Sleep

I sometimes like to joke that I haven't woken up before 7am since 2004. I probably have. I'm sure there were some early mornings in college where I woke up at 5am or 6am to finish homework for an 8am class. Or to study for finals. Or woke up early to catch a flight or to drive someone to the airport. Sure I can't remember any of those days at the moment, but they probably happened. But I haven't consistently set my alarm for pre-7am hours in many, many years.

Probably since high school. Sometimes I look back at high school and wonder how I maintained my sleep schedule. High school starts so early. Like 7:45am. Even typing that just now I thought to myself, no, I'm just being dramatic--it must be after 8am. So I double-checked my high school's website, and first period really starts at 7:45am. And for a couple of years I took 0-period seminary, so I was at school by 6:30am. And of course I stayed up past midnight most nights having drama-filled AIM conversations. (Obviously.) How did I survive?

As complainy and lazy as I'm sounding, I've never been one to sleep in. When I was really young, I can remember being the first person awake on Sunday mornings. I would get a bowl of frosted flakes and watch The Bozo Show until other people got up. I'm not sleep crazy. I have never slept the day away, and I could probably count on one hand the number of times I have slept past 10am. During my masters program, I set my alarm for 9am (on the off-chance that I didn't wake up on my own before then), but I would usually wake up without it around 8. I'm not a napper. I don't crave sleep.

But the biggest shock to getting a full-time job has been waking up early. I leave for work by 7:30am, which means I have been waking up between 6am and 6:30am every day. The part of me that has always wanted to be an early-morning-gets-a-bunch-of-things-done-before-the-rest-of-the-world-wakes-up kind of person loves this. I feel like an adult with my stuff together. The other 98% of me hates this. It's just a little too early for me. And I do mean a little. 7:30am would be fine. 8am would be fantastic. But there's something about the pre-7am hours that terrify me. I never feel fully rested. And I don't trust myself enough in the pre-7am hours to fully grasp the importance of waking up. I'm always on the brink of completely ignoring my alarm and fading back into a wonderful heavy sleep without a care in the world. Pre-7am, nothing feels more important than resting. Not beating traffic. Not being responsible. Not keeping my job. Nothing.

Once I get out of bed and shower, the heavy feeling in my eyes starts to dissipate. I slowly slip into my professional and responsible mode. But the 10 minutes right after my alarm goes off, when I'm lying in bed trying to will my legs to swing over the side of the bed and fighting to keep my eyelids open, are the most distressing and disorienting minutes of my day.

Ten Minutes Late

I am horrified. I was ten minutes late to an interview last week. Ten minutes! Nothing says "I'm irresponsible and can't plan ahead" like being late to an interview.

Here's how it happened. The interview was scheduled for 2:00pm in downtown Portland: 14.3 miles/19 minutes away. I sensibly decided to leave at 1:10pm, giving myself a thirty-minute cushion in case of random afternoon traffic and stressful parking. I did plan ahead.

Wearing a professional dress, tights and heels, with my portfolio in hand, I got into my Jeep and headed towards Highway 14. I'd had a phone interview prior to this in-person interview, so I was feeling unnaturally calm: they at least liked me enough to take the time to meet me in person, and I already had a feel for their business and questions. I might even say I was enjoying the drive. It was a sunny day. I was listening to 95.5 really loudly. And it had been a while since I ventured into Portland.

Right before I hit the I-5 bridge exit to cross into Portland, traffic came to a stop. A complete, only-inching-forward-every-couple-of-minutes stop. I didn't panic quite yet. I still had plenty of time in my cushion, and I assumed the I-5 bridge was being raised or something. 20 minutes later, I had moved 100 yards. I started feeling a little anxious, but I finally got on the bridge at 1:35pm, passed the source-of-the-traffic accident, and traffic quickly picked up after crossing the bridge. I now had 25 minutes to drive and park. As long as I didn't hit more traffic, I was only about 10 minutes away and would still have 15 minutes to find parking and walk to the office. Cutting it a little close, but it was still doable.

Traffic was a dream from the I-5 bridge to downtown. My spirits lifted. At 1:45pm I drove by the office. Perfect timing. Now I just needed to park.

