I Will Never Feel Warm Again

In Georgia, we all wore tank tops and got marvelous sock tans. We guzzled water to stay hydrated in the strong afternoon sun.

Yesterday, our coaches had to shovel snow off the dock so we could launch. No number of layers or wool socks could combat the weather of Ithaca yesterday. Piles of hail built up around our feet and the waves soaked our layers through.

My hands were fuchsia for approximately forever. I couldn't finish my salad at dinner because the lettuce felt too cold. 

Seriously, though, it could be worse. It's Cornell's spring break this week, and they don't go on a trip. They row twice a day in this. I know. Me. Sympathy. Cornell. I suppose having to suffer through a week like this gives them a pass for blocking the entire inlet and cutting us off like, maybe twice. 

I just had to update you guys on how hardcore it felt. Also, if the temperature today breaks 30 during practice, I will worship whatever being I deem responsible. 

Over 30 Hours on a Bus, Disgusting Hands, Exhaustion, Worth It

My hands are disgusting. They kind of remind me of the wounds you saw treated in Civil War casualty photos. You know, the ones they treated with leeches and excessive alcohol consumption?

So yeah. On our scrimmage race day I got blood all over my uniform tank. It's badass and also kind of nasty. Also, it's proof that I need to stop death-gripping the oar when I get excited.

I slept on the floor of a bus last night. That wasn't conducive to recovering after getting up at 6:30am every day of my spring break and then rowing for about 5 hours every day.

During my spring break, no one got wild. No one went to a beach. No one got filmed by MTV doing things they'd later regret. No one got fed by their mother for 3 meals a day. I disconnected from all social media, all news, everything.

And it was AWESOME. It feels strange to come out of that bubble, where your whole life is when you get to nap next and what's this practice's line-up and OH MY GOD I'M STROKING? and heck yes I'm getting tan everywhere but my feet and I wish everything I own didn't smell like sweat and lake water and dang this hotel is sketchy and wow I can't wait to eat again.

That was my life for 9 days in Gainesville, Georgia. We rowed at Lake Lanier, the 1996 Olympic Center. We had two-a-day practices with one afternoon off. During that break, we did things like this:

 

That kind of hurt. 

But honestly, it was amazing. And now that my laundry is in the dryer and I napped for four hours, I can reflect. Some of it was done for me. Our captains gave everyone on the Ithaca Crew Team a gold chain-link. (Not actual gold, duh) At first it seemed a little cheesy, but once you started to get into it, you felt it. We are one team. Everyone's success is your success. Everyone's failure is your chance to make a comeback. 

These people matter to me. All of them. Even the novice whose name I don't know or that varsity guy I've never talked to or that girl who's never been in my boat. They matter.

My class matters.

 

And my whole monstrously-sized team matters.

It's spring 2011, baby.

GO BOMBERS!

I Want

Okay guys, let's be real here. I suck. At least at blogging. Can I make a semi-incoherent excuse for it? Okay, here goes.

About two weeks back my roommate Ashley and I were talking, as we're like to do when we actually see each other and she isn't busy studying every bone and muscle in the human body. Anyway, the conversation shifted to priorities. Time management. It may have been inspired by the fact that I make lists of everything and write down what I'm going to do every hour of every day days in advance. Anyway, I was frazzled with everything that, well, needed doing. Ashley looked at me and said something very wise:

"My number one goal is to be the best Occupational Therapy student. The best. Everything else is secondary."

And she probably is the best. I judge this by how hard she works and how many words she says (and sings) at me that I don't understand. But hearing this made me pause. In the hustle and bustle of coming back and rearranging my life and getting back into shape, I had no goal. Actually, my goals had been too weak. To not do badly, to not underperform, to not dissapoint. I think I've lost sight, some drive, because for a few days there, I had no idea what I wanted anymore.

Here's what I want.

I want to write. I want to delve deep into our country's politics and culture and fears and tendencies, and I want to contribute to the field I love to study so much. I know I'm in the right major because I get excited about my papers. EXCITED. Last weekend I wrote a short paper-- five pages-- about the conservative political movement and Iceland's economic collapse. And I thought of nothing else. I want to write the best papers in the class and contribute to every discussion.

I want to finish this stupid macroeconomics problem set. There are some days I question how my father managed to brainwash me into actually wanting to take this class. On the plus side, I actually understand the  sub-prime mortgage crisis now, about 3 years too late. Yeah, so this want is short term. I am just SICK of drawing supply and demand curves. I GET IT, EQUILIBRIUM BLAH BLAH BLAH OKAY?

I want to find my confidence in crew. I want to be able to approach an erg like I did the starting block for swimming and not feel defeated before I even sit down.

And...I want to get what I want. Kind of like the girl that turned into a blueberry in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Except, if I don't get it, I'll just work harder. And maybe limit my excessive whining to the blogosphere. Are you glad I'm back?

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?  

Getting Stuff Done

I have about a week left in Amsterdam. Home will be great, but I DO NOT want to leave. You can't make me. I know they made squatting illegal in the Netherlands just a few months ago, but seriously, I will need to be dragged onto the plane.

Anyway. These "finals" things are definitely making me ready to go home for the holidays, despite my reverse-culture-shock fears of going back to the US.

I have one final and one big presentation DONE. That feels good. Still up is finishing my seminar paper and a final the night before I leave the country.

I can do this.

On a happier note, I realized I forgot to blog about this time I went to a castle and it was awesome.