The Stress Monster

I think every college student has had an experience with feelings of overwhelming despair toward the end of the semester.  Long papers suddenly creep up out of nowhere.  Reading assignments that seemed manageable in September grown in size without any warning and sleep becomes nothing but a fond memory.  The temptation to crawl under a rock and hide until Christmas becomes incredibly desirable. 

 I’m in that place now.

As I swim through the piles of books and papers, I find myself wondering if my professors hate me. What other possible reason could they have for piling everything onto the last three weeks of school? But I like to think that human beings are generally good, caring creatures, so asking questions like that makes me sad.  Instead of wondering whether my professors are actually plotting to drown me in work, I prefer to place the blame on the Stress Monster. 

The Stress Monster is a sort of Muppet-esque creature that I created to attempt to make sense of the madness that is life close to exam time.   Please don't  be fooled by its seemingly benign appearance. It's actually responsible for all of the stressful things in life: 

 Tests

 Research Papers

Doctor's Visits

Missing Socks in the Dryer

At the beginning of the semester, the Stress Monster is relatively easy to take care of.  If you keep it well fed on a diet of occasional procrastination and forgotten homework, it behaves and stays relatively quiet.  

 Toward the end of the semester, though, the Stress Monster’s appetite seems to grow considerably. 

 Since it feeds on panic and frustration, when it finds itself faced with a lack of food, it sets out to cause situations that will bring about those feelings. I’m convinced that the stress monster is responsible for all of the papers, projects, tests and exams (and missing socks) that I will have between now and December.

 

The Stress Monster is crafty.  It survives by luring you into a false sense of security.  At the beginning of the semester as you look over your syllabus, the Stress Monster is the little voice in your head saying “this isn’t going to be so hard!”  It even lets you stay on top of your work for a month or two, to really cement the idea that you can do everything that needs to be done.  Then, when your thoughts are preoccupied with Thanksgiving and Christmas, it pounces.  First on you...

Then on your professors...

 

The trick is not to let the Stress Monster win. How? It hates responsibility and planning.  I would like it very much if I could be one of those responsible people who plans and fends off the Stress Monster with organized calendars and color coded day planners, but I’m not.  Instead of being inspired to fight back when the Stress Monster appears, my brain does the opposite.  It sees the gargantuan list of work to be done and goes into panic mode, which usually consists of naps, random internet browsing and lamenting how much I have to get done, all while doing very little of what actually has to be done.  It’s a devious spiral of despair.  I panic about the amount of work I have to do and am rendered virtually incapable of accomplishing anything.  Then I panic because I realize that I don’t have time to be incapable of doing anything.  This cycle repeats until I reach a breaking point and either do lots of work very rapidly, or collapse into anxiety-riddled depression. 

And that makes the Stress Monster happy. 

Pet Peeve #1: Bipolar Weather

Lately I’ve noticed lots of strange, little things that bother me. I think I probably have mild OCD, because usually I am incredibly bothered by insignificant things that somehow feel like mini-apocalypses to me. 

Mini-apocalypse #1: Bipolar Weather.

I love the rain. I also love sunshine. I’m okay with either one, as long as the temperature is bearable. I don’t like rain and sunshine at the same time.

Rain makes me feel like reading and drinking hot chocolate and taking naps. Since I love books and hot chocolate and naps, rain really isn’t a big issue for me like it is to some people. 

Sunshine makes me want to go outside and take pictures and get lots of work done because it gives me energy. I like both of those things, too. Maybe not as much as naps, but close. 

Rain and sunshine happening at the same time, though, is a problem. It shouldn’t be, considering the fact that I enjoy them both individually, but it is. It's a little bit like salami sandwiches and fruit smoothies. By themselves? Delicious treats. Together? A gag-inducing combination of flavor. That's about the way that rain and sunshine happening at the same time makes me feel. When I look at the sky and wonder "why is this happening?" the sun and the clouds seem to mock me and I'm suddenly filled with frustration/rage, both at the sky for behaving this way, and at the fact that I can't make the weather do what I want it to.