Street parking in Portland always confuses me, so I drove a few blocks to try to make sense of it. I passed a Star Park lot, and, after driving a few more blocks to let the stress of parallel parking thoroughly set in, I decided to turn around and pay for parking at the Star Park. I took a right. I planned to take the first right after that and circle the block to get back on the Star Park road.

I began searching for a right turn to circle the block. Half a mile passed. There was no right turn. I kept driving. 2 miles passed. 3 miles passed. No turns. No exits. There was a barrier separating me from oncoming traffic, so pulling a daredevil U-turn wasn't even an option. And then the road turned into Highway 26.

And then I began to panic.

It was 1:50pm, I was driving away from the office, and I had no idea how to back track. At this point, I was in a haze of disbelief and anxiety. How could my luck be so off that I took the one turn that led me miles away from my destination? It all seemed like it wasn't meant to be. I thought about driving home and pretending that none of this ever happened. Finally, after a harrowing 7 miles on this detour, I came to an exit. I took the exit to loop back to downtown-bound Highway 26. Luck was still not on my side: traffic was at a dead stop. As I inched along, I watched the clock tick closer and closer to 2:00pm. There was absolutely no way I was going to make it on time. I felt so defeated. I knew I needed to call ahead and tell them I was running late, but I just couldn't--it somehow signalled complete failure to call and admit a silly traffic mistake. I kept holding onto some crazy hope that in 3 minutes I would be able to cover 10 minutes of distance, and park, and walk into the office. Finally, at 1:58pm I texted my sister (While driving! Don't judge. Desperate times.), asking her to check my email for their phone number. Yes, I left my house without putting their number in my phone. Let's remember that I left my house 50 minutes before I needed to arrive--I didn't think I would need it. She (thankfully!) responded immediately, and I called to let them know I was running late.

Finally, I navigated my way back, parked in a 2-hour spot that I probably wasn't allowed to park in, ran two blocks (in a dress and heels), and walked into the office at 2:10pm.

The good news: I got the job. I started yesterday.

Fruits and Vegetables: The Aftermath

It has been nine days, and I know you're all itching to know what happened after I finished my fourteen days of fruits and vegetables. Let's face it, there are only two potential outcomes: either I've been eating Reese's Peanut Butter Cup blizzards constantly in order to make up for the deprivation of deliciousness, or I've been miraculously transformed into a health monster. Obviously.

The first thing I ate on day fifteen was a roll. A soft, sweet Costco roll. You know the kind. No butter, no jam. Just the bread. It was dizzyingly delicious. And so much easier than spending 15 minutes making a smoothie or washing and cutting vegetables. Nothing has ever tasted so good. (Except for every cheeseburger ever. And all ice cream.) The evening of day fifteen, I had Panda Express with my sisters. Warm, greasy chow mein and orange chicken, followed by peanut butter/cake batter frozen yogurt from Golden Spoon. I know this is so thoroughly expected that it might sound cliche, but it all tasted so flavorful. And magical. Like I'd never eaten anything before. 

On days fifteen and sixteen everything was heavenly. Cheese. Salsa. Meat. Especially meat. And I got full incredibly fast. After about a third of my Panda Express, I was stuffed. And I stayed stuffed until the next day. 

But there was also guilt that came with eating things that hadn't been part of my fourteen days. Most of me knew it was unrealistic to continue eating just fruits and vegetables indefinitely, but I think part of me was hoping that I would acquire self-discipline of steel and would snub all non-fruits-and-vegetables food for the rest of eternity. Immediately after the fourteen days, it felt like if I wasn't forcing myself to be extreme that I was failing. 

But the dust has settled. And I have found some middle ground. I've eaten some ice cream. And some Twizzlers. And plenty of normal meals like sandwiches, chicken, and soup. But I've also eaten way more fruits and vegetables than I did before. The fourteen days forced me to figure out manageable ways to eat fruits and vegetables because, if I'm to be completely honest, I don't really like them that much. They taste weird. A lot of them have weird textures. And I've always had this weird belief that fruits and vegetables make me more hungry rather than fill me up. So, I do lots of blending. I recognize that they can satiate hunger. And I accept that I will never be able to eat bananas. 

