I've fallen off the wagon!

The blogging wagon, that is. Much as I'd love to try to convince myself (and additionally, anyone reading this) that I'm more about quality than quantity, let's face it, this is a blog. How much "quality" can really exist? No, there will be no attempted convincing involved. In reality, I know that I was not blessed with the gene that some of my favorite bloggers possess... the consistency gene. What can I say? I'm a Gemini.

(On a nerdy side note, there's an interesting story behind the phrase "fallen off the wagon" that I researched while writing this post. That's right, I researched "fallen off the wagon." You see, I have this tendency of combining and misusing idioms. And while I prefer to think it an endearing quirk, others have found it dorky, annoying, confusing, etc. Long story short, whenever I want to use a common expression in writing, I make sure to research it so as not to confuse it with another. You can learn more yourself at http://www.phrases.org.uk/bulletin_board/6/messages/1202.html ). [( On perhaps a nerdier side note, I feel like Levar Burton at the end of Reading Rainbow, "But don't take my word for it...")]

Ok, side notes aside, after a 5 week hiatus, here is my Fall 2010 Cliff's Notes edition.

Even though Fall doesn't technically start until late September, most of us mark Labor day weekend as the beginning of Fall. After all, that's when the last of the Summer vacations wrap up, when most schools start back, and (most importantly) when college football gets under way again!

I was blessed to spend Labor Day weekend in Amish country in New York with my family (no, nobody in my family is actually Amish, my grandparents just live in Amish country). Mom and Phil drove up from GA; Sissy and James drove over from Cincinnati; I flew in from Chicago; Uncle Butch and the family drove down from Ottawa; and Papa, Bev, Nana, Aunt Sandy, and Sacinda were all on the premises.

What I love so much about being in that part of the country is the purity of it. The air smells so clean; the most pervasive scent is of the sweet clover grass. You can hear the birds in the day and see the stars at night. Life happens at a slower pace (Unless, that is, you're a passenger in my Papa's van at any point. Then your life flashes before your eyes. I swear that man gives Jeff Gordon a run for his money!) It's in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. Early September, the countryside is covered in green, save for the old red barns that dot the hills.

 

I refrained from photographing the Amish farmer passing by, unlike someone else... Ahem *Phil*



A barn that was, no doubt, red in it's earlier life



Every time I'm at my grandparents' place, I'm always amazed at all the projects that have been completed since my last vist. This time there was a huge new vegetable garden tended by Bev and a beautiful barn built by my Papa's bare hands, amongst other things. Sissy and I sat up in the barn loft for a good long while catching up and counseling each other on life's problems in a way that only sisters can do. Thanks for the quiet space, Papa.

Bev and Papa, the gardener and the carpenter... 2 happy Swedes!

We had a great time together as a family doing a whole lot of nothing. We bonded over the sweet Georgia peaches that my parents brought up with them (one of the best peach crops in years!) and laughed over several baskets of Cheddar Bay biscuits when the Red Lobster in a neighboring town was the only place big enough to seat all of us for dinner (so much for our plan to eat at a local joint!) Of course, I made our entire family stop at a produce stand before dinner because Aunt Sandy said they had the best ice cream for miles. Ice cream? Say no more! Everyone made the detour begrudgingly... until they actually tried the ice cream. Once the face-stuffing silence came to an end, all I heard was a chorus of "good call" and "I'm glad we stopped here." Nothin like some sugary frozen dairy to turn those frowns upside down (I didn't even have to research that one!)

The craziest part of the trip, by far, was this tiny little restaurant where we took my Nana for lunch Saturday afternoon. This was in the parking lot:


Part Easter Bunny. Part totem pole. No explanation.

 It gets better (or worse, depending on your perspective). This was in the ladies room:


Garden State, anyone? If you look closely, you can see my eyes bleeding.

 But the time together more than makes up for the wackiness. In fact, I think the wackiness added to the time together.