I think the problem is that seeing both things happening together confuses me. I like nice black and white boxes to put things in. Because of that, I think I feel that everyone else should also behave that way, including the weather. I have very different feelings that are brought on by rain than by sunshine. When I see them together, my brain goes into overload and can't choose the appropriate feelings, which leaves me feeling befuddled. Suddenly instead of "book, hot chocolate and nap" I'm forced to choose between "get lots of work done or take a nap".

There's also the issue of how to dress/prepare for weather. Where normally I would simply grab my backpack and run out the door, I have to agonize over what to wear. Jacket or no jacket? Umbrella or sunglasses? Flip flops or rubber boots? 

Should this frustrate me? Probably not. Is it silly? Most definitely. But it does bother me. Because a 50/50 decision should not be so difficult. Yet no matter which one I choose, it's always wrong.

That part frustrates me most of all.

Why I Love the Elderly

I was fortunate enough as a child to grown up having known 7 out of 8 of my great grandparents, and all 4 of my grandparents. I know that it’s rare to have even met one or two, so I feel very lucky. From a very young age, I became accustom to spending time at nursing homes thanks to regular visits with my great grandfather, Grandpop. I think on some level, I felt more at home there than I did with children my own age. As an only child, I probably spent more time hanging out with my grandparents than I did with my peers. Of course it probably helped that every time we went to see my great-grandfather, I became the star of the nursing home. Little old ladies knitted me dresses for my dolls and slipped me candy when my grandmother was preoccupied. I was “the cutest thing you’ve ever seen” and I knew it.

Even after Grandpop died, I felt at home in nursing homes when I went to Christmas carol or visit on school chorus trips. Other kids hated the smell and the way the old people just sat around and sometimes yelled at them. To me, it was just another day.

The notion that old people liked me and enjoyed my presence stayed with me even as I got older and at some point I became convinced that every old person did, or at least should, like me. This became difficult when I began spending time with my mom’s grandfather, Big Granddaddy. Big Granddaddy did not like me. I don’t think it was me, per say, but children in general. I don’t think he quite knew what to do with them, especially when they did things like cry, laugh, or display any outward signs of affection. This was a problem, because I was (and still am) an affectionate person. I like to give hugs and make sure to tell the people close to me that I love them. This made Big Granddaddy uncomfortable. It was easy to see, by the way that he tensed up and made incoherent growling noises when I approached him, but looking back, I think that was part of the appeal. Every old person I had met loved me, so Big Granddaddy presented a challenge. While most of my family had written off displaying any sort of affection toward him, I felt that it was my personal mission in life to break his gruff shell. I would make him like me, whether he wanted to or not. I began devising ways to break him:

          I tried valiantly to win him over, but every attempt seemed to make him more and more convinced that he wanted nothing to do with small children. Eventually, he passed away, and I was left with the bleak understanding that I had given my best effort and still failed. Several years later, my grandfather told me that Big Granddaddy really did like me, and had even gone so far as to call me cute on one occasion. While I felt vindicated, something inside me still felt like I had failed.

         It was around that time that I began to notice other grouchy old men who reminded me in some way of Big Granddaddy. They might have looked like him, or acted like him, or simply chewed on toothpicks for hours on end. Whatever the reason, I was drawn to these men and saw a need to succeed in making them like me to somehow compensate for my previous failure. My new “Projects” have consisted of church members and family friends. I estimate an 86% success rate (Okay, I just picked 86 out of the air, but I do feel like I’ve had some major successes. Maybe not 86%, but it’s still fairly high).

     

       Now that I’m in college, I have a more difficult time even meeting, or striking up friendships with old people. Part of the problem is that there simply aren’t large numbers of old people roaming college campuses.  And my old tactics have probably lost most of their effectiveness. At some point, a person stops being “the cutest thing you’ve ever seen” and starts being a creep if they don't change their methods. 