I'm not sure exactly what I was trying to accomplish in the long-term with my fourteen days. The simple result is that fruits and vegetables are back on my radar. And it prompted me to add "health" to my blog labels. It may just be in my head, but I think I feel better for it. 

The World of Tiny Humans

Children are the most fascinating creatures on Earth.

Let me back up. I haven't spent much time with kids. Since I come from a big family, when I hit babysitting age people kind of assumed that I was good with children. The fact that I am at the tail-end of my family and therefore had absolutely zero experience taking care of anyone younger than myself never seemed to click. When I was twelve years old, I got my first babysitting job. And I mean babysitting. My back-door neighbor asked me to watch her couple-month-old daughter for two hours. Since a $4/month allowance doesn't go far, and since in fourth grade I tried to get people to call me Kristy because I desperately wanted to live within the world of The Baby-Sitter's Club, I said yes. But I was terrified. I climbed over the fence separating our backyards, knocked on their screen door, and put on a brave face as the mom handed me the squirming little bundle. For two hours straight I paced around their house, holding tight to the baby in constant fear that something would go terribly wrong. Like it would cry. Or I would have to change a diaper.

I eventually recovered from this trauma and did a smattering of babysitting during high school where I picked up key skills like how to boil pasta and how to switch from TV to DVD on almost any remote. But I spent the last seven years living in a college town where I often went months without seeing anyone below the age of 18.

I'm a little out of touch.

Spending the last six days with my sister's three kids hurled me back into the world of tiny humans. This world is exciting, loud, and repetitive. And I desperately wanted to be accepted. For the most part, this world is really straight-forward. Let them boss you around, laugh at their jokes, have the patience to repeat something over and over and over, and occasionally give them a quarter or a piece of candy, and you will undoubtedly win them over. For example, my niece Jane was constantly telling me jokes. I guess the plural form of "joke" is probably inaccurate because it was always the same joke: "What did the elephant say to the hippo?" she would ask expectantly. I would thoughtfully pause and enthusiastically say, "What???" And she would squeal, "Be quiet, I'm trying to swim!" Obviously. And she would tell the same joke again and again, plugging in new animals or objects in the "elephant" and "hippo" slot. I listened and laughed and she loved me.

But sometimes the rules of this world are confusing. Most significantly, the rules surrounding a high five constantly baffle me. Sometimes when you hold up your hand and invite a high five, children enthusiastically giggle, slap your hand multiple times, and then want you to play patty cake for the next forty-five minutes. But sometimes, for no apparent reason, they coyly run away and, no matter the coaxing or bribing, will not bestow that high five.

Not that this happened to me. And if it did, I'm totally over it. And I'm definitely not lingering on the fact that my nieces and nephew always high five my sister Emily.

Spirit Airlines: A Report

I'm alive. And I made it to Vegas.

Because I only had 12"x14"x16" of space to pack without being charged for luggage, I began creating a packing list on Monday night for my Wednesday afternoon flight. I started with essentials: my phone/charger and my Chi. And I continued my list in descending order of importance with underwear and toothbrush high on the list and an extra pair of flats and my camera low on the list. My plan was to pack in order of the list to ensure that the high priority items made it in while more expendable items could potentially be left behind. Through a combination of tightly compressed Ziploc bags and meticulously rolled clothing, I fit everything on my list into my 7"x10"x12" duffel, including my 7"x4"x6" camera bag. (I was not taking any chances with their luggage policy). To be fair, I should note that I was visiting all three of my sisters, so I would have plenty of access to things like shampoo and blow dryers.

With nothing but my duffel in hand and with my license and boarding pass in my back pocket, I walked into the airport. (Btw, it's a good thing I printed my boarding pass at home because it would have been $5 to print it at the Spirit desk and $2 at a kiosk.) Flying doesn't make me nervous. And aside from tiring me out, traveling doesn't phase me much. But I was nervous as I got in line at security. Nervous that within the past 45 minutes Spirit airlines had changed their baggage policy. Nervous that the gate my plane was supposed to depart from didn't actually exist. And nervous that I was never going to make it to Vegas.

