Rapunzel, Rapunzel…

I’m growing my hair out.

It just something I do.

It’s not a girly thing.

It’s just a service thing.

Don’t worry you’re not going crazy, you read that right I said SERVICE.

I have thick hair, that seems to like growing. So I grow it until I am no longer patient and then I cut it, and then I donate it.

Sometimes I apply heat to it.

Most of the time it’s up in a bun. (Or a side braid).

I don’t dye it. Or Bleach it. Nothing crazy. Just wash, rinse, towel dry, comb, put up, and repeat a couple of days later.

I’ve been thinking about my hair a lot lately. Mostly I’ve been thinking back to 3rd grade me, who sat down in the chair at the salon one day, pointed at my brother sitting and waiting, and promptly told the stylist, that I wanted “that” hair cut. She asked me multiple times if I didn’t just want to take off a couple of inches, that my long beautiful hair didn’t need to all go away. But I insisted, and she took out her scissors.

Needless to say my mom had quite the surprise waiting for her, when she came to pick us up. But she wasn’t upset. I was happy to have less hair, and she was happy I was happy.

That’s the key. I was happy. It didn’t matter that the stylist had tears in her eyes as she sheared away 11 inches of thick brown hair. To her credit she followed through, however I did notice the lack of clippers being used on me, and I distinctly remember her using them on Mark. It was a compromise. But in the end I had gotten what I wanted and jumped out of that chair being happy with the cut, and ready for the next thing. I didn’t really give much thought post-cut, I was just happy.

My stylist didn’t want to cut my hair due to her fear that I would look too boyish. I mean I already ran around in hand-me-downs from my brother and family friends…the hair would have just added to the already “tomboy” look. But so what? Why was that her problem? I wasn’t labeling myself as a tomboy…that was everyone else. And really who cares if I was mistaken for a boy? Not me. I just wanted the freedom of waking up running a brush through my hair and being on my way.

The joke is that even as a kid with longer hair I just woke up and ran a brush through my hair. I didn’t learn how to put my own hair in a pony tail until I was 11.

I was also being a very pragmatic 9 year old. Summer was starting, my hair was hot and heavy I was just lightening the load, so to speak. We were also preparing to head to Atlanta in July and I had been forewarned that it would be hot and humid, and again I was thinking about my own personal comfort. I mean have you ever been to Atlanta in the middle of July? It’s brutal.

I was a very confident and precocious kid, I wasn’t going to regret the haircut, it didn’t matter to me what I looked like. I just wanted to be comfortable. So soccer shorts, t-shirts, and short hair were the peak of my fashion sense. If I was ever going to be able to pull off that haircut it would have been then. Simply because I didn’t care.

The haircut I wanted at 9 is now a pretty fashionable haircut these days, think Emma Watson post Harry Potter or American Sweetheart Jennifer Lawrence. The problem is, I hit puberty, I started letting what people said about my looks get to me, I started to judge myself critically. Now I could never pull off that haircut. Not without being self-conscious.

Yes I’m still self-conscious. I’m okay with it. I don’t get down on myself, I haven’t take extreme measures to change myself. I am just aware of myself. So I don’t think I look good with super-short hair. Cool. I just won’t cut my hair that short. Easy. I’m still me. I’m still happy. I’m still confident. Yeah, okay every once in a while I have a bad “me” day. And I feel sorry for myself. But those occasions are few and far between, and let’s be honest, everyone has those days, it’s how we deal with the next day that matters. My hair and how I look don’t define me.

So be happy, be you. Love yourself and have your bad days. If you need to make a change, do it, but in a healthy and realistic way. Don’t live up to others’ standards of who you should be, live up to your own standards. Be girly, be androgynous, be boyish, be a princess, be whatever…at the end of the day just make sure that you’re being you.

The good news about always keeping my hair in low maintenance do’s, is that when I need to look a little more “dressy” all I have to do it wear my hair down.

