! Only when I underline and scribble and circle, can I feel at peace with the story in front of me. Even the Twilight saga seems more enticing when I can validate its many meanings in the margins of the pages. My annotating penchant may represent a good English student habit, but also a developing need to over analyze everything. Within the short story "The Balloon," author Donald Barthelme addresses this tendency to obsess over meaning. Instead of embracing the complexity and even beauty of the balloon, the NYC citizens attempt to decipher the reasoning behind its presence instead. I can sympathize with these New Yorkers. I repeatedly find myself searching for something that does not exist, giving a meaning to something that does not necessitate a meaning. A personal paranoia stems from the unknown, a hazy area that flirts with vulnerability and endless uncertainties. My job, as an AP English student, consists of pinpointing a purpose to the purpose-less. I have become familiar with the dark hours past midnight, staring at my ceiling in attempt to make sense of the day's events. A simple text that reads "K" can transform from a quick affirmation to a friendship-threatening morse code. I feel most comfortable with concrete ideas, absolute with reason and strict in significance. Letting a concept linger, "just hanging there," results in an minor anxiety that only applying meaning can cure (1). Sometimes, excessive concern over searching for importance can take away from an obvious beauty and simplicity. Perhaps Ms. Serensky is in the clear, absolved of responsibility for my obsession with meaning. I guess my analyzing relish does not represent the aftermath of AP English exercises, but rather a characteristic that only makes me human - because something tells me I am not the only one.

Give Me Burrito or Give Me Death

Eyes on the burrito, Mairin. Eyes on the burrito. I motivate myself as I stand in line outside Chipotle, enduring the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in hopes of a $2 Halloween special. The line of famished American's disguised in costume shiver in the freezing drizzle, looking in envy upon those already inside. Surrounding myself with burrito hopefuls dressed in Halloween bodysuits, I sacrifice both my dignity and immune system for a flour tortilla. Though experiencing minor symptoms of post-nasal drip by the time I enter the restaurant, a level of giddiness surfaces when I see the mexican buffet. I pledge to not question my sanity, for I fear I already know the answer. My fixation on the burrito reminds me of Klausner and his "go big or go home" mantra towards the sound machine’s success. Like him, I find myself completely entrenched on a dream I must pursue. I understand the absurdness surrounding my decision to wear a batman mask in the midst of a stinging wind, yet I stop at no costs to make this twisted burrito fantasy a reality. As I inch up the line, I cannot help but admire the crowd of waiters, who, too, fervently await a burrito. Despite the differences in costume, we all possess a burning passion to complete a task. Like the Klausner's of the world, the Chipotle crowd represents human nature’s potential to put forth great levels of determination to fulfill a dream. Despite expectations of naysayers, people worldwide will achieve great lengths to defy the impossible. But with every $2 burrito sold, there exists a hater. For reasons I cannot fathom, occasional pedestrians look at the Chipotle line with bewilderment. I watch as cars pass the restaurant, heads quickly turning to judge those in costume. I repeatedly witness the typical eye squint, head cock and lip mouthing of the simplest question: why? Because we can. Because the only thing stopping us from a $2 mélange of beans and chicken consists of an hour-long line in 40 degree weather...and putting ourselves at serious risk for the flu. We understand the lack of logic behind our actions, but simply do not mind compromising our pride for success. Similar to Doctor Scott, the line bystanders look on with skepticism. The Doctor’s pessimism attempts to shut down Klausner’s experiment and hinder his progress. Although he may not admit it, Scott understands the potential for Klausner’s eventual success. He fears the possible outcome, unprepared to handle to truth. Just like Doc, the Chipotle judgers simply do not have the gumption to admit the facts; that at the end of the line exists a paragon of deliciousness. On a more universal level, Klausner’s perseverance and my own steadfastness highlights human’s abilities to push past the doubt of others to fulfill a dream. Or simply eat a 1,000 calorie burrito. 

Long Live Olive

When will it end? Death, old age, sickness, defraying relationships. Just a small list of Olive Kitteridge's many dismal themes. I do recall various heartwarming moments throughout Elizabeth Strout's complex narrative, but most of the time I nervously turned the page anticipating nothing short of an emotional disaster. However, after the many moments of overwhelming despondence, I'm glad to say that I thoroughly enjoyed the novel's ending. After all, the 2008 story received the Pulitzer Prize for a reason. After thirteen short stories featuring conflicted characters and desperate situations, the last few passages allowed me to relax and turn the last page with a smile. Olive Kitteridge, the hopelessly cynical protagonist, ultimately finds the silver lining of life. Better to do so seventy-two years into your life than never. However, for these past seventy-two years, Olive has constantly suffered from a battle within. Naturally pessimistic and critical towards others, she always finds the most miniscule flaws. More often than not, Olive musters up enough gumption to speak her mind. Her blunt personality creates a confident facade, but her actual fear for life forces Olive to experience a "contest within her" (169).  Although not afraid to tell the truth in trivial moments, the protagonist struggles to free her emotions when dealing with dire situations- including the tension between herself and her son. Her internal conflict grows and grows, and along with it blossoms self-pity and anger. Too busy experiencing extreme hatred or compassion for someone, Olive fails to find her own place in the world. Kitteridge's inner loneliness allows Strout to evoke pathos from those who also face personal plight. This emotion lingers even after Henry accuses Olive for rarely apologizing, for which she admits "he was right" (267). Her realization, years after her husbands death, marks a significant turning point in Olive's self-assessment. I agreed with Henry's claim, and resented his wife's inability to take responsibility for her actions. Therefore, her direct characterization of Henry as "right" juxtaposes her previous pride and offered a spark of hope. I have waited 267 pages to hear Olive say those words! Admitting one's mistakes may seem normal, but for Kitteridge, doing so would threaten her false confidence and pompousness. Her matter of fact tone created by the casual diction of "right" represented a huge transformation in the way Olive looks at herself and those surrounding her. At this point, nothing can go wrong. The main character finally finds faults in herself, which ironically fosters closure and happiness. Now that the inner-makeover completes itself, Olive now looks at the world with a newfound optimism and does "not want to leave it" (170). Completely juxtaposing her past apathy, Olive's new zest for life heartens me. After watching her husband die and old age bring stress upon many others, Kitteridge often speaks of death as a knight in shining armor to save her from the crazy world in which she lives. Her indirect characterization as satisfied with her place in life reveals a whole new Olive. The old Olive unnerved me, but this different, content woman really heightened my praise for the end of Strout's novel. I found her revolution encouraging as the author revealed the potential for true happiness and self-love. Leaving me smug, the novel's completion motivate's me to expose the importance of embracing flaws and accepting one's real self. Closing the book for the last time, I knew that I would miss the sassy and relentless Olive Kitteridge.