2011, Thanks for the Memories

I love New Year’s Eve. Always have. When I was little, I’d spend hours making homemade confetti in every color of the rainbow and would repeatedly promise my mother that I’d clean up every speck of cubed construction paper after my moment of midnight glory. Fast forward a few years and you’d find me banging pots and pans on the balcony of our Floridian condo synchronized to the beat of fireworks on the Gulf. I always wanted to learn how to play the drums. New Year’s resolution perhaps?

High school and college NYE celebrations have been a blur of cocktail dresses, champagne toasts, text-enhanced wishes for health, happiness, and prosperity, but most prominently, family. Just a year ago I sat alongside my grandmother, pretty in pink (she always liked pink), on her infamously comfy couch. It was my first New Year’s Eve “of age,” my first chance to take on home sweet Chicago as a legal, cocktail-worthy adult. My friends urged me to join in on their festivities. My heart said otherwise. This will be your last New Year’s Eve with her, just think about what the doctor said. She has three to six months. That’s it.

I’m glad I listened to my heart for once.

So, here I sit on the last day of 2011, and I find myself in a cliché state of reflection. I’m buried in stacks of New Year-related magazines, all titled with some derivative of “New Year, New You!” (I might gag if I read that headline one more time.) I guess I have myself to blame for buying them in the first place. Did I really expect US Weekly to have some life-changing advice for my year ahead? Well…maybe. The photos are entertaining at the very least.

The truth is, I don’t need a five-dollar People Magazine or a two-minute spot on the Today Show to tell me what defines the last 12 months of my life. Sure, there were “winning” moments and a “tiger mother” that made me appreciate my super-cool mum even more than I already do, but the more we try to define 2011 collectively, the more I realize how individual our past year’s journey has been.

For me, 2011 has truly been a coming-of-age year. It’s been a year of unbreakable friendships, a year of self-respect, and a year of paralyzing goodbyes—some that came like a thief in the night. But above all, 2011 has been a building year (and I’m not talking about Irish football), one that bridges the gap between surreal endings and hopeful beginnings.

So I ask you this: what does 2011 mean to you? What do you hope tomorrow will bring? No cheating now—the answer lies within you, and only you.

love.adele.

Love. L-O-V-E. Read it. Spell it. Say it. Easy enough, right?

Now feel it. C’mon, feel it. What emotions come to mind?

Passion.

Fulfillment.

Happiness.

Pain.

Better yet, who comes to mind?

A significant other.

A maternal figure.

A platonic friend.

A past lover.

Now define it. Plato spent his whole life trying to comprehend the meaning of agape. Chances are, we will too. But for now, this complex four-letter word unifies us, blankets us in a cloak of vulnerability. One minute we think we have it, and the next moment, it’s gone. Poof. Just like that. The loss leaves us disillusioned. Confused. Shattered. But time is on our side. It heals us, leads us back to square one. And so the search resumes. We’re stronger each time, more settled, more ourselves.

But this post isn’t really about love. Not really, anyway. It’s about acknowledging a young vocalist who’s managed to cross cultures with her raw talent—a talent that has earned her six Grammy nominations and unwavering cross-generational appeal. She sings about love, yes. And loss, yes, that too. But somehow, her tracks are anything but cliché. More accurately, they’ve left us spellbound and hungry for more. We feel the pain of every verse, the power of every refrain, and the gut-wrenching realization that her reality is our déjà vu.

Regrets and mistakes

They are memories made

Who would have known

How bittersweet

This would taste?

ADELE. A-D-E-L-E. Read it. Spell it. Say it.

Now feel it. Have the chills yet? If not, you haven’t listened hard enough.

Hello, Goodbye.

Ah, the game of life.  It's been pondered by many, figured out by few.  How quickly we abandon our carefree days of infantile innocence, only to move quickly toward a cognitive minefield of philosophical questions and identity crises.  All too often, we crumble under the pressure to find ourselves, paralyzed by a daunting mission to define our purpose, our "raison d'etre".  We feel obligated to know who we are and where we're going, to plan for tomorrow before we've begun to live today. Life's small moments drown beneath a sea of bigger aspirations; we're always hoping that something better will come tomorrow, after all.

But one day tomorrow will not come.

I was reminded of this fact on Monday morning when I was woken up out of a sound sleep to learn of my grandmother's passing. At 5:34 a.m., my rude awakening did not come with a snooze button. I was forced to face reality in a way I'd never imagined. The irony is, the reality of touching my sweet Nana's lifeless shoulder in her bed down the hall from me was nothing short of surreal. For a split second, I had thought she'd wake up, that she hadn't really taken her last breaths. It couldn't be. But it was. I blinked and she was gone.