Mom and Phil, exactly how they exist when I think of them. Happy. Laughing. Together.

James and Sissy. Not Swedish, but you could easily think so.



Me and my sweet Nana. Kindred spirits.

It is my sincere hope that this New York trip becomes a new family tradition. Although, with Michigan and Bama opening their 2012 seasons with a matchup in Cowboys Stadium, we may have to visit New York during the summer and have our Labor Day family reunion in Dallas. After all, we've already established what's most important in the Fall!

Bo's Lasting Lessons

One of my best friends here in the city, Adam, is leaving soon for grad school in England. While I'm very happy for him, I'm pretty sad too. We've come to be such close friends over the past few years. Much closer than we were when we spent 8 hrs a day together as theatre majors at Michigan. On the other hand, at least for the next 2 years I have a good excuse to travel abroad! Seeing as Adam can't lug too much stuff across the Atlantic, he is lending things out to various friends to lighten his load. I recently had the honor of accepting 1.5 pounds of reading material: Bo's Lasting Lessons, which Adam took from his bookcase telling me, "I think you should read this."

For those of you who don't know, the Bo referred to in the title is none other than Michigan's legendary former head football coach Bo Schembechler. He just happens to be the winningest coach in the history of the University of Michigan, which just happens to be the winningest program in college football history (Alright, get your Appalachian State jokes out of the way now).

A young Bo Schembechler, classic!

Growing up in Georgia, I can't honestly say I have any recollection of hearing the name Bo Schembechler as a child. Vince Dooley? Yes! Bear Bryant? Yes. Bobby Bowden and Steve Spurrier? Yes, but only preceded by swearwords.

The face of evil - Satan and his minions

Bo Schembechler, however, was a man I knew nothing about. Even after moving to Ann Arbor, I still didn't know who the guy was. I knew his name and I knew he was a legend, but I didn't know why he was a legend. Reading his lasting lessons, I get it now. The man had immense character and integrity.

His book is about Michigan football, yes, but it's also about how to be a great leader. More than that, it's about how to be a great person. The importance of values. The importance of sticking to those values especially when it's difficult. The thing that has resonated with me the most from that book is something written in the forward: "They say your character is what you do when you think no one is watching."

While I agree with this statement and can't come up with any better indicators of a person's character, I also don't feel like there's ever that much time when no one is watching. Maybe that's just my vanity speaking, thinking someone's always paying attention to me. Or maybe it's because I started this blog, so if I ever do something that has the potential to go unnoticed, I can proclaim it for 14 followers and say, "Hey, world! Look at me! I did something great! Did you see?" Or maybe I've just seen that Liberty Mutual commercial too many times. You know... the one where someone does something nice for a person, someone else sees, and then they turn aound and do something nice for someone else and it keeps getting paid forward until it gets back to the first person.

Regardless, I have concluded that when it comes to measuring character, whether or not someone's actually watching what you're doing is not important. What's important is if you're doing what you're doing because you think someone's watching. Or not watching for that matter. Does that make me agnostic?

It's scary to think, but I'm pretty sure much of what I've done in life has been because I thought someone was watching. Maybe that's just the actress in me;  when I think someone's watching (which we've established is pretty much always) I want to put on a good show. Show them what they want to see and tell them what they want to hear... unless, of course, you're my sister. Then I will tell you the exact opposite of what you want to hear (but only as it pertains to trivial arguments like if the fan should turn clockwise or counter clockwise in the summer).

