It’s no secret that I’m a worrier. I worry about basically everything under the sun: Will I get fired from my job? Will my KISA realize I’m too moody for him and end things? Will we be able to have kids? If we have kids, who should get custody of them if we die? Where will we raise them? Do we have enough water in our refrigerator should we lose power for multiple days and the water goes with it? Do we have enough gas in the car to escape if necessary? What if I have cancer and don’t realize it? Am I gaining weight? Should I see a therapist again? Does my boss’s boss like me…?  You get the point. Sometimes my KISA complains about me worrying too much. At least he’s not having to listen to my mind.

The funny thing about worrying is that I’ve convinced myself that if I worry about something enough it won’t happen. So, if I worry about the world coming to an end I’m willing it to not happen. Almost like I can control it if I spend enough time thinking about it. And I am a control freak in addition to being a worrier; a deadly combination.

The hard part about disproving my hypothesis is that most of the things I worry about really don’t happen. Or else if they do happen then I tell myself that I’d spent so much time thinking about it and worrying about it that I was better in the end for being somewhat prepared. Plus it’s usually not as bad as I’d worried it would be. Therefore I can’t convince myself that it’s a bad thing to worry. Maybe if I worry about worrying being bad for me then everything will be ok.

This year for Christmas it was going to be my KISA and my first time spending it with my family, without him. We’d planned to go back to Wisconsin for Christmas, but were appalled with the price tags that accompanied such a trip. We talked about not going back, but I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing the joy of my nieces and nephews opening their Christmas gifts; I already have to watch them open their birthday presents via Skype without the excited hug that goes with being in person. Since I have the luxury of working from home, we booked my ticket to go home for 10 days and were waiting for the prices to go down for him to join me the following weekend. Unfortunately the prices continued to go up, not down. We decided to cut our losses and just have him meet me at his parent’s for Christmas after my time in Wisconsin.

As it got closer to Christmas my KISA started admitting how extremely bummed he was about us spending all that time apart, especially since it was only a week and a half after I got back from India and he would be gone for that weekend in between. I was torn because my excitement for seeing my friends and family was starting to dwindle with my sadness for having to miss him.

The week I was to leave my KISA had a last-minute assignment to support a potential deal in Chicago that was going to require him to fly out on Wednesday night. I was gutted at the idea of us now having to spend two more days apart.

However, Santa was working his Christmas magic and had his company allow him to stay through Sunday morning if he’d like and fly out of Madison. The only problem was that I was getting into Madison at 8 pm on Saturday, so the logistics were less than perfect. I had to start working my magic. I called Frontier to find out how much it would be to switch my flight to Friday. $338. In addition to what I’d already paid. Ok, not going to happen. Paying for a new flight was going to be about $200 and I knew my KISA wouldn’t allow such a thing. Shit. Then I started thinking about the stockpiles of frequent flier miles I have with basically every airline. When I’d originally checked the dates for the flights there weren’t any reasonable coach ones available, but when I looked at it for that Friday as a one-way ticket to Chicago, instead of Madison, it was only 12,500 points with American Airlines. That was less than the miles I’d earned with them for my flight to and from India. I also sent out text messages to every member of my family to see if we could do Christmas on Saturday, one day earlier than planned. I received confirmation from everyone that it would work for them. I booked my ticket on Tuesday and was beyond ecstatic about being able to spend Christmas with my family and my KISA (my new family). I don’t think I slept at all Thursday night and had requested that my KISA not tell my friend Jeni that I was coming into town early as he’d made plans to go out with them Friday night in Chicago.

When I landed I couldn’t get my rental car and to the hotel fast enough. I dropped my bags, changed my clothes, and hailed a taxi to Eataly, where they were getting ready to have a very late dinner. Jeni’s shriek and her husband Luke picking me up and swinging me when they saw me instantly made up for the airline points I’d spent to come in early.

Saturday I was anxious to get to my hometown to see my family. When we arrived and were getting our bags out of the trunk I heard a knock on the window. There was my five year old niece, Emma, waving enthusiastically at the window. Shortly after that we heard the pitter patter of feet upstairs and knew my three year old niece, Abigail, had woken up from her nap. I ran upstairs with my KISA trailing closely behind. Her sleepy little face looked up at me and she threw her arms out and yelled by name. After I squeezed her she noticed my KISA behind me and called out his name. The joy on her face to see us made me melt. One by one my other siblings and their kids came to my parent’s house. I was in heaven.