       So now I find myself in an awkward place where I’m afraid of crossing that line and yet still plagued by my desire to build friendships with the elderly. Three years ago when I first came to Longwood, I noticed an elderly man who ate in the dining hall for almost every meal. He was very old and slowly shuffled along as he walked. His back was slightly hunched and it made his head poke out of his jacket in a manner reminiscent of a turtle. 

He looked a little bit like Big Granddaddy. Needless to say, I was hooked. I’ve seen this man for three years now, eating alone at every meal, and lately the urge to talk to him has become overwhelming. He seems lonely, a little bit like a puppy who wanders into your yard and looks at you with sad puppy eyes, silently begging you to throw a stick for him. 

      I see this man every morning at breakfast, and I think “one of these days, I’m going to go and sit with him, and introduce myself and he’ll tell me lots of stories about when he was my age, and then we’ll be breakfast buddies”. And then I think, “what if he doesn’t want a breakfast buddy? What if he sits by himself because he doesn’t like people? Or what if no one sits by him because he’s grouchy and they’re afraid of him? Or what if he thinks that I’m crazy because I have no better reason for sitting next to him than “You look lonely and since I think old people are adorable, we should be friends!"

No...I don't see that going over well at all...

"Play A Song For Me"

In 2007, I went on a one week study abroad in London, England.  I experienced more amazing things during those seven days than I ever thought possible.  I saw castles, Stonehenge, the Globe Theater, Westminster Abbey and walked across Abbey Road (with my shoes off, for full effect, of course), and I encountered one of the most influential people I’ve ever met.

Our tour group took the underground just about everywhere while in the city, and after being careful to mind the gap as we exited the train, we walked out of the subway tunnel and onto a street that was very near Big Ben and the London Eye.  Most of the tour group ran straight to the London Eye, a Ferris wheel that sits next to the Thames and gives a spectacular view of the city.  It’s a truly mazing experience, unless you’re afraid of heights. 

While everyone else stood in line to go up to the top of the Eye, I stayed on the ground next to the river, fairly close to the underground tunnel we had just come out of.  There was a man there playing an acoustic guitar and singing “Yellow Submarine” (all four parts, no less).  I’ve always been fascinated by musicians who perform on street corners.  I’m impressed by their willingness to pursue their passion despite the meager penance that they receive, and by the courage that it takes to stand on the street, playing music and opening one’s heart and offer that creativity and expression to complete strangers in the hope of brightening their day. It’s a beautiful task, and one that I hope one day I might be brave enough to consider.  

So this man was standing there, just at the entrance to the tunnel, playing his guitar, and I was completely captivated. I pulled a couple of pounds from my bag and dropped them into his guitar case along with a hastily scrawled note that I had somehow felt compelled to write.  I can’t remember my exact words but they were something to the effect o f “Thank you for what you’re doing. It really made my day”.  Something simple, that I didn’t really think much of. 

He stopped after a couple of songs to take a break, and I watched him bend down and pick up my note from his guitar case.  All of a sudden, I felt an awkward sort of panic creep in.  What if he thought it was a stupid sentiment? What if he really was just in it to make a few bucks? Or worse of all, what if he thought I was a total nutcase?  I began glancing around frantically planning an escape route when I realized that he was walking toward me.  Some people hide awkwardness or embarrassment well.  I turn a color that could rival a tomato, and there is absolutely no hiding it, which tends to make me blush even more. It’s a vicious cycle. I’m fairly certain that’s what happened as he approached me.

The man pulled a snack from a brown paper sack and offered me some.  He said that my note really meant a lot to him, and that he was pleased that I enjoyed his music so much.  I can’t remember how it happened, but suddenly we were having a conversation and I felt completely at ease.  He told me about his childhood as a military brat, and how he traveled all over the world and finally settled in England.  He said that he really didn’t need to play music in the underground station.  He had money, and he really didn’t do it for the donations of passing businessmen.  He did it for the very reason that drew me to him in the first place: to bring joy to other people by doing something that he loves.