You see, I am terrified of disappointing people. And because of this terror, I tend to do what other people want, even if it's not what I want. Such compliance makes it very difficult for me to listen to my inner voice. (I could go on and on as to why that is, but if I did, why the hell would I have to pay someone else to help me sort through it?) I'm proud to say I've at least gotten to the point in my life where I can eventually listen to that inner voice, that instinct that never leads me astray. But when I do, it's typically after I've misrepresented that voice to someone else, which isn't fair to other people or myself. And then I find myself in this dilemna (Bite me, spellcheck! I'm not changing my spelling after all this time!) Here is how it plays out:

Inner Voice (whispering): Kyla.
Me: What's that noise?
Inner Voice (growing louder): Kyyyyla.
Me: Is that my inner voice?
Inner Voice (shouting): KYLA!!!!
ME: What?! Why are you yelling at me?!
Inner Voice : (gives evil death glare that implies "you know why I'm yelling at you, don't play dumb")
Me: Oh shit. I haven't been listening to you, have I? Crap. Do I have to listen to you, or can I just continue on as if you're not there?
Inner Voice : Choose you own ending, kid. But *spoiler alert* this is pretty much gonna suck either way.

Bo said, "I cannot recall a single moral dilemma in all my years of coaching. I really can't! And the reason is: We always knew what the right thing to do was, so we just did it. And we slept well at night! Really, it was that simple."

It never ceases to amaze me how difficult it can be to do the simplest things. Bo's inner voice must have been really loud from the get-go! The greatest ah-ha moment I've had in reflecting on this one sentence from the book is realizing that as terrifying as it is to disappoint people I think are watching, it's infinitely worse to live my life only for their judgement. Because all the praise in the world from onlookers doesn't add up to jack if I'm being praised for something I'm not. Likewise, criticism doesn't matter either so long as I'm being true to myself and true to others. And when it comes down to it, I'm the only one who can ever really know if I am true to myself. Because I'm the only one who's still there in those moments when no one else is around to watch... however few and far between those moments may be.

Unanswered questions

All summer I've been craving a visit to one of Chicago's great art museums. Though I enjoy seeing art on my own, I get more out of it by sharing the experience with someone else. One of the things I love most about art is it's ability to get my mental juices flowing and start a great conversation (even better if it turns into a great debate!) So, much as I'm perfectly capable of carrying out such a debate with myself (and often times do in the privacy of my own home), I feel it's best for the sake of the other patrons if someone else is there debating with me... wouldn't want to frighten anyone.

So I tried getting ahold of my good friend Matt Pearson way back in June to see if he wants to join me. Matt was my choice for a few reasons: 1. He was moving to Texas soon and I wanted to hang out before he left; 2. He was unemployed and therefore free to go on random weekdays like me; and 3. I discovered he was a good art buddy a few years ago when we attended a random private radiology function at the Art Institute and got to peruse the collections sans crowds. I don't remember the details of the artsy conversation that ensued at that event, but I remember that it was good conversation. Like the conversations I remember having with my friends growing up in Georgia. The type of conversation I've found it difficult to come by on an everyday basis (perhaps because my Georgia friends and I spent 2 hrs a day together in AP Art History... precisely 2 hrs more per day than I currently have to devote to such endeavors, but I digress).

Unfortunately, Matt is one of those people you have to book 3 months in advance to hang out with, so it never worked out for us to make it to the museum together. Fortunately, however, he had a membership to the Art Institute and gave me his membership card as a parting gift (I know, usually the person going away gets the parting gifts, but some rules were meant to be broken. And besides, I gave him a going away balloon).

Fast forward to last Wednesday. My best friend here in Chicago, Jes Hill, and I are having lunch and somehow it comes up that in the 4 years we've lived here she has never been to the Art Institute. Awesome! Museum buddy! I know from experience that Jes happens to be great museum buddy. I literally cannot count the number of museums we've been to together, because I simply cannot remember them all (we travelled Europe for a month together after graduating from Michigan and must have gone to every museum, church, and historic site in London, Athens, Milan, Berlin, Dresden, and Prague and everywhere in between!)

