When Icebergs Sank My Computer

Today was another frustrating example of why cavemen never invented computers. They were close enough to the Ice Age to know they didn’t need another one on a 12 x 15 screen.

…hmm…it made sense in my head.
My computer was busily updating itself from approximately 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. I was attempting to work during that same approximate span of hours. The two goals did not mesh, and the computer’s propensity for a frozen state slightly more solid than the iceberg that sank Titanic quickly became apparent.
In between stifling the angry curses that have little meaning in laptop language, I had a lot of time to think deep thoughts about the freezing in my own life.
When my computer feels overloaded, it first shows an hourglass. Then, if I add another process or ask it to scroll to the bottom of my Gmail Inbox, it moves to the next stage of angst, and the hourglass is replaced by a stubbornly partial screen with half of the page displaying on top of the one beneath it. It then rests – or twitches – in this state for an indefinite amount of time. 
Eventually, an error message appears on the screen with a picture of a very ugly computer wearing a scarf and surrounded by snowflakes. This program is not responding. (Thanks, Google Chrome, for telling me what I knew already.) 
Still, I sometimes yell at my computer, telling it to “show the error message already!” because even if nothing changes, at least it’s acknowledging that something’s wrong.
And yet, when the message appears, that actually means the computer is nearly unfrozen. You see, before, it was too frozen even to put up the message (which also takes processing speed and virtual memory). 
During one of the long delays before that stage, I realized that guilt and sin in my life are a little bit like the computer error message. 
Hiding guilt, sin, shame, is deeply unsatisfactory. So is pretending it doesn’t exist. It’s about as obvious as the computer screen that displays half of a Gmail Inbox and half of a MS Word document at the same time, in whiteout. Even if nothing changes at first, I have a deep desire to say the guilt and shame out loud, just to acknowledge that it is real.
And sometimes – not always – that acknowledgement is the foundation of healing. It means that my heart has unfrozen sufficiently to display the error message, and maybe, soon, it will have enough RAM to get past the problem and scroll down to the bottom of the Gmail Inbox. 
Or something like that. 

Because there are already too many to hate

April 15th. It’s a big day. The post office will be jammed with last-minute tax filers; tax preparers’ hands will be cramping from signing so many papers; Walmart’s quarterly income will skyrocket from purchases of TurboTax; and the federal government will get ready to–oh wait, they already did.
If you’re applying to college or graduate school, April 15th is the day of reckoning. Decisions. The beginning of the end for those on the waiting list. The beginning of pennilessness for those who were accepted (and there were a lot of ‘n’s in that sentence, so you’d better believe there will be no pennies left, because each one needs two ‘n’s, and I think the daily ration is on its way to empty).
There’s a lot to hate about April 15th. But I mean really. It’s just a day. It’s just a little 2×2 square on a calendar, and it can’t help that it was chosen. It’s as innocent as a textbook, and you know how many of those get burned about this time every year. 
So let’s stop hating and start sharing some love. With no further ado, please enjoy:

10 Things to Love About April 15th

10. Six letters: R-E-F-U-N-D. I wish. 
9. It’s the only time of year when re-gifting is considered not only appropriate but a cause for celebration. At least when the government does it.
8. It singlehandedly validates all those years public school kids spend learning how to properly fill in the bubbles on a piece of paper. It should be a college major, but people have been ignoring that key skill for years. No longer. Where else can you face so much trouble for filling in the ‘0’ instead of the ‘9’?
7. New Year’s Resolution: I want to stop worrying about money so much. April 15th philosophy: The less of something you have, the less you have to worry about, right?
6. Because you’ll be waiting in line for 3 hours if you venture into the post office to mail your return, look at it as a great time to meet all the people in your community whom you’ve never seen. AND you have a ready-made conversation topic. Then, when you bump into them in the grocery store on a normal day, you’ll be amazed how friendly and happy they are.
5. Let’s face it: somewhere in the corporate world, someone desperately needs a manicure and a facial on a cruise. As you watch your tax check disappear into the mail slot, you should feel deep in your core the great good that money will be doing. The National Organization of Smooth-skinned Executives (NOSE) might even send you a medal one of these days.
4. Finding loopholes. It’s a job. AND it keeps in business the people who sell specially coated pieces of string in rainbow colors for $9.99 plus tax, because children have to practice Cat’s Cradle and Jacob’s Ladder when they’re young or they’ll never learn to find the best loopholes on their 1040. 
3. The “I will not attend” card you are sending–with much agony–to a college or graduate school will be recycled into a “just kidding, we want you after all, so drop all those alternate plans you made and give us your money” card for some poor soul on the waiting list.
2. This is your big chance to see what it feels to send a rejection letter. Recognizing that it feels frightening and ominous and devastating-like-giving-away-your-third-child, take satisfaction in knowing that all the schools that rejected you had to suffer the same pain. Maybe? Just a little? Pretty please?
1. This day marks the greatest possible length of time remaining before April 15th will come around again. 
Now that’s something to celebrate!