Hulking Out

Don’t Make Me Angry

I spent six weeks this summer in Boston starting my graduate studies at Boston College. It was a blast, school was interesting, sometimes challenging, sometimes not, but that’s not what I’m here to talk to you about.

Within an hour of landing back in Montana, I opened my garage door and said hello to my wonderful Subaru, I got in the car, put the key in the ignition, turned it on and proceeded to back out of the driveway. I was on my way…to the grocery store. Huh? I needed to stock up. Normally I’d walk as the store is conveniently close, (closer, in fact than any grocery store around BC) but I had been awake for a long time already and had also run through the Atlanta airport to make my connection, and quite honestly, I was planning on cooking myself a feast, and was conserving my energy for that.

But I digress.

Even though the store was only a block away, I was still nervous to drive. Can you forget how to drive in 6 weeks? Apparently not, but that didn’t stop me from being a bit apprehensive. I shouldn’t have been though, everything went off without a hitch.

I want to say it was like riding a bike, but I’ve ran into parked cars on my bike, more times than I’d like to admit. I also can’t compare it to walking, because I struggle with that as well. Let’s just say I’m deserving of the name Stumbledore. So I’m just going to stop before I embarrass myself…further.

All seemed right in the world, I was back in Montana, I got to experience long summer days again and sunsets that always take my breath away. But the simple of joy of driving quickly lost it’s shine. A couple of days upon my triumphant return to the Big Sky State, I found myself traveling to Helena one afternoon to meet up with my mom and spend the night with her. I hadn’t even gotten out of Bozeman by the time I was frustrated and yelling a people for driving like idiots. Either they were driving too slowly, not using their turn signals, cutting me off, tailgating, what have you. I breathed a sigh of relief upon hitting the interstate, knowing that I would be able to speed up and pass those as necessary. Soon enough however I was yelling at someone who insisted on using the left lane as their own personal road. Because they thought that they may being going fast enough to possibly, maybe pass that car that’s five miles ahead of them. Turning off the interstate for the last leg of the trip, I was counting down the miles until the passing lanes so I could pass the semi that had so rudely cut me off. Eventually we get to the first passing lane, which happens to be on a uphill stretch, I put on my blinker, moved into the left lane, and pressed the gas pedal, only to be cut off again by the same semi who had decided that it was necessary for them to pass another semi. I don’t know if you have ever had this happen to you, but usually semi trucks take a long time to pass car in general, now add in the uphill factor and the fact that this man was choosing to pass another truck that’s about 100 feet long (this is probably an exaggeration, I have no sense of stuff like this). Needless to say I was unable to pass either semi truck in that moment and would then have to wait until another clear passing opportunity. I was livid…

When I get to this point of anger, I have to put on my “Angry Car Mix.” Which has a fair amount of Foo Fighters and Kings of Leon…Rock music that I can sing at the top of my lungs. It always calms me down. I also make a point of not looking at the other drivers as I pass them…I reserve that for those moments when I’m so exasperated I just HAVE to look, to see who’s driving. I made it to Helena and was able to pass the semis after what seemed like hours, but was probably more like 15 minutes. All was well with the world again. My saving grace is that  once the car has been passed, I am no longer angry.

Now I never got upset or annoyed in Boston, a train ride into downtown was about 45 minutes (the train I took was also above ground for most of the trek so it would almost be the equivalent of taking a bus) plus, driving (I wasn’t driving, I was riding) from campus to down town took about 30 minutes or so…I should also mention that we were only traveling between 3-5 miles. Why wouldn’t someone so prone to getting road rage, not be angry with this? Because Boston has about 17 times more people living there! And that’s not counting the greater Boston area.

My name is Kelly, and I have Road Rage.

I understand that I need to work on my road rage, and I will. Just as soon as the drivers of Western Montana decide to not be dumb.

To put things in perspective.

“Hey Siri, what’s the population of Boston?”

-“646,000.”

“Follow up: What’s the population of Bozeman, MT?”

-“37,300.”

“What’s the population of Massachusetts?”