I quickly went through security and made it to gate D2 (which does exist!), and sat down to observe the other people flying Spirit Airlines. I began feeling better about things. The person at the gate desk announced that the flight would be delayed thirty minutes, but I mostly expected this. It was kind of a nice reassurance that my flight was cheap for a reason but that reason wasn't that I was going to be pushed out of the plane while flying over Oregon. So I got comfortable in my seat, put on an episode of Downton Abbey on my iPod, and waited to board the plane.

As they called for Zone 3 boarding, a final wave of nervousness passed over me. Would I, in fact, be able to walk onto the plane without paying a dime for this small carry on? I patted the sides of my bag to make it look as slim as possible, picked it up by the handles, fished my boarding pass out of my back pocket, and slowly inched my way forward in line. I felt like I was trying to trick them. Like at any moment someone was going to turn a burning red strobe light on me and bellow "You really thought we were going to let anyone take anything on this plane for free?" Maniacal laugh. I handed my boarding pass to the employee. She took it. Smiled. And said "enjoy your flight." I breathed a sigh of relief.

I found my seat in 21E (a middle seat, of course), and settled down next to a genial/saucy woman reading a Hum 105 packet and an older woman reading Revelations. By "settled" I mostly mean that I squeezed my way into my seat in unnatural angles, shoved (with great force) my carry on under the seat, and nestled my knees against the seat in front of me. Yes, my knees hit the seat in front of me. I am 5'5". But aside from not being able to move more than 2" in any direction for two hours, and getting pitched a credit card offer, and almost throwing up multiple times during the landing, I'd call the flight a huge success.

And I get to do it all again Tuesday morning.

Fruits and Vegetables

This is the tragic and harrowing story of how I ended up eating only fruits and vegetables for fourteen days.

It all started at the BYU Internship Office. I worked as the office coordinator of the Internship Office for a little over three years, and my boss, being the amazingly wonderful woman that she is, avidly fed my love for TV and movies. In my first year, we would tentatively discuss movies we had seen, TV we liked. By year two, we hit our stride and became incredibly familiar with each others' tastes. We talked about everything we were watching--movies, Netflix streaming, the Thursday night comedy line-up. She got me hooked on Damages, she let me borrow multiple seasons of Lost, and she was always ready to have in-depth discussions after each episode of Mad Men and The Bachelor.

When she started recommending documentaries, I was skeptical. It's not that I didn't like documentaries. I liked the idea of liking documentaries. But the thought of actually giving my attention to a documentary for two hours rather than watching, say, six episodes of Friends, or two and a half episodes of Friday Night Lights, or one completely mindless romantic comedy just never seemed to win out in the moment of decision. But, given her track record, I was willing to give her suggestions a chance. The first documentary she recommended was Catfish. I dutifully put it in my Netflix queue and waited for it to arrive. When it came, I wished that it were anything else. Anything. After a long day of school and work, I just wanted to relax. Almost 100% motivated by my need to return the disc in order to expedite the arrival of the next Gossip Girl disc, I watched it that night. I would give it 15 minutes. "I tried that movie you recommended, but it just didn't really hold my interest," I would tell my boss. It started slow. And it took a couple minutes to get in the documentary zone. But then I was hooked. I was hooked because I hadn't seen it before and because, unlike a mindless romantic comedy, I had no idea what to expect. It was fascinating and still entertaining in a lazy kind of way.

I then proceeded to add 87 documentaries to my Netflix queue. I watched popular documentaries like Waiting for Superman, Food Inc., Man on Wire, The September Issue, Helvetica, and Velentino: The Last Emperor. And I watched completely random documentaries that I had never heard of like Wasteland, King Corn, Tapped, Herb and Dorothy, Between the Folds, Dear Zachary, Mugabe and the White African, Triage, Pressure Cooker, Dive!, Bill Cunningham New York, The Lottery, and Objectified. As it turns out, I love watching documentaries. Some are silly, some are beautiful, some are really preachy, some are emotional, and some are informative, but they're all entertaining.

