I Become a Do-It-Yourselfer

The Do-It-Yourselfer is a member of the species Homo interneticus. Among their defining features is a propensity to write about craft projects on their blogs.

Oh, science.

In terms of field observation, the Do-It-Yourselfer is one of the most compelling specimens of Homo interneticus, and I consider them second only to the Youtuber in their ability to provide hours of procrastina.... ahem, entertainment. In my career as an internet voyeur, my interaction with Do-It-Yourselfers has been limited to reading their tutorial posts and feeling deeply impressed. Then the adorableness of their lives starts to annoy me, and I lay on my bed, feeling uncool and dejected.

Today, however, I broke through some mental barrier and took my first step to becoming one of those people.

It all began with a trip to Bed, Bath & Beyond. As often happens, going to that store triggered an impulse to buy everything, you know, just to be a well-organized and fully competent adult. Since I'm moving to London in about a month, however, and already want to bring more things than I can possibly fit in my suitcase, buying things is out of the question. The problem was, I really, really wanted a jewelry organizer, since my previous storage schemes have never given my jewelry the attention it deserves. Back at home, I was regretting the fact that I hadn't purchased the jewelry organizer when I realized that I could easily make one myself. With things I had laying around my room! What luck!

First, I found a box that had just been sitting in my room, looking pretty but not fulfilling any real purpose.

I decided to glue some mesh fabric to the inside top of the box so that I could hang my earrings. The bottom section will hold bracelets and things. 

So I measured and cut and hot glued. And it looked like crap. 

The hot glue had made a mess, and I needed to cover it up if I wanted to salvage this project. So I found some ribbon and made a border around the netting. Better, but still a bit like a kindergartner's art project. 

Then, out of nowhere, came one of my rare strokes of creative brilliance. I was contemplating solutions to the problem of the hot glue bleeding through the ribbon, when I thought, "Why don't I cover the splotchy parts with nail polish?" 

So I did, and it ended up looking pretty great, if I do say so myself. 

Not to mention that the box is lightweight and can be filled with stuff during the packing process, making it a totally reasonable thing to include in my fairly pathetic collection of things I'm taking to London. 

Time Stands Still

In one month, I will be either in London or in the midst of my final preparations for the move, so it doesn't seem like nothing should be happening on the moving-to-London front, but somehow that seems to be the case. I think I'm caught in some sort of time loop in which I keep living the same day over and over, and nothing ever happens to bring me closer to the future. My life has devolved into a fairly pleasant cycle of breakfast/reading, running, lunch, wasting time on the internet or other miscellaneous afternoon activities, dinner, TV, and sleep. Repeat as needed.

Oh, summer. 

Relaxing (boring?) though this lifestyle may be, it's lulling me into a stupor. I can't say what would happen if I didn't wake up at about 9:30 in the morning, have a bowl of cereal and two cups of coffee while reading, then get ready to go for a run, but I suspect that it would be physically and emotionally jarring. I vaguely remember a time when I had a job. And classes. And I had to wake up before the sun had fully risen. I cooked my own food. I did my own laundry. I tried (sometimes in vain) to keep my apartment clean. Then I graduated and became a little kid again. Makes sense.

I'm absolutely certain that there are things that need doing - Projects of Great Importance - like deciding what I'm going to pack, opening a UK bank account, and buying a plane ticket. Every time I try to start one of these projects, however, their full complexity become clear, and I decide to put them off for another few days. Deep down, I think I assume that if I procrastinate for long enough, someone else will do everything for me. Except that's not how real life works. Some previous incarnation of myself understood that if I want things done, in most cases I'm going to have to do them myself. I don't think I completely understand this anymore.

Pardon the rambling.

A List of Uncertainties

1. Where specifically I will be living next year. In theory, I should be receiving pictures of potential flats so that I can give feedback, but this has not happened yet. These days I compulsively check my email, thinking each time that there will be something significant waiting in my inbox. Instead I find myself constantly sifting through (figurative) piles of spam.

2. Whether I can find a job in London. Seriously, I'll do anything just to have a source of income again. Wait, maybe not anything. Almost anything? No, that sounds dangerous, too. As a point of reference, though, a job in a coffee shop is currently my dream.

3. The extent to which I will have to decimate my beloved clothing collection when the time comes to fit everything into a surprisingly not-big-enough suitcase. You see, when I ask myself what I want to pack, my default answer is, "Everything." And then I remember that everything really isn't an option.

4. When exactly I will be leaving. Whether I can find a reasonably-priced plane ticket. What city I will be flying out of. Whether I will have any layovers (hopefully not - rushing through airports, filled with the nagging dread that I will miss my next flight absolutely terrifies me).