Jes is also usually one of those people you have to book 3 months in advance to hang out with, but luckily for me she was able to squeeze me in after a trip back home to the UP. So this past Thursday we went to the Art Institute and got cultured! It felt a little scandalous swiping us both in for free on Matt's old membership card, but then I realized it was free after 5 on Thursdays anyways (only an hour away), which quickly zapped all of the fun out of the scandal. I'm still not sure what to make of the fact that the girl at the counter didn't bat an eyelash (much less, ID me) when I handed her the card with "Mr. Matt Pearson" clearly printed on it, but I figured that either I could pass for a dude, or Matt has a reputation for showing up at the museum dressed in metallic flats and bright blue dresses. It's really a toss up on that one. Either way, Jes and I got in for free!

One thing that's great about going to museums with Jes is that we have pretty different tastes in art. She points things out to me that I would usually pass right by and vice versa. I like a lot of darker pieces that make me ask a lot of questions or create a sense of mystery, as well as modern art that forces me to ask myself, "What is art?" And any piece that can make me laugh is a winner too. Jes tends to gravitate towards more picturesque pieces that show a true mastery of technique and evoke a sense of calmness and serenity.

While I can't say I'll be hanging any Impressionist paintings (who am I kidding... posters. As if I could afford an Impressionist piece!) on my wall as a result of our museum visit, I do have a new-found appreciation of the still life. I always thought they were really boring because they don't tell me anything. And while I know that the point of a still life is not necessarily to tell me something, I discovered some interesting pieces that tell me just enough for me to know they're not telling me something too. Allow me to illustrate.

Kitchen Still Life, Paolo Antonio Barbieri c. 1640

I don't give a rat's ass about this painting. It just looks like a bunch of objects placed together on some table for a painter to try out different techniques for conveying texture. Yawn! Let's look at another example.

The White Tablecloth, Jean Baptiste Siméon Chardin, 1731

While it still doesn't knock my socks off, this one is a little more interesting. Not everything is so perfect. It looks like there is at least some life in this still life. But it still looks staged. Like it's trying to be interesting, rather than actually being interesting. Sort of like someone on reality TV trying so hard to be famous that they develop none of the traits that make them an interesting person to whom people want to give their atttention. Now let's look at a still life that's actually interesting.

Still Life, Pieter Claesz, c. 1625

What a difference! First off, the view is tight enough that the objects completely fill the space, and you can tell there might be something outside the frame. Second, it's not quite centered. What's under the table? Just to the right of the table? In front of the table? Third, everything is scattered about, unfinished. I find myself wondering, "What's going on here? Did something bad happen to whoever was preparing/eating this feast? Why didn't they didn't finish it? Were they not impressed with the offerings? Because, honestly, who cracks a nut only to leave it in pieces on the tablecloth? I mean, if you're gonna go to all that trouble to crack nuts and peel fruit, wouldn't you finish them?" I can't answer these questions and I love that!

Looking at this still life make me think of my favorite painting, Jan van Eyck's Arnolfini Wedding. I always find myself mentally revisiting this piece whenever another piece elicits a reaction from me.

The Arnolfini Wedding, Jan van Eyck, 1434

To me, The Arnolfini Wedding is able to capture so much in one piece: beauty, mystery, arrogance, tradition, but most of all, hope. Hope for fidelity. Hope for the successful merger of two powerful families. Hope for fertility, for heirs to carry on the family name and family business. Hope to possibly transcend the here and now and exist in infamy.

The Arnolfini marriage itself (what was known of it) seemed less than ideal. First off, Giovanni Arnolfini was not exactly the most faithful guy. In fact, he was sued by a mistress of his who was seeking to lay claim to houses he had promised her (Clearly he only said you could have that mansion to get you in bed, honey!) Giovanni essentially abandoned the family business in favor of politics. But the thing that's saddest to me is that the Arnolfinis died childless. What's not sad, however, is that despite having no heirs to carry on the family name and family business, the Arnolfinis managed the hardest feat: they managed to exist in infamy. And what's so beautiful is that it's the moment filled with so much hope that has outlived the Arnolfinis themselves, finding itself among the most famous pieces of art in all of Western History. How often is it that a moment is remembered almost 600 years after it passed?