In our family we have a tradition of one person opening a present at a time from youngest to oldest. All my nieces and nephews opened their gift from Randy and I first. The little girls were all excited about their shoes from India and had to put them on immediately. My nephews were pleased with their gifts as well and my six year old nephew and Godson, Brady, unfortunately loved his Patriots Tom Brady sweatshirt so much he continued to wear it for the next three days. (My KISA couldn’t have smiled any bigger.)

After a few rounds of gift opening my mom got to a card that my sister’s kids had given her. She opened it and it was thanking her for watching them when they got done with school so that they didn’t have to go to daycare. It was a money card and when she opened the flap she read the cut-out that was taped inside it. It was in the shape of a ticket and informed her that she was entitled to one roundtrip flight, with my sister, to San Francisco. My mom was so touched by it she started crying, which made me want to cry.

After the gift opening we played some music, as Lily the youngest loves to dance. All the kids were dancing and I was swinging them around. It was pretty perfect.

I was sad to have to take my KISA back to the airport the following morning. I was grinning from ear to ear the entire time, thinking about how great the day before was and how complete it was with my KISA being there. Little things like coming into Madison and seeing the city alive, even with it beyond freezing, and the Packers straw on my McDonald’s smoothie were merely icing on the cake. I had just had one of my favorite weekends.

A couple of days later my KISA and I were talking on the phone. He was fretting over what he was going to get me for Christmas. I told him that he sincerely had given me everything I ever could have wanted for Christmas: my family and him together for Christmas; fulfillment again.    

  Surprising my bff, Jeni

Brady and my KISA loving his Tom Brady sweatshirt

Group hug with Abigail, Brielle, and Garrett

Ms. Emma (the baby in the picture from yesterday)

And Lily, the baby of the family

When I left for grad school in August 2008 I was searching for fulfillment. This program wasn’t like any other graduate program to get your business degree; you did it traveling to five countries and studying for one term in each place. And, you went into the program not knowing a soul. I had broken up with my boyfriend of 5.5 years that I was madly in love with, but knew it was for the best, 10 months prior. I’d quit my first real job about a year prior and my second job a few months before I started school. I felt like I needed direction in my life, but more than that I needed to feel fulfilled. I felt like there was this hole in my life that I couldn’t figure out how to fill. Most of my family couldn’t understand my desire to leave as we never travelled growing up, so it was still something new, even for me.

It’s funny how some things stick with you, but I think one of the most accurate statements I ever heard was at the beginning of my first term in Geneva, Switzerland. Ironically the person that said it was probably the instructor we liked the least: Bernadette van Houten. As her name suggests, she’s Dutch. If you haven’t know a lot of Dutch people in your life you may not understand why the stereotype of her nationality is enough to explain why we didn’t like her. The Dutch have a way of not sugar coating anything and being rather abrupt with you. They call it like they see it and their customer service lacks the friendliness and urgency that we typically associate with customer service.

In her first session with our class she looked straight at us and said, “I hope your purpose for being in this program is not to find fulfillment in your life. Contrary to popular belief, traveling the world does not make you more fulfilled, in fact it does the opposite: the more of the world you see the more unsettled you’ll become.” I scoffed at what she said and assumed she’d never been as young and carefree as us while traveling.

My first term in Geneva was incredible. I got to know my classmates well and would spend my evenings going to a French karaoke bar before leaving at bar time to go to a local boulangerie, where we made friends with the local baker that started pulling chocolate crescents out of the oven around the same time.

My second term was in Leiden, Netherlands and was when my homesickness set in. I was housed in an apartment building separate from all the other classmates except one. I was having doubt about the long distance relationship I was struggling to maintain with a guy I started dating shortly before I’d left. And, I started questioning what I was doing. I wanted to quit the program and go home, but my pride kept me there.