-“6,693,000.”

“And how many square miles is Massachusetts?’

-“The answer is about 10,600 sq. miles.”

“Okay, what’s the population of Montana?”

-“It looks like the population of Montana is about 1.02 million people.”

“How many square miles is Montana?”

-“About 147,000 sq. miles.

I Am A Robot

An emotional void, cold-hearted, ice queen, hollow, unfeeling.

All of these terms have been used to describe me at some point or another, most more than once, and usually in a joking way. A lot of the time I make the comments about myself, mostly in an I’m-being-super-self-aware-and-self-deprecating kind of way.

But I’m not a sociopath. Promise. At least everything I read on Wikipedia and WebMD tells me I’m not.

In fact, I’m going to let you all in on a secret.

I feel a lot.

Just prepping you that things may get a little personal and a little real…also you should know that just typing that phrase made me all sorts of squirmy…I don’t like to share personal “stuff” especially with people.

To reiterate, I feel a lot. In fact I’m sure my brothers and parents could tell you that there was a stretch in my life where I cried a lot (usually only at home), those years were called adolescence which is also synonymous with puberty. Anything my brothers did could set me off, but after some self-evaluation over the years, I’ve learned that it wasn’t always something they were doing that made me upset, they just tipped the scale. From about 4th grade through 6th grade I was bullied. Which is so interesting to admit, because I had friends, a lot of friends, there were a couple of girls that had moved into my school that for some reason just didn’t like me. And they were cruel in a way only young girls seem to be, and to this day I don’t know what made them want to tear me down, but they did. Some days the tears came due from confusion and hurt, most days the tears came from frustration and anger that none of my friends seemed to care enough to stand up for me, and would spend their free time with the girls that made me miserable.

I got through it, I’m not entirely sure how, just a part of who I am fortunately. At some point down the road I became much more wary of how much I put myself out there emotionally. Open book Kelly became more cynical and more of a closed book with a 10 foot concrete wall around it.

There are cracks in the wall…for example this blog.

I’m not an emotional void…the emotions are just contained…in a vault…that very few people have the combination to.

I don’t bottle up my emotions. No really I don’t! I just try to take a step back and examine my feelings before putting them out into the world. I’m not always perfect, sometimes things get away from me, especially anger and frustration, but I’m much better than I used to be.

So, when I’m happy, I’m happy, when I’m angry, I’m angry. When I’m frustrated (a cousin of anger) I’m frustrated. I’m just guarded. Especially when it comes to the lovey-dovey emotions.

You’re never going to see me standing on a coffee cart proclaiming my love for a person (sorry Seth Cohen). It doesn’t mean I don’t love, I do, I love fiercely but quietly. I’m an incredibly empathetic person, when my friends and family are happy, I’m happy, when they’re hurting I hurt for them.

I’m not overt or public with my emotions, public proclamations of love and public displays of affection make me uncomfortable. (Which may be an understatement).

Which my friends think is hilarious and enjoy purposely making me uncomfortable. *cough* Tiffany and Jake Harrison *cough*

I don’t mind the jokes, I’ve got a tough skin, thanks partly to my 4th-6th grade years and in large part to my family and friends, whom I love more than I am able to aptly express, here or otherwise.

Alright, alright, alright, that enough, I have started to make myself nauseous.

All My Friends Are Getting Married

A journey through the mind of the single friend.

Please note that there is no intention of making my friends feel bad, just some things that make me chuckle.

“You’re at that age.”

“It’s that time in your life.”

If I have to hear these phrases one more time when I mention the amount of weddings I have been invited to I am going to scream.

I am not kidding.

Since I started college back in 2005 I have been present at about 32 weddings (I say about because I had to write as many as I could remember down and there’s a pretty good chance I’ve missed some). I say present because I’ve been invited to at least 41 weddings but was unable to attend some.

Now on average that doesn’t seem that bad…it’s about 3 weddings a year, however the last 3 years have accounted for more than half of those weddings.