And the Countdown Begins…

I’m back from Boston – GREAT visit, but didn’t make my decision any easier. 

T minus 12 days. Let the countdown begin…
  • Sat., April 4 – Create a list of things to consider before making decision.
  • Sun., April 5 – Create lengthy pro/con lists. Keep adding points to balance them out. Running out of paper. Guiness book of world records for longest pro/con list, anyone?
  • Mon., April 6 – Try to focus on work and forget decision must be made. Posting a poll on Facebook during lunch break. 
  • Tues., April 7 – Who makes decisions based on Facebook polls? Blogger would be much more reliable.
  • Wed., April 8 – Begin throwing darts at a map of the U.S. Desist after hitting the cat.
  • Thurs., April 9 – Critique the websites of each school. Visualize my face in the pictures.
  • Fri., April 10 – Picture my life 30 years from now and channel Robert Frost’s poetry.
  • Sat., April 11 – Drat. So much for deciding before the last minute. Now comparing sports team records from each school over the last 20 years.
  • Sun., April 12 – This is it. Just do it. Hey, I wonder if I could work for Nike instead?
  • Mon., April 13 – Back to the pro/con lists. Realizing hatred of imbalance sort of defeats the purpose.
  • Tues., April 14 – Coin flip time.
  • Wed., April 15 – That coin was weighted?????  WHO’S BEEN TAMPERING WITH MY FUTURE??!!
Haha.
In all seriousness, my first instinct is to plan and create checklists and pro-con lists and seek advice and take polls and, in a word, act. In another word, control. 
But what I’m learning, with the help of some very wise and honest friends, is that maybe part of this process is learning to let go. To seek God and His will, rather than seeking my rationality and my desires and then doubting both. 
I’ll be honest, I don’t know what that looks like. It is involved, but not independently active. Waiting is not my strong suit. But I will be trying to figure it out between now and April 15th. So here’s to the countdown!

Anthem for Doomed Indecisivists

Heading to Boston tomorrow to visit Emerson College (visit my sis!!!!) and start making my final decision about grad school. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited about the trip, especially the sister part. But when I get back, I have to make up my mind, knowing “I could get stuck for good!” So in a way, it’s the beginning of the end. 

And because there’s a song for everything (note usage above – 10 points for naming the song), I proudly present the Anthem For Doomed Indecisivists*: 

The plane will take off tomorrow,
[I] bet my final dollar that tomorrow
I’d go north
Just thinkin’ about tomorrow
Chases ‘way the [gray] matter and the marrow
Of my bones
When you’re stuck with two picks
Too quick
To wrestle through
I just lift up my hands
And stand
And say:
The plane will take off tomorrow
I surrender sanity tomorrow
On the way
Just thinkin’ about tomorrow
Changes all perspective I could borrow
From today
Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
I dread you! Tomorrow! 
You’re only [fourteen hours and twenty-one minutes] away!
*Another 10 points for naming the not-so-subtle literary allusion in this title.

Burning Bridges is Bad for the Environment

Today, if my mental state were to play out on the Facebook news feed, it would look something like this:


_____________________________
*                       FACEBOOK                          *
Jen is getting ready to burn the first bridge.

Jen is talking seriously to God about the wisdom of burning bridges.

Jen: Does anyone know where to find research about the health hazards of burning bridges?

Jen is reliving her visit to ___ school.

Jen is browsing ____’s viewbooks.

Jen is already nostalgic about ___ school she hasn’t said ‘no’ to yet.

Jen thinks she might just run it by the post office later.

Jen slaps herself in the face and says “get it over with.”

Jen makes a copy of the decision card to practice checking the “no” box.

Jen could still check the “yes” box on the real thing.

Jen is writing a thank you note to the admissions people she met.

Jen is addressing the envelope.

Jen is wishing she were out of stamps so she had an excuse to wait.

Jen is printing her name on the decision card.

Jen is dating the decision card.

Jen could probably clean her room before checking “yes” or “no.”

Jen needs some tea.

Jen: the mail doesn’t come until 2:30, after all.

Jen’s hand is hovering over the “no” box on the decision card.

Jen wonders what is the meaning of life?

Jen just checked “no.” In pencil.

Jen is slipping the card into the envelope with the thank you note.