  

He asked me where I was from and what I wanted to do when I grew up.  At that point, I thought maybe I would be a teacher. He shook his head at me and said “Is that really what you want to do?” Well…no. Not really. But I was 15 and people were beginning to ask me more and more frequently what I wanted to be. ‘Teacher’ sounded safe and often came with respectful nodding of heads and well wishes.  I had been toying around with the idea of being a counselor.  I offered that option and he looked at me and then shook his head again. “Don’t throw your life away on other people’s problems. There has to be something that you really want to do. Something that you love. Something you’re passionate about.”

So I told him my secret desire, the one that I never thought would work. “I like to write” I said in a meek voice.  His face lit up. “That’s it!” he said. “Do that.” It was completely unsolicited advice, from a stranger whose name I never learned, and yet something inside me felt that this scruffy looking man was absolutely right.  It was almost as if my own heart had taken on a human form and slapped me in the face with what it had been trying to tell me.  Something profound happened in that moment. Something almost magical that I still can’t quite describe.

I haven’t forgotten about that man in the subway tunnel.  Every time I feel confused or frightened about the prospect of graduating from college and having to fend for myself in the real world, my mind finds its way back to that man.  I wish desperately that I had learned his name, or had some way of letting him know him how much our conversation has meant in my life.

I hope that somewhere, he’s still following his passion, just like I plan to follow mine. 

Halloween

I love Halloween.  I love candy and pumpkins, and a small part of me lives to see Charlie Brown attempt to kick the football every year. 

When I was a kid, I loved planning out my Halloween costume.  I started in August with the arrival of the Party City Halloween catalogue and probably changed my mind half a dozen times before I picked my final costume. I would still dress up now, if given the opportunity, but adult costumes are expensive, and I don’t really have anywhere to wear them. 

So basically, Halloween is a big deal to me. It’s apparently a big deal in college, too. There are parties and haunted houses and people really go all out. Well, cool people do. And since I try to be cool sometimes, I decided to go along with it this year and go to the Halloween Double Feature tonight. They were showing Psycho and Insidious and I gave myself permission to go, even though I knew it probably wouldn’t turn out well.  It’s the one time of year that I feel like it’s acceptable to submit to my desire to be scared out of my wits, even knowing what’s going to happen, because it’s the same thing that happens every time.  I go in, stoked to see a scary movie, thinking “this time I’ll be brave and I won’t jump or scream or hide behind my scarf for an hour and a half”.  But I end up doing all of those things, because if I’m being realistic, I have the fear tolerance of a three year old.

Nonetheless, I was super excited to go, mostly  because of Psycho. It’s one of those iconic movies that I think everyone should see at least once, if for no other reason than to say “I saw it”.  The plan was simple… Watch Psycho and then quietly sneak out before Insidious came on.

If you know me, you know that my plans don’t always turn out the way I’d like.  I sat down with a friend, excited to watch a classic Alfred Hitchcock flick and get in the mood for Halloween.    

But then this happened: 

I briefly considered leaving and coming back later for Psycho, but I had dragged said friend out in the miserable, cold rain to see these movies, so I decided to suck it up and stay. This is the part where I would like to say that I was very brave, and didn’t do any of the things that were on the list that I just mentioned. Instead, I spent the better part of the movie hiding behind my gloves (which make better blinders than one would realize), jumping at every sound, and trying desperately to choke back noises that sounded like some bizarre cross between a squeaky toy and a sort of pathetic whimper.  

After about three times of asking “is it over yet?” the movie finally ended. My friend asked me how much of it I thought I had actually seen, and when I thought about it, I gave 15 minutes as my estimate. That’s a generous figure.

Halloween is on Monday. After that, I can turn my thoughts toward Thanksgiving and Christmas. But until then…

A Letter to My Creepy Neighbor

Dear Creepy Neighbor,

I’m not entirely certain what to make of you, but you have provided me with hours of speculation and entertainment about who or perhaps more appropriately, what you are.  I have several guesses, but no definitive proof on which to base my assumptions, however my countless hours of observing your strange behaviors have lead me to the conclusion that you are indeed a vampire.  While I have no specific incident of vampiric behavior to point to, I have noticed certain behaviors that, when added together, prove that you are indeed one of the legion of the undead.