But for the rest of this post, let’s just focus on one year…this year, 2014.

This summer alone I was invited to 10 weddings, was available to attend 3 before I left for Boston, missed 3 while I was in Boston, never planned on going to two because they were the same day as one that I ended up missing while I was in Boston, and 2 I was invited to in August, 1 I’ve already attended and 1 this weekend.

You still with me.

I don’t know if you know this, but that’s a lot. Also, let me note that none of the weddings I was invited to were in Bozeman. The closest was Butte 75 miles away, the furthest Kalispell about 300 miles. 3 were in Helena (90 miles) 1 in Polson (about 270 miles) 1 Butte, and 5 in Kalispell.

Yes that’s a lot of driving, but more over, that’s a lot of money…just spent driving, I don’t even want to calculate how much it would be total or even factor in gifts.

My fridge looked like a wonderland of save the dates and wedding invites, I had to buy more magnets just to accommodate them all. I’ve never been more excited to get a save the date magnet, so I would have something to hold up all the other save the dates.

This is my reality.

The end is in sight, a wedding this weekend and one in November (which takes the tally up to 11 for the year).

I am holding my breath for with fingers crossed that I won’t have as many weddings next summer.

Seriously I already have one wedding that I’m aware of and my whole summer has been rearranged accordingly, even school in Boston. It’s kind of a big one, my brother is getting married I don’t even want to think about the insanity that accompanies a family wedding.

So I am starting a friendship application process, new friends are always welcome, but if they are currently in a committed relationship and looking to possibly get married within the next two years, they will be put on a waiting list, and friendship will begin post wedding.

All current friends, you have been grandfathered in, so no worries. Please understand that if you get a handmade pot holder as a wedding gift, it’s because I am tapped out and have no money to purchase a gift.

But hey at least it’s handmade.

Take This Pink Ribbon Off My Eyes

When I was about 5 years old I awoke one Christmas morning to find many a gift under the Christmas tree for my brothers and me. I wish I could wax nostalgic about all of those gifts and what we each received that year, and how much they meant to me, but to be perfectly honest I only remember one gift that year. And what a glorious gift it was. My uncle had gotten me a Nerf Master Blaster. Purple-double-barreled-Nerf-ball-shooting-goodness, and it was all mine. My older brother Mark already had the Nerf Blast-A-Matic, but it was a single-barreled-wussy-weapon-that-could-only-hold-up-to-four-Nerf-balls-at-a-time…mine could hold six. I couldn’t wait to unleash my Nerf wrath on my brothers, and become the champion of Nerf in the Ruby household, just like I knew I should be. There was however a slight problem, I was tiny, and this Nerf Master Blaster was a bit cumbersome for my 3’5” frame. (Seriously I was tiny tiny, and I still think I’m giving myself the benefit of height here) I could still lift the gun and pump the handle, but the problem was that to get the double barrel action to work properly, I had to be able to pull back on the handle with enough force to get the air pressure to pop the ball out of the  other barrel. This was something I just couldn’t do…I didn’t have the leverage. So I tried to win the Nerf war with just one barrel, and found myself woefully wanting, dreams of my victory quickly dissipated and I was heartbroken, my head hung in shame and defeat.

     Eventually my parents made a compromise, Mark could use my Master Blaster and I would use the Blast-A-Matic, the caveat was that Mark could only ever use four balls and no more. It was a compromise I could live with, and I just bided my time, until I was big enough and strong enough to be able to use my weapon. I practiced. A lot. (I am not kidding). I would sit in the basement and just pump and pull the handle until one day I was just strong enough to make it work. Just like Christmas morning, I remember the day I was able to put to full use my Nerf Master Blaster. It was awesome. I was a champion.

Pictorial evidence of what the Master Blaster and Blast-A-Matic looked like.