Christmas 2008

I had plans to go home over Christmas break, which was between my Leiden and London terms, and it couldn’t have come any sooner. I missed my boyfriend, my friends, and my family. My family has never been the affectionate type, but I was shocked at the overwhelming feeling of love and happiness I felt in being with them. Something about that combination shook me into a state of appreciation and I realized for a few day of my being home how settled and fulfilled I felt. It was like time was still and I was at finally at peace.

My second time experiencing fulfillment just happened last month. More about that tomorrow. 🙂

The 4^th of July, a little over a month after meeting my KISA, we were leaving my friend Paula’s house from a get-together.  As we were walking out I asked my KISA what time it was. Without missing a beat he responded, “Time’s all relative with us, Babe,” and pulled me into him for a kiss. Unbeknownst to us, our friends Jaime and Brooks were walking behind us and overheard his response. Jaime still gushes about what he said to me.

Two months after that we not only moved in together, but also bought a house. Most people would argue that it was too soon for us to have taken such a big step because not enough time had gone by, but I’ve never understood time in the same sense everyone else does. For me time isn’t made up of minutes, hours, days, Earth rotations around the sun, etc. Instead, time for me is made up of experiences. My KISA was only half right in what he said. Time is relative with us, but I would argue that it is for everyone.

For example, have you ever gone on a trip over a number of days and felt like you were gone for an eternity, only because of the amount of things that you did, saw, and experienced? Yet, when you returned, many people hadn’t noticed you’d even left and life was pretty much exactly the same as you left it? People still had their same routines, talked about the same things, and really seemed to be at the exact same point in their lives as when you left?

What about when you spend all day or all week lounging around reading a novel? You get lost in the story and begin to feel like it was your life or someone you knew closely that just went through all those things? It feels like months have gone by, when in reality it’s only been hours or days?

I would argue routine is the biggest way to lose time. When you’re in the same routine months and years can fly by without noticing. You might live to be 100, but will you have 100 years of experiences? How are you spending your time?

Last night I finished reading the book “Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail”, by Cheryl Strayed. It’s a story written about the author’s own personal experience. Cheryl’s from Minnesota and had experienced some recent tragedies in her life and decided that she was going to solo hike the Pacific crest Trail from California up to Oregon. She had no previous experience backpacking but felt this is something that she needed to help her find herself again. The story goes through her days of living on the trail as she spends three months hiking. The book really resonated with me because I’ve done a lot of my soul-searching when I’ve been on trips away from my family and away from things that are familiar to me. The hard thing about knowing the healing power of being alone is how to fix yourself when you’re no longer alone. All your instincts tell you to run away again. 

During my (almost) year of being single and celibate, I did a lot of soul-searching and working on making myself a better person. I realized how much better I liked myself when I wasn’t in a relationship and thought I was “cured” while I was single. Then I met my KISA. We started dating in May and by October I could feel the darkness of depression setting in. I loved him, but I immediately felt like I needed to be alone again to get better. That November we were sitting in our living room, me on the chaise and him on the couch, and I told him I wanted to break up. He was stunned and wanted to understand why. Crying, I explained to him with certainty that I needed to get better and to do that I needed to be alone. I told him that I believed that I had to take care of myself in order to make our relationship work. He refused to see the logic in how being alone would make us better. I think deep down we both knew that if we went our separate ways now we’d never get back together. He could see the pain I was going through and while he loved me he also loved us. He pointed out that I was always fine when I was alone but it was the being in a relationship part I’d always had trouble with. How would I know that I was truly better if I was single again? I knew he was right and he agreed to help me get better, which I was hesitant about it working.

I was seeing a therapist at the time and shortly after my failed attempt to break up with him, my therapist helped me realized that part of my relationship issues stemmed from my daddy issues. He encouraged me to write a letter to my father that I could choose to send or not send. I procrastinated for a couple weeks and then finally found the courage to write it after one of my therapy sessions. When I came home my KISA was in the living room, so I sat at the dining room table and wrote the letter. My KISA listened as I cried my eyes out, coming in from time to time to make sure I was ok. It was obvious that it was painful for him to watch and not be able to console me. Right before Christmas I decided I wanted to share the letter with my father. I had offered for my KISA to read it, which I’m still not sure if he did. However, he discouraged me from sending it. He explained that I had obviously gotten the value out of writing it by getting it off my chest, but that didn’t mean it needed to be delivered. So I didn’t. This was only the beginning of how he was going to help me get better.