5. Whether I'll be happy in London. Whether I'll make friends easily. How intense the homesickness will be.
Whether I'll have an acceptable internet connection
What size my bed will be.
Where I'll do my grocery shopping.
Whether I'll be able to sustain my habit of eating excess Mexican food.

This is getting ridiculous. I'm going to stop worrying. Right now.

Wait, maybe now...

No, now. For real this time.

The Crookes - Hold Fast: Album Review

It's time for a confession: I often have a hard time listening to albums all the way through. Either I get so caught on one song that it becomes the only one I ever listen to, or I get bored about three songs in and give up on the album entirely.

The Crookes, however, have accomplished an unprecedented feat. They have recorded not one, but two albums that I love all the way through. Now, I could probably talk at length about their first album, Chasing After Ghosts, but for the time being, I'll just say that it captured exactly how I feel about my life at this particular point. Listening to this album,

The merits of Chasing After Ghosts aside, Hold Fast (released on July 9th) has already become such an integral part of my life that I can't imagine a day when I don't listen to this album in its entirety. 10 days in, and I'm not even close to getting bored. Unprecedented.

I'm not going to do a song-by-song breakdown of the album. I'm not going to throw around music reviewer terms, because I'm not a music reviewer. This is one of the few illusions I don't have about myself. So, instead of using traditional music jargon and showing off my advanced (and non-existent) knowledge of musical history, I'm going to steal a reviewing strategy I overheard two hipsters discussing during my college orientation. I am going to describe how this album makes me feel.

From beginning to end, this album makes me at once want to get up and dance and fall into serious reminiscence. And when I say reminiscence, I mean all the best memories of my college days and my probably faulty conception of what the '60s must have been like. In other words, it combines unrelenting energy, strong melodies, and a vintage sound (sorry, I sound so pretentious right now) with lyrics that are somehow both relatable and vague. That's exactly how I like to take my lyrics, because it makes it easier to self-centeredly imagine that the songs were written with my experiences in mind. Anything that helps me perpetuate my delusions is fine by me. Please note that I'm only writing semi-seriously here. Maybe vague, poetic lyrics actually just make it easier to imagine that someone out there has experienced some of the same things as me, that they could relate to some of my less-than-positive emotions. Yeah, that makes me sound nicer, but also like an angsty teenager. I just can't win. 

Sarcasm aside, this album is seriously worth a listen or, you know, hundreds of listens. I may never listen to anything else again. 

Be a Better... Runner

Another experiment in self-improvement... And, yes, I realize that my scientific method is a bit shaky.


The Project: Get to a point where you can run for two miles without stopping. 


Introduction: Running is one of those things I've always wanted to be good at, but every time I go for a run, I invariably end up choking on air, stumbling over my own feet, wondering if anyone would judge me if I took a break and laid down in the shade.

Hypothesis: The only way to become a better runner is through consistent practice. No more of that running intensely for one or two days, then giving up on it for about a week, claiming that I don't want to over-exert myself.

Materials: Running shoes, I would assume. Good music. Interesting places to run.

My favorite trail. 

Methods: Run only every other day, but exercise daily.

Data: Day 1: "Ran" for almost an hour - more accurately, tried to do equal amounts of walking and running.

Day 2: Did a weird combination workout. Spent about 15 minutes running up and down the hill next to my house, then did sit ups with the balance ball for about 10 minutes.

Day 3: Went for an hour-long bike ride. Originally I thought of my bike riding plan as a cop-out, but I found some hilly trails, and it ended up being quite a strenuous workout. Also, I hula-hooped for an hour and was surprised to discover that my abs were sore the next day.

Day 4: Okay. So I know I'm cheating on the whole run-every-other-day thing, but it's extremely hot, and I didn't wake up early enough to run when the temperature was still somewhat reasonable. Excuses, excuses. Instead of torturing myself by running in this skin-melting heat, I went for another bike ride.

Day 5: Standard run around town. Managed to go almost a mile without stopping. Not bad. Needs improvement.

Day 6: Nothing notable - some hula-hooping (apparently this is a regular thing for me now) and some sit-ups with the balance ball. The self-loathing

Day 7: Went for a run - and a pretty decent one at that. Sure, I didn't run two miles, but I almost did it.

Results/Conclusion: Sometimes the most unexpected things can constitute good exercise. Take hula-hooping as an example. I never would have guessed that this would bring on more next-day soreness than sit-ups, but it did.

My greatest discovery, though, is that running doesn't have to be boring, and the secret to staving off boredom lies in music selection. Some songs just don't work for running. There was a time in my life when I didn't believe this, but I am now convinced that proper music choices can do wonders for motivation. My current running playlist includes lots of Motown and britpop, mixed with assorted indie rock, top 40 stuff and early 2000s pop punk. It's almost terrifyingly eclectic, but it does its job. Sometimes it even makes me forget that I'm running.