I never believed the nurse when she said the cancer would win the battle. My grandma was too strong, too stubborn. No, she said. She's good now, but wait. The cancer will come like a thief in the night.

And so it did. Just like a thief in the night. But while it stole my grandmother's corporeal existence, it didn't manage to rob me of the memories. When I think about dear Margaret, I realize that her reason for being was simple: family. With my bittersweet memories of her laugh, her singing, and her love for food, I take with me the realization that life's purpose doesn't have to be so complicated. For her, it was the simple things that meant the most. And oftentimes, it is the simplest of things that make the most profound impact.

Connect. Love. Laugh. 

Repeat.

read between the (head)lines

Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

yeah, right.

Does anyone actually sit down and read a newspaper in its entirety anymore? (Skimming doesn't count.) Let's be honest, sometimes the news is simply depressing. From failed 72 day-long marriages (irreconcilable differences, really Kim?) to the never-ending doom & gloom reports about our nation's shaky financial status, I'd understand why some might turn away from the news for the sake of preserving mental health. But honestly, even if the front page of the Wall Street Journal read "Fountain of Youth Discovered in South Dakota" or "Income No Longer Taxed in America" I have a feeling I know what you'd read: the headline. Okay, maybe you'd read the headline and the first and last sentence of the article. But that's it.

I admit that I'm guilty of being a headliner. That is, I read the headlines on USA Today's website, skim the front page and special Personal Journal section of the Wall Street Journal, and regularly browse AdWeek and PRWeek's top stories so I stay in-the-know about my employment-related industries. If something strikes me as especially interesting, I take the plunge and read on until I get the essential details. Yet more often than not, my interaction with the news goes something like this:

LINDSAY LOHAN CHECKS INTO AND OUT OF JAIL  Surprise, surprise. It was all downhill for her after Mean Girls.

GREEK LEADERS MEET TO CHOOSE NEW PRIME MINISTER ...boring. Makes me want some Pita bread though. Lunch is in how many hours from now?

FEDERAL SHARE OF DEBT RISING  What else is new?

LSU TOPS BCS RANKINGS  LSU is not my alma matter, therefore this means nothing to me.

THOUSANDS PROTEST NEW OIL PIPELINE  Weren't we supposed to run out of oil in 2008 or something? I know I started to read a book on it...

KNEE ARTHRITIS STRIKES AT A YOUNGER AGE  Heck, I've had aches and pains since I was twelve. That's what Millennials get for trying to be Olympians from the time we started walking.

Other viable means of getting the news: virtual slideshows or "today's news in pictures" on news websites. Less admirable means: learning about top headlines through my friends' tweets--it happens more often than I'd like to admit...so Kim Kardashian is getting divorced, eh? Red cups back at Starbucks...totally knew that! *cough cough* And so it goes.

For those of you who stuck it out and read this post, thanks. Sometimes it's not so bad to read between the headlines.

Think Different.

By now, it's likely you've heard about the death of 56 year-old Steve Jobs, co-founder of Apple, Inc. (among his many successful endeavors). He was a cultural revolutionist of sorts--a man who wasn't afraid to challenge the status quo in a way that has changed the human race forever. As I type away on my MacBook at this very moment (a possession I take with me almost as many places as I carry my iPhone), I'm staring into the result of human ingenuity at its finest. Prior to Apple, personal computers were purely functional possessions comprised of a confusing array of hard drives and mechanical cookies--an unnavigable jungle that was more frustrating than user-friendly. You could say that Apple was our first taste of a truly delicious brand, one that has resonated with consumers across the globe for its ability to connect with users on a deep emotional and self-expressive level. We've come to establish a relationship with our Apple products that resembles real human interaction, sometimes even more dependable than those of our living counterparts. What happens when our contemporaries are busy and we're left to our own devices? We tune out the world with our iPod, tweet about making our life sound way more interesting than it really is via Twitter Mobile for iPhone, or flip open our MacBook to double check our "busy" friends' Facebook profiles to ensure they're not just blowing us off (there's no room for lying these days). Apple: there for us when no one else is. It's strikingly sad but true.