It makes me wonder, "Will I have any moment that is remembered after I'm gone? Do I even want or need such a moment? What is the point of such a moment, if every other moment that comes after it is full of misery?" I can't answer these questions and I love that!

Karma

Yesterday as I was leaving work and walking towards my bus stop, I saw this woman hunched over and holding onto the side of the building. She was slowly inching her way along the brick wall, much like a little girl first learning to skate drags herself along the wall of the skating rink. Living in Chicago, I see all sorts of people on the sidewalk doing all sorts of things I never thought people did (much less on sidewalks) which explains the four thoughts that crossed my mind nearly simultaneously: "Is she on drugs? Maybe she's crazy. Does she need help? She looks like Nana!"

Nana is my 93-year-old great grandmother who lives in a nursing home in New York. I will be visiting her in a couple of weeks, but I don't get to see her nearly enough. Much as I would've loved it to be her shuffling in front of me, the idea that she plotted an elaborate escape, staged a nursing home coup, and hitch hiked her way across a few states in order to be walking down Lincoln Avenue (and holding a drumstick no less [the kind you play drums with, not the kind you eat]) just didn't ever cross my mind. But I did wonder... what if that was my Nana? Would someone help her if she needed help? What if this is somebody else's Nana?

As I glanced over at that woman and wondered about her drug habits/sanity/need/resemblance to my Nana, I wish I could say that a Biblical story came to mind. But I can't. Well, that's not true either. I could say such a thing... but I'd be lieing. Now I grew up in the Church - played the Littlest Angel in our Nativity scene, went to Camp Christian, sang in the choir, attended service most Sundays, served as an accolyte and then as a deacon - but I can't in good conscience pretend that I have any Bible verses memorized. Or that the related Bible verses I Googled while writing this entry made a cameo in my thoughts at the time. However, I'd like to think that the basic concepts I learned at Church stuck with me (thanks, Mom!). So, even though I thought that woman might be on drugs or might be crazy (or both), I also thought she might need help. And even though she's different from me, she's still the same as me.

So I asked her if she needed a hand. She said she was walking back to her apartment (I think she uses the term "walking" loosely, she didn't seem to be walking anywhere). She looked like she needed help, but she didn't really answer my question "yes" or "no." Knowing it can be difficult to say "Yes, I need help" when someone asks, I decided to try a different approach. I extended my arm for her to hold onto and said, "I can walk with you until you get there." Now, I had no idea at this point how far "there" would be, so for all I knew I had just signed away my whole evening with that one gesture. Luckily for me we were only about 20 feet from her front door.

But I learned a lot in that 20 feet. She told me (in thick German-accented perfect English) that she used to be a seceretary downtown. One day as she was walking down the steps from the El, she slipped on some ice and took a pretty nasty fall. She did irreparable damage to her inner ear, which has made it difficult for her to move quickly without getting dizzy ever since. She told me she adopted two cats from the Anti-Cruelty Society and that she only went out because she had to get food for them. She told me that her landlord is Puerto Rican and she wants to move because all the people in her building swear and yell and smoke dope. She thanked me for helping her and told me it was very kind and beautiful of me do so. She never did tell me what that drumstick was for.

But she did tell me that her cats talk to her. And yell at her.

Turns out she's a little crazy after all. But her craziness didn't negate the fact that she needed help. Or the fact that it felt good to help her. Because even though she wasn't my Nana, she still could be somebody's Nana. And reflecting on it now, I'm reminded of something in the Bible where Jesus said something to the effect that you don't have to do good things for God, because doing good things for anyone is doing good things for God (Google says it's Matthew 25:40 'just as you did it for one of the least of these brothers or sisters of mine, you did it for me.’) Even though I'm not terribly religious, I can get behind that idea. (PS-When did the Bible become gender neutral?)

