The heater in this apartment has a difficult time kicking on the first time. If you pay attention you can hear the click of it trying to ignite five or six times before the heater wakes up and starts to work.
My imagination ran wild when that happened once and I pictured a little troll trying to light the flame. I can picture his hunched form in our closet trying over and over (a little nervously that this will be the time it doesn't work and that he'll get in some sort of trouble) to get the flame to take.
Don't worry little troll. If you can't get it the first time I understand. Sometimes I have a hard time lighting things on fire, too. I just appreciate all you're doing for this apartment. Keep up the good work.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Growing Up
Yesterday, I rode the bus to work. It was kind of a crazy ordeal because the last time I utilized public transportation extensively was when I was eleven. In NYC. With my aunt and cousins. So I kind of just followed and they told me what to do.
But Wednesday, I took the bus. Don't get the wrong impression. I didn't go at it alone--I had a seasoned bus-rider walk me through everything--but I did it. And I feel like I could do it again. It wasn't nearly as intimidating as I'd expected it to be.
It's kind of crazy how much a simple thing (like riding the bus) makes me feel like I'm growing up.
But Wednesday, I took the bus. Don't get the wrong impression. I didn't go at it alone--I had a seasoned bus-rider walk me through everything--but I did it. And I feel like I could do it again. It wasn't nearly as intimidating as I'd expected it to be.
It's kind of crazy how much a simple thing (like riding the bus) makes me feel like I'm growing up.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Words Behind the Silence
I base my entire life around words. They have been a vital part of me since before I can remember. I've loved the power that can come from words used correctly. I've loved it when I've been able to take that idea that I see in my head and make it clear to the people I'm talking to. I love it when I can communicate my needs, wants, fears, and dreams to the world around me. I love it when words enhance who I am. It provides a certain measure of satisfaction in my life. Satisfaction is a good thing to have, right?
I'm rarely at a loss for words. That's not to say that I'm always talking (although that is an activity I engage in quite often) but I usually know how to communicate with people. It makes working customer service so much simpler. It makes life so much simpler.
My French class is required immersion (this is related to the previous paragraph, I promise). Something about BYU having the best (aka most intense) college language program. . . Anyways. Last semester, in French 101, it was supposed to be immersion, but my professor never enforced it. It was lovely. This semester is a different story. No English. If you slip up three times you need to A) sing a solo in French in front of the class, or B) bring the entire class treats.
Now I recognize that the aforementioned punishments aren't too bad. I can definitely handle making treats for twenty-five students, but I also happen to be a perfectionist. I don't like messing up. So I've learned a brilliant trick: If I don't know how to say something in French, I don't say anything. Great idea, right?
Every time--every.single.time--I utilize that strategy (which is a lot) I feel ready to explode. I understand what my teacher is asking, I know the answer, but I can't say it in French so I remain silent.
I might be imagining it, but I swear I can feel a part of me--that part where the satisfaction of words utilized well is stored--shrink, shrivel, and hide. Almost like it's ashamed that I won't try.
And it should be. I know that I'll learn far more from my mistakes than I will from my success, but again. . . I'm a perfectionist. Somehow, failing is too big of a risk for me, even if everyone else around me is doing the same. That's probably not a good thing.
There is one good thing that has come from my inability to express myself in an acceptable manner (acceptable as measured in the French classroom); I've gained an appreciation--albeit a minute one--for how people with communication disorders must feel. My French class has made me grateful that I only have to deal with that stress for fifty minutes, five days a week. Every other time I can say what I want, how I want, and with the confidence I feel. There are some people who have to live with words pushing at the silence their entire lives. There are people out there who have so much to say, so much to share, and no way to share it. I'm grateful I'm not one of those people. I'm grateful that I don't have to feel frustrated because my thoughts will never be known. My words don't have to stay behind the silence. My words can deliver.
I'm rarely at a loss for words. That's not to say that I'm always talking (although that is an activity I engage in quite often) but I usually know how to communicate with people. It makes working customer service so much simpler. It makes life so much simpler.
My French class is required immersion (this is related to the previous paragraph, I promise). Something about BYU having the best (aka most intense) college language program. . . Anyways. Last semester, in French 101, it was supposed to be immersion, but my professor never enforced it. It was lovely. This semester is a different story. No English. If you slip up three times you need to A) sing a solo in French in front of the class, or B) bring the entire class treats.
Now I recognize that the aforementioned punishments aren't too bad. I can definitely handle making treats for twenty-five students, but I also happen to be a perfectionist. I don't like messing up. So I've learned a brilliant trick: If I don't know how to say something in French, I don't say anything. Great idea, right?
Wrong.
Every time--every.single.time--I utilize that strategy (which is a lot) I feel ready to explode. I understand what my teacher is asking, I know the answer, but I can't say it in French so I remain silent.
. . .I didn't realize how damaging silent could be.
I might be imagining it, but I swear I can feel a part of me--that part where the satisfaction of words utilized well is stored--shrink, shrivel, and hide. Almost like it's ashamed that I won't try.
And it should be. I know that I'll learn far more from my mistakes than I will from my success, but again. . . I'm a perfectionist. Somehow, failing is too big of a risk for me, even if everyone else around me is doing the same. That's probably not a good thing.
There is one good thing that has come from my inability to express myself in an acceptable manner (acceptable as measured in the French classroom); I've gained an appreciation--albeit a minute one--for how people with communication disorders must feel. My French class has made me grateful that I only have to deal with that stress for fifty minutes, five days a week. Every other time I can say what I want, how I want, and with the confidence I feel. There are some people who have to live with words pushing at the silence their entire lives. There are people out there who have so much to say, so much to share, and no way to share it. I'm grateful I'm not one of those people. I'm grateful that I don't have to feel frustrated because my thoughts will never be known. My words don't have to stay behind the silence. My words can deliver.
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