While we can thank Steve Jobs for his innovative brilliance in developing personable technology, I'd argue that his greatest gift was his nonconformist ideology that he most willingly shared with the Millennial generation. At a commencement address to Stanford University several years ago, Jobs reminded graduates that the best work stems from real, gut-wrenching passion. Love what you do and the rest will be history. It might be a jagged path, but you'll know when you're there. All Jobs asked is that we never cease to "think different" along the way. I'll do my best, Mr. Jobs.

Thank you--for everything.

The Waiting Game

I'm usually excited to turn the page on my monthly calendar, but today is different. I find myself in a sort of limbo, a place where the past forms one big blur of nostalgia and the future is, well, questionable at best. I've grown accustomed to the past four years of college life where each semester led predictably to the next like a transcontinental train ride with stops only for winter and summer breaks.
Yet here I stand in this confusing place called Seniorland not knowing what tomorrow will bring. It's rather unsettling to say the least. I might be up for the occasional surprise, but one thing's for certain: I've never been much of a fan of ambiguity. Guess that explains why 80% of my wardrobe is either black or white. I don't do well with shades of gray.

As I place my mug of tea atop my desk calendar, the month of September stares back at me asking, October has arrived, what are you really afraid of?

I'm afraid to admit that I'm ready to let go.

What happens when I do? Guess we'll just have to wait and see.

Just Dance

What is it about college, where time seems to lose all meaning? Days bleed together like a watercolor, each memory more difficult to distinguish as the weeks fly by. I’ve spent less than a month back on campus, yet life before this place feels like a stranger to me. Perhaps it’s the layers of academic pressure, relationship volatility, and job-hunting stress that have built a wall between my “summer self” and the over-committed perfectionist I am at this very moment. Pause. If I’m being totally honest, I pretty much never abandon my perfectionistic tendencies, nor do I know how to relax very well. But certain times of the year are more “amped” up than others, and this is one of those times. Hello Senior year, I guess you couldn’t be all fun and games, eh?

My mother, the voice of reason, always told me to slow down, Katherine. In high school, she saw the girl I became as my commitments grew ever-more demanding. She tried to pull me back, tried to make me realize that there’s more to life than following a schedule. Hard to see the forest from the trees I suppose. When you’re surrounded by brilliant minds, many of whom have mastered the art of time management better than I’ve mastered online shopping (and that’s saying a lot, just ask my poor wallet…and yes, that was a pun), it’s difficult to allow yourself to stop and smell the roses. I am from the turbo-charged generation, after all. We just keep going, and going, and going. You get the idea.

But last weekend, I was finally reunited with my inner-dance. Surrounded by my dearest friends, we celebrated all it means to be connected to something bigger than ourselves. From the moment we woke up to Here Come the Irish blasting down the hallway (you know it’s going to be a good day when your Saturday morning starts off in song) til we were forced to evacuate the football stadium when an impending severe storm overtook the September sunshine, I felt complete and utter happiness. It’s the kind of contentment that merits a constant smile.

My true epiphany came as we walked out of the stadium and found ourselves caught below the ominous glare of the angry clouds above. Sure enough, a roar of thunder triggered their might, and raindrops began falling madly upon us like tears from a sobbing child. While my nature is always to take shelter from the rain, this time was different. I looked over at one of my best friends and couldn’t help but laugh at her drenched silhouette. Our vulnerability was a beautiful thing. Let’s run, she said. Ok, I’ll race you home, I replied. And so we ran, jumping in puddles along the way.

Life’s not about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning how to dance in the rain.

I finally learned to dance. The best part is I realized that I’d known the steps all along—it was a matter of embracing them that took 21 years to figure out.

And so, in the infamous words of Lady Gaga, I dare you to Just dance. It’ll be ok.

The Melody of Disconnect

Everybody is just a stranger

That’s the danger in going my own way

Guess it’s the price I have to pay.

--John Mayer, “Why Georgia”

I’ve always been a lyrics person, a total sucker for the words behind the tunes. Perhaps it’s the synergistic way that music highlights the beauty of writing; how words on a page don’t just fall victim to a one-dimensional landscape, but instead are given a free pass to dance in the colorful world of melodic interludes. For me, music has become a multi-sensory, and strikingly paradoxical, experience of sorts—I lose myself within the revelatory nature of self-discovery.