You know what happened next? I stopped in Potbelly to pick up a sandwich and a sugar cookie (thank you De'Lon Grant for turning me onto the amazingness that is the Potbelly sugar cookie! Sugar sprinkles on top? Who are they kidding, we all know it's really crack!) I was feeling really good that I helped this little old lady. And because I felt good, I was smiling and interacting with all the employees and making them laugh and smile. And to thank me for making everyone else's day better, the manager comped my meal. How awesome!

Now I don't believe in a Karma bank where you get back everything you put in, good or bad. I think that's much too simplistic. But I do believe that in general, you get what you give. Not because you've earned it or banked it, but because giving something, for better or for worse, changes you. And people pick up on that change and give back to you accordingly. Not always, but generally.

As I left Potbelly, a seemingly homeless woman asked me if I could give her some change so she could get something to eat. A similar set of thoughts crossed my mind as with the little old lady just a few blocks earlier, "Is she on drugs? Is she crazy? Does she need help? Is she really homeless?" But I looked at that woman, and even though she was very different from me, she was also the same as me.

"No," I said, "but you can have my sugar cookie." And when I handed her that cookie, her face lit up. Maybe I gave her a little change after all.



Further reading:
http://health.usnews.com/usnews/health/articles/061217/25happy.health.htm
http://health.howstuffworks.com/mental-health/human-nature/happiness/happy-people-live-longer.htm
http://longevity.about.com/od/mentalfitness/p/positive_aging.htm

I've been living a lie!

Growing up in Georgia, the only professional sports team worth a damn was the Atlanta Braves. In school, every student that got straight A's for a whole semester was rewarded with tickets to a Braves game (never mind that it was almost always to a game against the Montreal Expos, it was a free Braves game!)

Being the teacher's pet, over-achiever type that I am, I got tickets every semester. And being that I take after my older sister, so did she. So there's a guaranteed 4 games a year that I attended. On top of that, I had a friend whose family had season tickets and let me tag along a lot. I actually got to tag along to the last game ever played in Atlanta Fulton Co. Stadium (the very same stadium where Hank Aaron hit his historic 715th home run 22 yrs earlier!) This last game in AFCS was the 5th game of the '96 World Series and the Braves were playing the Yankees. Of course, it ended in defeat for my Bravos (didn't it always?). But I was there! For that moment in history... before it was demolished... and turned into a parking lot... I kid you not.

Parking lot formerly known as Atlanta Fulton County Stadium

All this to say that I know a thing or two about baseball, or so I thought. Fast forward to last week. It's the final question at Team Trivia: "In 1953, Congress officially recognized Alexander Cartwright as the inventor of which sport?" Now I didn't know Alexander Cartwright from Adam, but I was sure that it most definitely was not baseball. Baseball was invented by Abner Doubleday, duh! I learned that on a 4th grade field trip to Ft. Pulaski. Here's how I remember it: Abner Doubleday = a decorated Union officer who taught Union troops the game of baseball (though he spent no time at Ft. Pulaski). Ft. Pulaski = a Confederate fort in Georgia that was captured by the Union.  Baseball = preferred game of Union soldiers after capturing the Ft. Pulaski because the fort's shape was perfect for the new sport.

Ft. Pulaski, full of cannonball holes and FULL OF LIES!

Lies! Lies!! LIES!!!

SPOILER ALERT! My team didn't win Team Trivia that night. Turns out, the correct answer was baseball. So once I got over the initial shock (and the sting of losing) I did some research and here's what I found out:

Abner Doubleday never claimed he invented baseball. During the late 1900s, there was much debate over the origins of the game.  Eventually, one hotshot named Al Spalding, (a former star pitcher turned sporting goods manufacturer) organized a research panel in 1907 to put an end to the debate. As far as the "research methods" go for said panel, well let's just say they wouldn't even fly for a simple grade school report about the sport. Spalding didn't care about history, he just wanted a good story so baseball's popularity would grow and he could sell more sports equipment. And what's better than a story where baseball was invented in a quaint rural town without foreigners or industry by a guy who later become an American war hero?
 