Jen should probably check Facebook before sealing the envelope.

Jen is taking one last look at ______ school’s website.

Jen is looking for volunteers to seal an envelope?

Jen sealed the envelope.

Jen is considering steaming it back open.

Jen is meandering up to the mailbox.

Jen thinks it would be a great morning for a long walk.

Jen will not go back to the mailbox. Jen will not go back to the mailbox.

Jen just burned the first bridge. 

Jen: Do you remember who said burning bridges was bad for the environment?

Jen is talking seriously to God about the wisdom of burning bridges.

Jen keeps mysteriously hearing doors slam.

Jen’s finger hurts in a weird sort of phantom pain.

Jen hears the mailman coming. BRB.

Jen will not chase the mailman. Jen will not chase the mailman.

Jen is realizing the finality of burning bridges.

Jen is talking seriously to God about the wisdom of burning bridges.

Squashed and squeamish fingers

(The alliteration in “squashed” and “squeamish” was too good to pass up.)

Sometimes childhood is scarring: a burn here, a zig-zag white line from a sneaky piece of barbed wire, a smallish knot from a poorly-placed steel trapeze on a playground; I’m sure you can commiserate. 
Lately, I’m realizing that I have been deeply and traumatically scarred by my experience with car doors. Slamming. On fingers. Or other appendages. Need I say more? 
I didn’t think so.
But it’s not in the way you might think. My fingers and toes are all intact, despite my best efforts as a child. However, I have an ingrown fear of closing doors to this day. Logically, it must be a product of my childhood, right? 
Hmm…
(the not-so-clever metaphor begins to emerge)
All the grad school news is in. My mail delivery person is probably breathing huge sighs of relief. And now – or rather between now and Wednesday and then April 15 – it’s decision-making time. 
I would have no difficulty deciding to go to a particular school, if it weren’t for a tiny problem: I have to say ‘no’ to the other schools at which I was accepted. That means they can give away my hard-won spot and scholarships. That means I can’t change my mind last minute. That means I have to close some doors. 
I have an ingrown fear of closing doors.
Why is that? I can think of a couple reasons. 1) I forget that it’s a metaphor, and I really don’t want to lose another fingernail. 2) I suffer from “the grass is greener” syndrome. 3) I am afraid of making a mistake that I then can’t change. 4) I don’t trust that God is in control. 
Staying in limbo is much easier because there are no doors. Leaving an “out” is vital when I’m the one running the show. Holding back is wiser when I’m living in the shadow of my past failures or those of people around me. But it’s very limiting.
It’s impossible to move ahead without closing some doors. The hard part is trusting God to help me close the right ones (and making sure all fingers and toes are safely on the other side before slamming). 
So if you see me repeatedly opening and closing my car doors between now and April 15, in the wise words of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, don’t panic. I’m just practicing.

Hello, "Yet."

I love words. Most words. Not all words. In fact, there are some words that really stick in my teeth like corn on the cob and just don’t want to come out.

Like “yet.”
I’m a perfectionist. I’m okay with that. In fact, a lot of times, I really have respect for my perfectionism. (See All or Nothing for more on that.) Two responses are a lot easier to keep track of. 
But it’s not all that healthy, especially when stuff in life comes with more than two possibilities. 
Take a few days ago. I got another rejection letter – three just last week, to be precise, bringing my total number of acceptances into a PhD program to – you guessed it – zero.  In my tongue-in-cheek-but-not-really response on this blog, I wrote “Jen is not PhD-program caliber.” And then I paused.
Am I really not? As in ever? Boy, that’s depressing.
Well obviously I’m not, because they rejected me.
Um, I think there’s a flaw in the logic here somewhere.
Absurd.
No, really. 
Don’t be silly.
No, really.
Tired of arguing with myself, which is just a little weird, I capitulated and typed “at this point,” because “at this point” leaves more room for self-pity than “yet.” Not quite sure why, but it does; trust me.
“Yet” is inherently optimistic. Maybe because it sounds a little like “yes.” It also implies that the statement that is not presently true will/can someday be true. It’s like a revolving door that pushes you forward, rather than an automatic door in a power outage that tries to compress your nose back into the rest of your face.
Now that I think about it, I would really rather get a shove from behind than have my face inadvertently turned into a Willow Tree figurine.
*Gets out toothpick, begins to eek out a few more ‘yet’s for later use.*
*Realizes the image is kind of gross. Guilty grin. Trashes toothpick.*
Right now, Jen – who is not yet PhD-candidate material – is going to set up a stakeout by the mailboxes so she is ready to receive the last admissions status letter, which has not yet come.