So today Georgia has struck a chord with me (just a little pun to make sure you’re still listening). John Mayer might be coming from Heartbreaker, U.S.A., but I can’t help but analyze his words from my place in Gen-Y. When I put my Millennial Girl lenses on (Ray Ban frames, of course), I realize a startling truth—so much of life is spent trying to “connect” through the virtual that we miss what’s going on right in front of us. Our lives are filled with strangers: people we call “friends” on facebook thanks one alcohol-induced introduction that would have been a million times more awkward in the sober glare of daylight; twitter “followers” who boost our egos as we tremble behind an Oz-inspired curtain trying to appear bigger than life; or “connections” that make us feel ‘linkedIn’ to the ruthless business world where it’s all about “who ya know.” But I wonder, who do we really know? Who do I know?

In this tech-driven age, I see my contemporaries constantly juggling the virtual with the actual. Blackberry in one hand, beer in the other, Gen-Yers populate crowded bars and clubs struggling to connect as they stand prisoners of the endless beeps, buzzes, and vibrations of their cellular companions. It’s the sad dilemma of an over-stimulated generation that can’t revel in the simple game of “getting to know you” without the intermittent “tech check.” Is this the modern form of multi-tasking? Perhaps. Does it lend itself to quality relationships? More often than not, no. I guess it’s the price we have to pay for getting stuck in our own way.

Whether Mayer knew it or not, he wasn’t just writing about a girl. He was writing about a generation—the Millennial generation to be exact. Thanks, John. You’ve given us lots to think about.

There's Something About Kate

Everyone has a vice. Mine happens to come in the form of glossy fashion magazines. I realize that I could (should?) be spending that $20/week on a number of other things that would be far more profound than the latest copy of InStyle, but something about that newsstand seems to reach out and grab me every time I'm in the checkout line. And who's to say that a 50 page spread on fall fashions (yes, I realize it is still July) isn't profound in its own right? Sometimes all I need to get my creative juices flowing is a quick glimpse at snapshots of haute couture. Inspiration for my mind, body, and closet. Now that's a good deal if you ask me.

In all seriousness, I do find thumbing through magazines to be one of the most telling representations of today's society. Pages upon pages of celebrity gossip leave me to wonder how half of Hollywood earned celebrity status in the first place. I see ever more clearly the truth behind the notion that everybody wants to be a star. Whether it be through reality TV, youTube, or Social Media outlets, we're creating opportunities for ourselves to get those fifteen minutes of fame. And more often than not, fame, in whatever form it is achieved, lasts not a second over those precious fifteen.

But what about a generation or two ago when technology didn't rule the world and relationships were built on genuine human interaction? It was an age when tabloids followed celebrities who captivated others with their class, not celebrities whose demise would earn the half-sorry attention of a jaded youth. Style icons like Coco Chanel and Audrey Hepburn dazzled onlookers with outfits that remain something to be sought after, not to be buried in the trenches of fashion faux pas. And amid all of these revelations, I've often wondered...who will be the icons of today?
Tough to say when we're forced to riffle through images of women who've left (almost) nothing to the imagination and men who decided that fake tans, white teeth, and dyed hair would fool Mother Nature into turning back the clock. But this past May, I think the world found a worthy candidate.

Her name is none other than Catherine Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge. Or, as she's endearingly nicknamed, Kate. Call me partial to her name...I've lived with it for 21 years, after all. But all bias aside, I've been taken by her simple elegance and poise--a combination made all the more alluring as so many others crumble beneath the scrutiny of the public eye. Kate's ability to assimilate seamlessly into the Royal Family isn't just impressive, but has enabled her to earn respect among her elders while making a fan club of her contemporaries. Of course, I love the fact that, at the age of 29, she just makes the cut into the Millennial generation. Finally, someone in their twenties who flaunts the simple sexiness of a sheath dress cut just above the knee.

I understand that college girls aren't going to walk into a bar or club wearing pencil skirts or Blair Waldorf-inspired headbands and Louboutins. (Oh, the travesty to see those red bottoms fight a losing battle against puddles of beer and jungle juice). What I'm saying is that Kate is a reminder that classic cuts and fabrics are both figure flattering and timeless. She'll be able to look at this week's People Magazine coverage of the Royal Tour in 50 years without saying What was I thinking? because every outfit is simple with a fashion-forward twist.

While her silhouette is admittedly waif-like (the last time my waist was that small was when I ran ten miles per day during Cross Country season...in high school), elements of Kate's classic style can flatter women of all sizes. Sometimes the key to accentuating your positives is as simple as making some changes to the hem- and waistline of your next Friday night look. Instead of skirts or dresses that just barely cover the bum, don't be afraid of some extra coverage on the upper thigh. Sometimes an extra couple inches of material actually works to elongate your legs, especially once you slide on a pair of heels. To instantly feminize your silhouette, grab a belt that cinches your waist. Whether this means searching for skirts with a slightly higher rise or choosing dresses with a more defined waistline, the key to creating (or managing) feminine curves is all about picking fabrics that will drape properly once belted.