It gets better. The only evidence the panel cited that Doubleday invented baseball was testimony from one man (Abner Graves) nearly 80 years after the fact!  And keep in mind that, while this one man was from Cooperstown, he was only five years old in 1839, the year he claimed Doubleday invented baseball. Also keep in mind that Doubleday wasn't even in Cooperstown in 1839. He left the year before and enrolled in West Point and there are no records of any leave time. It's also important to note that the reliability of this one man as a witness is questionable because he was later convicted of murdering his wife (!) and died in an asylum for the criminally insane!!! Oh yeah, and they couldn't question Doubleday about it directly because he died in 1893. As if that weren't enough, Doubleday left tons of letters and papers after he died, but not a single one of them even describes baseball, or gives any suggestion that he thought himself an important figure in the evolution of the game. And no written records from 1830s or 1840s have ever been found to corroborate the claim that he invented the sport. The only source for the panel's conclusions was the 1907 testimony of Abner Graves, who probably just liked the fact that some war hero had his same first name.
 
As a side note, I also recently learned that I was taught to spell the word "dilemma" incorrectly. I was taught that it's spelled d-i-l-e-m-n-a. But it's not. It's spelled d-i-l-e-m-m-a. I always wondered about that silent "n." What a crock! Next thing you know, someone's gonna tell me the South didn't win the Civil War!
 
(research from baseballhall.org, baseball-reference.com, associatedcontent.com, wikipedia.com, militaryhistory.about.com)

My name is Kyla and I'm a serial girlfriend

There. I've said it. Or at least written it. I've admitted the truth to myself and sent it out into the cosmos. Also known as cyberspace, where Lord knows who (if anyone) will see. But it's well-known fact that the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem. Does anyone know what the second step is?

Let me give you a little background: I have been in a relationship (not the same one, but a relationship) for the past 14 years of my life. That's more than 50% of the time that I've been alive. I'll break it down further for the mathematically challenged - I am 26 years old and I have been a girlfriend to someone since the age of 12. That is, until recently.

Through the magic of therapy, I have come to realize that this pattern of behavior is not healthy and has quite stunted my individual development. Who knew? (Come to think of it, probably anyone that would be reading this blog knew, but please refrain from saying or typing "I told you so;" I know you told me so and I would love it if we could just keep it at that.)

For 14 years I've jumped immediately from one relationship to the next. In that 14 years I've dated all types, all types: the smart guy, the devout church boy, the rebellious musician, the older guy, the athlete, the adventurous outdoorsy type, the funny guy, the wealthy foreigner, the tortured artist, the Southerner with a similar white bread background. And each new relationship was accompanied by the dream that this will be the person to complete me. To make me whole and make me happy. Never allowing myself to entertain the idea that I am responsible for my own happiness, not someone else. And each new relationship started with a confident version of myself. But not confident because I valued myself highly, confident because someone else valued me highly. And in each relationship I would try to be the perfect version of Kyla that I thought Boyfriend-of-the-Moment wanted me to be, rather than investing my effort into becoming the person that I wanted me to be. And I would inevitably start to resent Boyfriend-of-the-Moment because I tried so hard to mold myself into his perfect match, but I would finally reach a point where I couldn't live inside the mold I had created for myself anymore. So I would give up and start the cycle again with someone else.

But this time, I have broken the mold and have decided not to create another one ever again.

So this is me. Mold free. Which is also how I see this blog. Mold free. A place to explore things that interest me, excite me, upset me, offend me, scare me, speak to me, inspire me, perplex me, and a place to work on being the me that I want me to be, not just a serial girlfriend. Where I'm not concerned with sticking to a theme or presenting myself as the expert in a particular field, but really just want to grow and have fun and track my progress. And if someone else is helped by something I write here, that'd be really cool, but I'm not so vain as to think this blog really would benefit anyone else more than it would benefit me. So here goes my mold-free self. This is scary. And exciting. But mostly exciting.