Behavior #1:

You very rarely leave your house, and when you do, it is almost always at night. Do you merely dislike the sun, or do you avoid it because it will cause you to spontaneously combust?  In fact, in the year and a half that I have lived beside you, I have never seen you open your blinds or curtains, even on the most beautiful, balmy of days.

Behavior #2:

For someone who stays almost exclusively shut inside their house, you take an alarming fascination toward what other neighbors are doing, even going so far as to knock on my door to enquire about the activity of another neighbor.  Most people would simply ask said neighbor about their deck being painted, instead of searching for that information in a roundabout way.  This leads me to believe that you have had some previous encounter with said neighbor and feel it necessary to keep an eye on her, lest she become aware of your little charade. 

Behavior #3:

For at least a month, you had a Fisher Price toy kitchen jammed into the front passenger seat of your car, and proceeded to drive around with it.  You have no children and you live alone.  What reasonable explanation could there be for this behavior, except that you were attempting to lure unsuspecting children into your clutches?

Behavior #4:

In the time that I have been your neighbor, I have never seen you bring groceries into your house.  This is perhaps the most compelling piece of evidence I have against you.  Only a blood-sucking creature of the night would have no use for grocery shopping.  The only food I have seen you bring into your house is a take-out bag from the nearest hamburger joint.  I believe that this frequent consumption of red meat is an attempt to quench your thirst for blood.

All of these idiosyncracies, when looked at individually, do not add up to much.  Put them together, however, and there becomes only one logical conclusion: you are a vampire.


I will continue to watch you and gather more information. One day you will slip up, and when you do, I will be watching. Mark my words.

Holey-Moley

I’m an only child who grew up in rural Virginia. It’s not that we lived in the sticks, but we were far enough from town that it wasn’t possible to run across the street and be in my best friend’s yard.  Since the concept of an eight year old driving a car is frowned upon, and my teleportation skills are lacking, visits with my friends were usually premeditated, and far between. Because I didn’t have brothers or sisters and had to fill copious amounts of time on my own, I developed some creative friendships.

At one point in my young life, I had a pet leaf named Holey-Molely.

I think I took his name from my mom saying “holey-moley” as a substitute swear word.  At any rate, I found this pitiful dead leaf as I was exploring the yard one day. It was dried up and dead, and had little bite marks from caterpillars and bugs. I think if it had been left there for much longer, it would have crumbled into dust, but for whatever reason, I felt a certain kinship with this little leaf.

We became friends. Yes. I was a desperate country child who made friends with leaves. Don’t judge me. Leaves deserve love, too.

Holey-Moley he ate birds- preferably robins, but really, whatever poor feathered soul happened to land in the yard would do. I spent many an afternoon chasing after them, pet leaf-friend in hand, screaming at the top of my lungs that the birds would be “Holey-Moley’s Dinner!” Sometimes I practiced sneaking up on them. I got pretty close once or twice. But they tended to figure out what was going on before we could pounce.

I’m in college now, and I’ve put aside my biodegradable friends (mostly). I don’t remember quite how the subject of Holey-Moley arose, but recently my mom and I found ourselves discussing him. Our conversation went something like this:

Jess: Holey-Moley was my pet leaf.

Mom: Yeah, but you tried to feed him to the birds.

…This is when I realized that my mom had completely misunderstood that part of my life. Now, mind you, I am twenty years old. That means that for twelve years, my mom has lived with misinformation. Naturally, I felt it necessary to correct her, so…

Jess: That’s so silly! Birds don’t eat leaves!

Mom: Then what were you doing?

Jess: I was feeding the birds to Holey-Moley.

Mom: But he’s a leaf.

Jess: Yes.

Mom: So it’s silly to think that birds eat leaves, but leaves eating birds is okay?

Jess: Exactly.

My poor mother.