MB1_zpsddbb2294nerf_blast_a_matic

A little under a year ago, while going to a movie with a friend, I saw an ad before the movie (don’t even get me started on advertisements at theaters) for a new line of Nerf guns, targeted specifically for girls. Nerf Rebelle. I remember watching the ad; filled with young girls finding their own purple and pink Nerf weapons and employing them in a way only advertisements for girls can; too girly and not realistic.  By the end of the commercial my hands were in fists and I was truly disgusted. Really? Someone in the Nerf marketing department decided that they needed to create an entirely separate line of Nerf weapons for girls? And this was they way they went about it?

Here’s the deal, I am a girl, granted I am not the most girly of girls…in fact far from it, but come on, since when do girls own the colors pink and purple and any shades therein? Since when do we need our own special line of Nerf guns? Yes they may be smaller and easier to handle…hey that makes sense, five year old me would have appreciated that, heck five year old Chris (my younger brother) would have appreciated that. But since when do girls have to be defined by a color scheme and cutesy names. Seriously don’t even get me started on the name REBELLE. The names of the weapons are obnoxious too, the Heartbreaker Bow…I wish I was making this up. Honestly I don’t care about the colors, if they want to make pink, purple, and teal Nerf weapons go ahead, but don’t label them as girls toys. Put them in the Nerf section of the toy aisle, make them available to everyone with no stereotypes attached. Also how about just making Nerf commercials with both boys and girls using Nerf guns together!

I understand that there are differences between boys and girls and I think that’s great and wonderful and incredibly special, we’re complex and intricate creatures. However, there are just some things that don’t warrant special toys and labels and marketing strategies. Nerf guns are fun for all ages, for all people. Unless someone doesn’t like them, and that is their prerogative, and I respect that. Stop putting people into boxes marked male and female, liberal or conservative, believer or non-believer. We are all individuals with gifts, talents, and personalities of our own, and I know personally I’d love to just be seen as me.

I was ten by the time I could master my Nerf Master Blaster, it took me five years of being able to make that Nerf gun fully functional, but in that time I still played dress-up, and make believe, still engaged in endless Nerf, water-balloon, and water gun fights, climbed trees, rode a bike, and skinned my knees. The best part about all of that was, the Nerf guns, trees, dresses, water balloons, bikes, didn’t care if they were being used by a girl or a boy, but just that they were being used at all.

Dear Hasbro, maybe you can remember that when you’re planning for your next line of Nerf Weapons or board games, perhaps just make them enjoyable and usable for years to come.

My mom still has all of our Nerf guns, and for the most part they are all still usable, and I can’t wait to get to pull them out again in the future and wage all out war with them. That Master Blaster still has my name on it.

These pictures are just to give you an idea of what my childhood consisted of when it came to Nerf Wars.

 M4034S-4211url-1nerf_sharpshooternerf_crossbow

The Worst Question

“What’s your favorite movie?”

That’s it. Right there, those four words (five if we didn’t have the contraction). Yup. That is the WORST question you could ask me.

When I a senior in high school I thought nothing could be worse, than someone asking me, “What I was going to do with my life?” But that quickly went away, and what was left in it’s place, was the inevitable unanswerable question. “What’s your favorite movie?”

Now when I was a kid, this answer was always easy to answer. Between the ages of 3-8 it was probably a tie between The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, and whatever Disney movie was recently released. From about 9-10 it was whatever Ninja movie my mother would rent for my brothers and I, so any of the 3 Ninja movies and Surf Ninjas.

These are all classics, but if you’ve never seen them and they are not a part of your nostalgic repertoire, don’t watch them, because you’ll think I am crazy

The summer of my fifth grade year on, if asked this most probative and obnoxious question, my answer was always the same, Newsies. That summer my mom had received a free movie of her choice from our favorite video store (Rest in Peace Video Excitement) and even though my younger brother denies it, we both chose Newsies. We then proceeded, he and I, to watch that movie everyday for the rest of the summer. It may have been a flop at the box office, it may be the movie Christian Bale (yes that Christian Bale), regretted making the most. But it had some seriously catchy tunes and could make me smile every day.