Kate's effortless look might be slightly intimidating given her direct access to countless designer collections (it also helps to have a non-existent budget). But if there's one thing Kate's polished example has shown millions, it's the magnetic power of her girl-next-door smile. Now that's très chic.

Caught in Uniform

Once upon a time I was a little Catholic school girl. The day began and ended with a prayer, and Religion class was sandwiched between Reading and Math in the daily schedule. But the truth is, my Catholic education wasn't so much defined by devout reflection and intellectual faith-based questioning, but rather what's on the forefront of most tween-aged girls' minds--clothes. Oh, right, and let's not forget jewelry, shoes, hair accessories, and nail polish. The difference was, our means of self-expression was constrained by a little something called a uniform.
It amazes me to think back on how much a simple pleated skirt and white polo managed to rule our lives. But trust me, it did. A skirt that was too long or a polo that was a) monogrammed, b) yellowed, or c) clearly your brother's hand-me-down earned you the unspoken label of "uncool"--a.k.a. the surest route to unpopularity.
In sixth grade, girls were allowed to add a new item to their school wardrobe. Drum roll please... the box-pleated skirt. This skirt was truly a coming of age wardrobe essential. Forget about the fact that the uniform shop charged an arm and a leg for the thing. If you didn't get the box-pleated skirt, then clearly you might as well go back to the fifth grade. (The fifth graders were relinquished to the accordion-pleated skirt-- the much less figure-flattering alternative). Of course, in sixth grade, dress code wasn't the only thing changing in our young lives. While I myself have blocked out most memories of this beyond-awkward time of my life, I do seem to recall that boys suddenly lost their "cooties" and girls had incentive to show a bit more leg than before. We did this with the infamous waistband roll-up. It did the trick unless, of course, you got caught.
But when I come down from this nostalgic cloud filled with Power Beads, Lip Smackers, and Baby Gs, I realize that we never really graduate from uniforms. Life is filled with them, in fact. Just yesterday I was (reluctantly) at the gym and thought to myself, wow, you can totally tell who's a Gen Yer and who's not. Sprinkled among a sea of courageous workout moms wearing spandex shorts and fitted tops are college girls like me wearing loose V-necks, colored sports bras, and Nike running shorts. The generational distinction between exercise "uniforms" is not only ironic but also extremely amusing to anyone as desperate as I am to find distractions during my seemingly never-ending countdown on the elliptical trainer.
So when you go about your day, I challenge you to play a little game of I Spy. How many uniforms do you see? (And I'm not talking about the kind employees wear at your local grocery store.) More importantly, which one are you wearing?

It's Internship Season

Ah, sweet summertime. It's everything I've been waiting for since Mother Nature first teased me with a balmy 60-degree day of sunshine back in March. Right when I thought it was safe to pull out the sundresses and sandals (a.k.a. my "warm weather uniform"), chilly Northern winds said otherwise, forcing me to remain trapped beneath layers of maraschino wool and quilted down feathers. And I wondered why I was severely deficient in Vitamin D?
A lot's changed since those climatically-volatile days back in March. I packed up camp and headed out of my Midwestern college town (barely deserving of the title "college town", I might add) after a notoriously draining round of final exams in May. But on my drive home, I had a startling thought. You're starting your internship next week, Katherine. With female co-workers (which obviously increases the pressure to dress the part). AND...you don't have an updated professional wardrobe. Gasp. Well, I mean, not really. I'm never one to turn down an opportunity to shop (like mother, like daughter...thanks, Mom.), so I actually welcome an excuse to venture into the retail tundra. While I try to buy classic pieces that don't go out of style from one season to the next, let's face it--there's something about walking in on your first day wearing a new power suit or killer LBD that just screams "Watch out world, there's a new girl on the block."
In the several hours I had to mull over the season's must-haves in my mind, I realized that this summer wardrobe would be different than in years past. I would be moving into that awkward life stage that's not quite independent adulthood, but certainly not carefree youth, either (channeling some Britney Spears here). It would be a new kind of season. Ah, of course. Why didn't I think of it before.

Internship season:
in-tern-ship sea-son, n.
an appetizer of sorts before Millennials everywhere sink their teeth into the "real" working world


Sharpen your pencil skirts and grab hold of some coffee and cigarette pants. It's time to get down to business.