Thrifting with Sarah and Kimberly

About two years ago, I went through a phase during which I bought most of my clothes at thrift stores. This wasn't because I was broke or particularly liked what the thrift stores had to offer, but rather because I thought I would be very cool to have a skirt last owned by somebody's grandmother. Of course when I actually wore these thrift store "finds," I would invariably realize that they were not only outdated, but also unflattering and fairly ugly. After a summer of dressing this way, I ventured back into the mall, rediscovered the joys of H&M and began to dress like a normal person again.

Until yesterday afternoon, the urge to go thrifting had lain dormant for about a year and a half, but then, for some inexplicable reason, I decided that it would be fun to check out the new Volunteers of America Thrift Store. The fun didn't manifest itself immediately, and as I stared blankly at the racks organized by color and ran my hands over the synthetic fabrics, I considered how some past version of myself would have probably bought that floor-length, button-down, rose-printed monstrosity of a skirt, full of honorable intentions to cut it shorter for improved cuteness. Current me, though, was looking for usability and practicality.

I got relatively quickly back into the rhythm of thrifting - working through the racks; giving each item a quick glance; assessing for color, pattern, cut; subjecting anything that passes on the three previous counts a closer inspection - and within 10 minutes I had picked out a handful of potentially wearable skirts to try on. In the dressing room I remembered the first rule of thrifting, namely try everything on.  In the case of thrift-store clothing, it's impossible to know whether the size listed on the tag (if there is one) corresponds to current standard sizes, so I always - absolutely always - make that often frustrating trip to the dressing room.

After much debate, I ended up buying two floral print skirts and a red vintage purse.

I wanted to end this post by saying something really discerning about how my decision to buy usable clothing at a thrift store marks some profound change in the way I view myself, or how buying cheaper used clothing means that I've become more financially responsible. Really, though, I don't think either of these things are strictly true. What is true is that I've been reading too many of those Thought Catalog essays, and they're filling me with this desire to make every minor detail of my life sound much more significant than it actually is. Sometimes a skirt is just a skirt, and even if you only paid a dollar for it, owning it doesn't mean that you've grown up. It just means you have to find another skirt hanger.

My Trendy Hipster Hobby: I don't have one

I was flipping through a magazine the other day, and I came across this tampon ad featuring a girl who writes a blog about knitting. Immediately I think: "I'm not as cool as her." Given my history with knitting, this thought is fairly surprising.

I first considered the craft when I was probably about 10 years old, and I bought some knitting needles and yarn with the intention of making really amazing things. Except the fate of the knitting needles was to be props in my make-believe games, specifically in those that required me to impersonate an old lady. Just go with it - my childhood pretend games were pretty convoluted.

Maybe four years later, Kim (my sister - she writes here sometimes) decided to learn to knit for real, and she tried to convince me to do the same. I, however, adopted the knitting-is-for-old-ladies-and-spinsters attitude. I had realized neither that spinsters no longer exist, nor that all properly cool girls these days must behave and dress like old ladies from time to time. In addition to being oblivious to cultural trends, I failed to acknowledge how cool it would be to knit my own scarves. Seriously, if I could knit, I would knit scarves by the thousands.

In many ways, my relationship with knitting resembles my relationships with all other hobbies. This means that I pretended to do a lot of things as a child, became too cool to even consider doing these things as a teenager, and then really wished I could do them as a young adult. Hypothetically, I know that it's never too late to take up a hobby, but every time I try, the experience is somewhat akin to dying my hair, in that it seems exciting at first, but I eventually decide that the upkeep requires more effort than it's worth. At least this has been my experience with my forays into photography, sewing, drawing, and writing poetry.

Don't take this to mean that I spend all of my time doing nothing. I cook things from time to time and do what I like to call food-ography:

Occasionally I acquire random new skills, like sailing:

I read things, I write things, I listen to music, but I don't really make anything by hand. Sometimes this troubles me, because I really like the idea of coming up with a concept and then creating this thing from raw(ish) materials. The fact that I read a lot of blogs by very creative people only compounds the problem. They're like, "Oh, look, I woke up today and decided to hand paint a rug" And I'm like, "Cool. I painted my toenails last week." 

I think the secret to having creative hobbies is having creative ideas, and maybe this is where my major failing lies. Or maybe I'm just lazy. Maybe I don't make anything because every time I think, "I'd really like a new shirt," I never consider making my own or repurposing one from a thrift store. Usually I just go to Forever 21. 

Could it be to my advantage, though, to begin making more things as I take on my grad school debt? Quite possibly. Maybe the desire to look really cool won't inspire me to be creative, but maybe financial necessity will...

Maybe learning to knit wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.