Eventually as time wore on, saying that Newsies was my favorite movie, became more of a knee jerk reaction. It had long become a fond memory and watched seldomly, but it was an answer, and one I could easily defend when necessary, or was so baffling that it shut the person up rather quickly.

In college I quickly came to realize that answering this question was like navigating a mine field. Depending on who was asking the question, you had to an answer that was either just pretentious enough to satisfy the cine-files, just jock-y enough to satisfy the athletes/frat brothers, just rom-com-y enough to satisfy the gal pals, or just independent/musical enough to satisfy the theatre peeps.  Though in all honesty the theatre people were always a mixed bag, you just have to play it one on one with them and when in a group setting best to just ignore the question or defer to someone else’s answer.

So I developed a hard a fast way to answer this question. I never classify my answer as my favorite movie.  For example:

Them: “Kelly, what’s your favorite movie?”

Me: “Huh, well currently I’ve been on a Marvel kick and I’ve really enjoyed Iron Man.”

Them: “Oh yeah, I really liked that movie, but I think I prefer RDJ in Sherlock Holmes.”

Me: “He’s also really good in Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang and I can’t wait to see Chef. I mean it’s really just a small part, but between him and Jon Favreau there’s really nothing that can go wrong…”

See how that works? I just deflect, then overwhelm with information until we’ve steered the conversation into a safe zone, or I’ve bored them to death.

However, you have to be ready to defend your answer, because sometimes people won’t like your answer and they’ll be sure to let you know. Last summer, over dinner with friends I was asked to name my favorite movie.  I made mention of the fact that though it wasn’t my favorite movie, it was the movie that was most representative of how I felt about that time of the year. The movie I picked was  A River Runs Through It.  Apparently that was not the correct answer because it sparked a debate among the table as a whole. I defend my answer and I moved on.  At the end of the conversation, I had answered the question to my liking, albeit I had tweaked it a little bit, but I was comfortable with it, regardless of how my friend felt.

So here’s the deal, if you’re going to ask me that question, please be okay with the fact that I may just ignore you. Also I may answer without answering you and talk you in circles. But please know that if you ask the question with the intent of belittling the answer that I give you. Just save your breath, after all you’ll spare me the teeth grinding frustration of having to answer, in my opinion,  an unanswerable question.

So what’s your favorite movie?

Kidding! 

P.S. Props to my mom for always saying that Newsies would be way better as Broadway musical than a movie. You win again mom.

 

I’d Like To Take A Minute, Just Sit Right There…

Spoiler Alert: this will not be a story about how I became the prince of BelAir, or have anything to to with that. So if you now have that song stuck into your head, I am not sorry, it’s a great jam. Go enjoy it here in its entirety.
Fresh Prince of Bel Air

Late in my high school career I was introduced to the band Nickel Creek. They are a wonderful folksy band with a banjo. I am such a sucker when it comes to banjos. Unfortunately not long after my introduction they decided to stop playing for a little while. I was bummed and consoled myself by listening to their songs on repeat. One song in particular I listened to constantly was Doubting Thomas. It was a smooth song that just seemed to strike a chord deep down in my soul. Eventually Nickel Creek and Doubting Thomas slipped away into the nebulous realm of nostalgia. Until a couple of weeks ago.

During the process of moving some music around from computer to external hard drive I stumbled upon a folder labeled “Summer 2004.” When opened I immediately fell into the world of that bygone summer and once again was captivated by this little song.

I don’t know if you know the story of Thomas, but I personally think he gets a bad rap. He will perpetually be known as “Doubting Thomas” for his lapse in faith, but I would like to call attention to some of his other deeds, the few that scripture give us.

In the narrative of the death of Lazarus in John 11, we hear about the death of Lazarus a friend of Christ whom he loved. In the naïveté or ignorance of the disciples they try to tell Jesus that he shouldn’t go back to Judea to see Lazarus. Once they learn that Lazarus is not asleep as Christ first said (a metaphor they didn’t get) but rather dead it is in that moment we see the courage and love of Thomas when he says in verse 16,

“Let us also go, that we may die with him.”