Since leaving BYU and quitting Netflix, my documentary love has waned. I quickly fell back into comfortable patterns of Hulu TV and re-watching Gilmore Girls and 30 Rock. My parents joined Netflix a month ago (fueled by our need to watch season 1 of Downton Abbey), and as I built up their queue, I added some documentaries. Thirteen days ago, I decided to rekindle my love for documentaries, and I clicked on Forks Over Knives. To make a long story short (or, to turn 96 minutes into a few sentences), it ultimately argues that there's a strong correlation between dairy/meat consumption and certain types of cancer, that we're all going to die from preservatives, and that the best approach to a healthy life is to eat mainly fruits and vegetables. You sleep better, it said. You have more energy, it said. Your health problems diminish, it said.

Since I'm convinced I have a severe case of insomnia, and since I've been worried for a while now that my blood system has been completely replaced with Red Vines, I decided to try this out. For fourteen days I would only eat fruits, vegetables, rice, and my mom's homemade granola. I announced this to my parents at dinner. My mom was amused. She tried to remember the last time she had seen me eat either a fruit or a vegetable. I tried to remember too. "I ate that apple that one time. You remember?" I said. This was going to be tough. But now that I had announced my plan to the amusement of my parents, I had to stick with it.

The first day was good. I was motivated and kind of entranced by this new world of fruits and vegetables. Oh, you can get full by eating a ton of vegetables. Strawberries are delicious if you're starving and your other option is lettuce. Anything is palatable if it's blended with berries. These were among some of my finer discoveries. Some discouraging discoveries: it's exhausting to prepare food for every meal, I will always hate the texture of bananas no matter how hungry I am, and I can not stop thinking about delicious food. I think about Twizzlers. I think about fruit snacks. I think about bread (all the time). I think about Arby's curly fries. I think about cheese. I especially think about Reeses Peanut Butter Cup Blizzards.

Day one was good. Day two was fine. Day three was bearable. But by day four I was tired. I was tired of granola. Tired of sugar-less smoothies. So tired of tasteless stir fry. I am now on day thirteen.

And honestly, here at day thirteen, I don't know what to think. I maybe sleep a little better. I definitely feel healthier. I feel hungrier. Sometimes I hate the idea of eating another piece of broccoli. And sometimes I love that my limited food selection makes meal choices really easy. Sometimes I feel like I have a lot of energy, like I'm losing weight, and like I've got my life together like a normal adult. And sometimes I feel like I'm about to break and eat five Blizzards and never touch another vegetable again.

But mostly, I'm incredibly curious to see what I do at the end of day fourteen.

Beach

If you've never been to the Oregon Coast, you must go. Instead of a swimsuit, bring a raincoat. Instead of sandals, bring wool socks and tennis shoes. And no matter how inviting the water might look and what the-beach-is-for-swimming-in-the-ocean notions you might have, do not touch the ocean with any part of your body. You will get hypothermia. And you will die. But as long as you're mentally prepared for a blustery and rainy stroll instead of warm California sands and waves, the Oregon Coast is one of the most delightful places on earth.

Growing up, my family spent time at the Oregon Coast at least once a year, and my mom's family still gathers there for family reunions. But between school and missing reunions for study abroad programs, it has been years since I've been to Oregon beaches. In the interim, I have traveled to a variety of beaches: over a dozen beaches in the Caribbean, California beaches, Cape Cod beaches, and Martha's Vineyard. I love warm beaches. I love jumping in the waves, digging my feet into the scorching sand, and the lingering smell of sunscreen. But my very favorite beaches are still on the Oregon Coast. They're so windy. And moody. And temperamental. They make you want to fly a kite. And build a fire. And go inside to bundle up with a book like Wuthering Heights while listening to the pounding rain. 

So, I was ecstatic to spend 36 hours at the beach this week. I went with my friend Stacy, and we stopped in Astoria, stayed the night in Seaside, and walked along Cannon Beach. Absolutely delightful. 

View from the Astoria Column

Astoria Column

Seaside

Seaside

Cannon Beach

Haystack Rock, Cannon Beach

Cannon Beach

Cannon Beach