The following summer I decided to switch from my therapist to a psychoanalyst. As I started working with her I found she would point things out that my KISA had already pointed out to me, but I was too stubborn or not self-aware enough to notice. Twice a week I would call my KISA on my drives to work from my sessions, crying and letting him know the latest things I’d realized about myself. He would listen patiently and I imagined him nodding as if grateful that somebody was pointing out the same things to me that he had seen all along. He helped me talk through things and assured me that I wasn’t as horrible of a person I believed to be. She broke me down, but he built me back up.

I finally parted ways with my psychoanalyst at the end of January as we were moving out to San Francisco. I lied and promised her that I would reach out to another one out here and she gave me a list of references she suggested I look into it. At that point in time I needed a break from the intensity of the sessions and had realized my KISA’s love and support were equally as valuable at helping me get better. During this time he had also taught me that the burdens I carry are not burdens I have to carry alone. It’s not to say I don’t still do a lot of my self-reflecting in solitude, but I no longer feel that running away is the only solution.

At the end of every year I think about all the things I want to do to better myself in the next. In doing so I create New Years resolutions that are more of goals in a sense. Some years it was random things to make my life more interesting, like learning how to surf and snowboard. Other years it’s been more nutritiously focused, like trying every vegetable in the grocery store prepared two different ways. Another year it was being comfortable being alone by going to the movies alone and taking my first solo vacation.  You get the idea.

This year I decided that I needed to dedicate every day of the year to my resolutions. I have a couple basic resolutions or goals, such as wanting to take guitar lessons and reading at least one book per month. I have a few private/personal goals I’m going to work towards. The other things I want to do to better myself require more discipline and practice…in fact 30 days worth. They say it takes 21 days to create a habit, so I’m giving myself 30 days, 12 times a year for 12 goals. Some of these goals are focused around practicing my writing skills or photography skills. Some are to give to others, and yet others are self-serving.

For January I will be focusing on practicing my writing skills by writing one blog posting a day. Granted, they may be rather random as I don’t feel anyone would want me to write about my current life every day as it can be rather uninteresting. But instead it will be a smattering of topics. I may even try to write a short story at the end of the month. We’ll see where it takes me. Enjoy!

Sorry! I just realized this didn’t actually post on Thursday. I’ll add more later!

After spending two days in India there are a few things I’ve picked up on and want to share with you. I have so many stories and things to tell everyone, but not enough time yet!!!

• IF they give you a utensil for eating, it’s a spoon. Nothing else.
• Everything here is deliciously spicy, breakfast and pasta included. But, I haven’t had to use my antacids yet.
• They celebrate human life more than any culture I’ve ever seen, but safety is not intuitive for them. For example, kids don’t sit in car seats and are often on the front of motorcycles. Women don’t have to wear helmets on motorcycles, only men. If you’re sitting in the backseat of a car you won’t be able to find the seat belt because they don’t use them. You don’t need an open space to light off fireworks and there’s no distance away you need to stand after they’re lit.
• Leggings ARE pants here. And are traditional attire along with tunics. It’s so comfortable.
• Everyone gets gifts and money at weddings, not just the bride and groom. I might crash more Indian weddings.
• It’s not socially acceptable for women to show their legs, only their mid-drifts.
• They believe the darker your henna gets the more your finance or husband loves you. Apparently my KISA is obsessed with me as it got super dark immediately.
• The rumors about them not using toilet paper here is accurate, even in the homes. I’m only left to assume the stereotype of what they wipe with.
• Men here are incredible dancers and love to dance. At the wedding festivities there have been about a 10:1 ratio of men to women dancing.
• All religions intermingle.
• They don’t believe in cruelty of animals or really that they should be domesticated, so it’s normal to see cows, dogs, monkeys, etc. everywhere roaming the streets.
• Arranged marriages are quite common and typically over half of all marriages are arranged. Sometimes they allow a courting time before the marriage so that they’re not an absolute stranger. And even if it’s a “love marriage” you never live together before the wedding.
• The elderly people here are the happiest people I’ve ever met. They all smile with their eyes as well as their mouths and are full of love. It leads me to believe they’ve led very fulfilled lives.
• Working for the government is THE place to work. If you work for the government you get special housing included (and they all live in the same community), a car, and your kids go to special government schools.
• Many people here are vegetarians and it took me until someone pointed out to me that there wasn’t any meat in the food. The food’s so good it would be easy to be a vegetarian here.
• At election time it’s normal for people to ride around on bikes pulling big stereos that are playing out “advertisements” for their politician. And it’s very loud to make sure everyone in the houses can hear it.
• They speak H-Henglish. That slang in most countries mean the people don’t know or understand English. In India it’s the opposite – most of their classes are in English so they’re very fluent. What I mean by H-Henglish is that they speak a Hybrid Hindi English. I can get the jist of most conversations because they’ll randomly use English word or expressions, specifically numbers, left, right, straight, U-turn, stroller, OK, thanks (which is interesting that they use thanks instead of cheers since they were a British colony).
• GPS isn’t common in India and men are ok with asking for directions. In fact, they do a lot. People commonly don’t know street names (evidentially it wasn’t really until Google Maps that many had proper names), so when trying to get somewhere unfamiliar you may need to ask for directions a few times. And, since there are so many people in India at all times of the day and night, you always have people to ask. Plus they’re so courteous and never make it seem like you’re bothering them.
• India could possibly take over the world in a decade if they get a better organized government. The reason I say this is that there’s a big gap between the lower class and a middle class. Just to give you an example, it’s common for people in the middle class to have drivers or house-keepers from the lower class because they work so cheaply. There are 1.2 billion people in India and the middle class is very well educated. If the government put more money towards the lower class to allow and ensure for schooling, they would be more qualified for jobs to remove that gap in class. And, having 1.2 billion educated people in your country, with people who are very open to getting jobs overseas, they could be unstoppable.