Now I am not sure about you but as previously stated. I think this show tremendous courage and trust in Christ’s plan. Which we later learn is to raise Lazarus from the dead, so that they might understand the true power of God, as well as to foreshadow Christ’s own resurrection.

When we again meet Thomas in scripture it is after the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ, and this is pivotal to his story and reputation. Remember what he said about Lazarus? He has seemingly lost that courage and confidence he previously held, and honestly wouldn’t you? If your dear friend and mentor had been brutally tortured and killed out of cowardice and fright, wouldn’t you be distraught?

When Christ appears to his disciples the first time post-resurrection Thomas isn’t there. And he doesn’t believe them when they tell him about it. In fact he says he needs to see the marks on his hands and wound in his side before he’ll believe it. Even after he had witnessed the miracles of Christ, there is only so much logic, reason, and faith the brain can sustain when one grieves for the loss of a loved one.

When Christ appears again he shows his wounds and scars to Thomas, it is in that moment that Thomas falls to his knees and gives us one of the greatest prayers when he says,

“My Lord, and my God.” Jn 20:28

Christ continues with a gentle chastisement about true faith, to believe without seeing, as a lesson for future generations.

All it takes is but a moment for Thomas to forever be remembered as a doubter. However when you look at the whole picture we see him as he truly is an example for us all to learn from, in his courage, his doubt, and his prayer.

I leave you with this verse from Nickel Creek, a good reminder of how small and human we all feel, and it is in those moments we need faith the most.

Please give me time to decipher the signs. Please forgive me for the time that I’ve wasted. I’m a Doubting Thomas, I’ll take your promise, though I know nothing’s safe. Oh my of little faith.

Give the whole song a listen here. Listen and love my friends, listen and love.

I Am Not A “Woo!” Girl

I have always wanted to jump out of a plane. 

Bungee jumping terrifies me. The ocean terrifies me. Snakes…I won’t even go there. But jumping out of a plane at 10,000 ft always sounded like fun to me. 

So in July of 2009 I did just that. I jumped out of a plane. I’m sorry, I went skydiving, for some reason skydiving sounds less suicidal than saying I jumped out of a plane. 

My aunt Mary Kay was visiting and she mentioned to my dad that she had always wanted to go skydiving, and couldn’t think of a better place to see from a birds-eye view than the Flathead Valley. I would agree, but I think New Zealand would be pretty awesome. That Saturday morning, my brothers, my dad, my aunt, and I loaded into vehicles and headed out to Lost Prairie to go skydiving. 

I remember the morning vividly, by 8:30am it was already well on its way to being a very hot day, and we had nothing but clear blue skies for miles and miles. The drive to Lost Prairie is a beautiful one filled with forests, hills, hidden valleys and fields that are tucked away only to be seen by those who look for them. My brother Mark and I bumped along in our family’s ’87 Nissan truck looking at the sky and speaking very little. Neither of us had ever done this before, whereas my dad and Chris both had, and we were nervous.  

Lost Prairie is about a 45 minute drive from our home in Kalispell and the closer we got to our destination, the more nervous and nauseous I got. I kept thinking about how I was supposed to speak at John Paul II Parish that evening to help raise funds for my upcoming year with Reach. Would I live to be there? I actively tried to not think about the fact that I could die. That would get me no where. So I worried away the time by looking at the scenery, taking in every thing I saw, I didn’t want to take anything for granted. You know, just in case I didn’t see any of it again. I stared at my brother’s face, his square-jaw and fresh shave, his hazel-green eyes and his nose. His nose that looks just like mine. We all have the same nose. Don’t worry I wasn’t driving. I know you were concerned. I also know that if my brother actually reads this he will be mortified to know that I put this out there for the world. I also know that my mom may tear up. Sorry mom. 

