First Week Back

Seriously guys, I had a choice to make. It was blog or sprawl out on my living room floor with my tongue lolling out the side of my mouth.

Lucky for you--blog!

My classes are great. They actually seem relevant to--I dunno--real life, and my readings have been interesting. Extremely lengthy, but interesting. I mean, if you haven't read The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein, stop reading my blog and go read that instead. I never thought reading about economics could be so mind-blowing and terrifying.

I also spend a lot of time at crew, because it owns my soul. Its most recent coup over my life had me running back to my apartment at 7:30am in -2 degree weather with wet hair from lifting and swimming. After my hair completely froze the first time, I realized I would have to figure out a different kind of schedule. Also, because I usually don't return to my apartment during the day, I carry my entire life around with me. My political theory professor took a look at me with my huge crew bag and over-flowing book bag and asked, "What, are you moving in?"

Granted, he is the snarkiest person I have ever met (awesome) and also looks like he should be teaching at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry instead of Ithaca College.


My macroeconomics class has not killed me yet, but I did almost choke to death when my professor said the words "problem sets."



My apartment is awesome. At this point I'm pretty sure the only thing missing are cookies. 

It feels fantastic to be back. It's really cold to be back, but whatever. I missed you, Ithaca.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

You are all quite familiar with how awesome my dad is. Today is his birthday.

Here are some things my Dad has that I have:

1. When I find something that I like, I stick to it. Dad could eat Life cereal every breakfast for the rest of his life and be totally fine with it. This loyalty carries over to the people he loves in his life. It does not carry over to football, seeing as he just sent an article to my mother and me that basically said, "Stop torturing yourself with this whole Redskins-fandom thing...please for the love of God just stop."

2. A quiet demeanor: Dad is quiet, and he uses words carefully. He taught us to say what we mean and mean what we say. I took this respect for language and ran with it. He's probably to blame for my intense love of writing. He is also to blame for my love of crime thrillers (Dennis Lehane, I'm looking at you.) Actually, his mom is probably to blame for that, but that's another story.

(This love of words has not translated into any effort into actually editing my blog instead of word-vomiting and posting. Unfortunately.)

3. A love of music. I, a 20 year-old woman, went to a concert with my dad this summer. And it rocked. Dad taught me that a song can change your day and it's worth it to sit in the car for a few extra minutes to hear that one guitar solo.

4. My height. Well, he's half to blame at the very least. GEE THANKS GUYS.

5. Certainty. My Dad and I generally believe we are right about most things. My Dad is like this because he usually is right about things. I am like this because I am from Washington, DC.

Things My Dad Has that I WISH I Had


1. An ability to master any skill. If my Dad wants to learn something, he will do so and become very good at it. He puts his mind to it and focuses, learning everything from sculling, timber-framing, guitar, bass, to tai chi just because he wants to. If my inability to not run away and hide during Granddaughters Week Crafting Sessions is any indication, I have a ways to go on my ability to master challenging skills.


2. Ability to say the right thing at the right time. My Dad is the real-life combination of all those inspirational coaches you see in movies. Sometimes he does have to let you run through the mud a bit and scrape your knees from falling, but he always knows the exact lesson you need to learn. And he'll tell you when the time's right, and he'll choose his words carefully.


3. Ability to dunk. Okay, so my dad kind of had that until his ankles rebelled against him, but seriously, WOULDN'T THAT BE AWESOME?


4. My Dad knows and full-heartedly believes that you deserve to love what you're doing. My Dad believes in that dream you have, and thinks you should have it. Just take it with a shot of realism, and you're on your way to a Paulson-family upbringing.


So, thanks, Dad. I know you're skiing today, and it's something you love to do. Just don't try to do any flips this trip, okay?

Amsterdam.

I am uncomfortable with the concept of Amsterdam as a memory.

It has been two weeks since I left—a tumultuous blur of travel, holidays, celebration, family, and re-acquaintance with the United States.

Last week I got lunch with an Amsterdam friend, and we shared the same startling fact: Amsterdam feels like it was a dream. Because once you’re suddenly back in the room you grew up in that’s covered in swim signs and childhood pictures and old magazine cut-outs of Tom Brady, a part of you clicks back into place. Whether you’d like it to or not.

It’s a scary automatic thing. What does it say about me, about us, if we accept the challenges and change of such a transformative experience only to separate from it so suddenly and cleanly once we reenter our comfort zone?

I had a moment in one of the last weeks I had there. It was a Thursday night—snow had blanketed the ground that day and we’d hiked over to the brewery to grab a few drinks before the night’s later festivities. After a beer, I dipped out early to get a few more paragraphs done on my paper before I could enjoy the night without guilt. I walked back along the canal, and there was no one else in sight. I stopped for a minute, hands in pockets, and took a breath. This is a moment, I thought. It’s quiet. I live here. This is a moment. What does it mean? And I racked by brain, destroying the pricelessness of it all in my unceasing desire to document and categorize my obsessive sentimentality, only to realize it meant nothing at all.

But that, in itself, was the beauty of it. We take our experiences abroad in their most extremes. We spend much of our time processing wondrous sights, heightened anxieties, and unfamiliar everything.  In that moment, I was suspended between it all, enveloped in a city that had become home, marveling at a city that could somehow become quiet, assuaging creeping fears of a stressful finals season, warming at the discovery of great friends.

Amsterdam was my fairytale—a happily ever after that included customs and security check at the Philadelphia International Airport. In my fairytale, the heroine escapes from the most comfortable of towers and learns to navigate the forest without any help from a white knight or friendly woodland creatures. My heroine rides a purple rusty bike instead of a stallion, wears leggings instead of a gown, and doesn’t get any guy at the end. But man, does she have a good story to tell.

I will continue to encounter people who will ask, “Well, how was it?” and I will continue to be absolutely unable to respond. I feel just as unsure about how to finish this post. Some of it’s fear, because a conclusion means it’s really over. Here’s a go at it: It was great, it was awesome, it was scary, it was beautiful, it was cold, it was rainy, it was sunny, it was friendly, it was busy, it was touristy, it was homey, it was nothing I expected but everything I wanted.

That’s how it was. Any more questions?