A political advertisement

Gifts for guests at the wedding.

The aftermath of my henna.

Sacred cow

I called 9-1-1 for the first time in my life on Sunday. Thank goodness they continuously reiterate that number in your mind starting when you’re 3 because in the heat of the moment I was lucky to remember my own name.

Black Sand Beach

On Sunday my friend Lauren was in town for work. I told her about a beach I’d heard of in Sausalito that had black sand and we decided to check it out. The beach is located in a beautiful area with cliffs overlooking the bay and long, windy one-way road to get there. As we left (we drove separately) I was driving (still on a one-way road) and there was an old, historic, dilapidated fort on my left. As I was coming to it I saw what looked like something falling off the roof of the fort. I couldn’t tell right away if it was a person or someone just throwing a coat down, but I pulled over. As soon as I opened my car door I could hear a kid screaming. Without thinking about it I grabbed my phone out of the console and started running in that direction. Another man beat me there and he was standing over a child that was very obviously in pain and bleeding from his chin. I volunteered to dial 9-1-1 and started dialing before I even got agreement from him. This man’s sig other came over while I was calling, who was thankfully a former EMT, and shortly thereafter the child’s mother. The mother wanted to move the son and the EMT lady and I both in unison shouted, “NO!” unsure of what kind of injuries the boy could have since he was obviously in pain. As the San Francisco emergency responders transferred me to Sausalito I ran back to my car to grab my big beach towel, realizing the kid was shivering.

The Sausalito emergency responders asked a bunch of questions about the fall as they dispatched their crew. Within 10 minutes they had a park ranger, followed by two fire trucks, an ambulance, and two emergency rescue vehicles were on the scene. They were quick to put the boy in a neck brace and make sure he could move all his limbs. They cut up his shirt and pants to make sure nothing was broken. By the time they left they were hopeful he was more scared than hurt and would probably just need stitches in his chin.

After I left I called Dubs, since she lives in Sausalito, to replay the event for her and tell her she was in good hands with the Sausalito medic team. We joked about me being a Good Samaritan and being in the right place at the right time.

When I got home there was a man in my parking garage that started walking towards my car when I pulled in. I sat in the car for an extra minute as I watched him to see what he needed. I got out of my car and he quickly introduced himself and his apartment number. He explained that his car was dead and was hoping I could give him a jump. Naturally I moved my car over to his, happy to help, and his car started on the first try. I guess I was in the right place at the right time…twice. Or else the universe is trying to tell me something about becoming a superhero.