By the time we pulled up to the Osprey Parachute Club. My nerves were pretty frayed. We signed the waivers, watched the video and paid the man. Then we decided our jump order. Mark and I first, then Mary Kay, then dad and Chris. We put on our jumpsuits (seriously), met our trained jump partners (that’s a nice name for the person you would be harnessed to for the next hour) and we loaded into the plane. Once we got in the plane and it took off, the nerves eased up, I mean we’d already paid and were off the ground. I’ll spare you the awkward details of having to sit on a stranger’s lap for a 45min plane ride, with your older brother sitting across from you, but this little description should jump-start your imagination. As we circled higher and higher I became very calm. By the time we were opening the door of the plane and I was standing on the wheel outside, I had accepted the fact that I could die, but if this view was the last thing I saw then that was totally fine by me. 

We jumped. Correction, we back flipped out of the plane. Which to be honest is a little disorienting. Then we were in free fall for 30 seconds. About 10 seconds after we jumped my brother and his partner jumped. And I could hear him yell, “Yeah! Ahahahahaha! Woooooo!” 

I am not a woo girl. It’s not a thing I do, even jumping out of planes, I don’t yell. Not on roller coasters or anything. I’d rather take it all in with a giant smile on my face than scream my appreciation. If you want to see me yell, you should have seen me at my brothers’ soccer games. 

30 seconds of free fall and then 15 minutes of a parachute aided float back to earth. I saw the entire valley I called home spread out before me, but in a way I’d never seen it before. Seeing something from 10,000 – 30,000 feet is so vastly different than seeing some from 5,000 feet while you gently drift back to earth. It was exhilarating, breathtaking, and awe-inspiring. I would do it again in a heart beat. 

I recently finished applying to Boston College’s School of Theology and Ministry for a summer graduate studies program. When I say recently, I mean I legitimately pushed submit on the application about two days ago. The month or so it took me of staring at the same questions over and over and finally writing my personal statement was a long month of worry, nerves and nausea. What if I get in? I will be gone for 5 weeks for the next three summers. I will miss out on our justice outreach project, volunteering at camp, witnessing good friends getting married, but in the long run I will gain so much more. So why was I nervous? I am taking an unknown step, granted it’s one that I wanted to take, one that I am excited for, but it is a risk nonetheless. I am stepping out of my comfort zone, hoping that soon I will be standing on the wheel of the airplane, staring at the new endless opportunities ahead of me. The minute I hit “Submit” the nerves and worry went away. It’s out of my hands. 

I am in my 30 second free fall, who knows if the chute will open? I guess I’ll find out in 29, 28, 27…

Sympathy for the Devil

Please allow me to introduce myself. I realize in terms of blogging that I have left out the necessary introductory post, where I tell all of you about myself and why I have decided to start blogging. Now that I have a somewhat captive audience I figured I would throw it out there.

Here’s the deal, if you’ve read my previous posts (all or some) you hopefully have been getting a pretty good idea of who I am. If you’ve been reading them and are still in the dark, well then read this, then go back and re-read all the other posts and maybe it will begin to make more sense to you. 

So I started this adventure called “my life” back in 1987 with a lot of help from my parents and some support, but more pokes and prods, from my older brother Mark. Almost three years into this new life, Chris came along and RUINED EVERYTHING! I am just kidding, but that was my reaction to basically anything he did post infancy until probably mid-high school. I love my family, seriously, they are the funniest people on earth. You should see our group iMessages. They are also the most supportive and loving people ever, despite the fisticuffs we’ve been known to engage in. Don’t worry it’s been at least a year since the last fisticuff. (I really like using the word fisticuff, I now need to use it on a regular basis.)

I am a fiercely loyal friend. I will engage in fisticuffs (see I told you I liked the word fisticuffs) and bar brawls for my friends. For real. I overuse the term “best friend” because I consider A LOT of people to be my best friends. Deal with it. My friends are just another branch on the Kelly family tree. Even if we don’t talk anymore, there’s still a branch for you, it’s why I have a hard time deleting people from Facebook.  

There are a few friends that I refer to as my brothers or sisters. These people have seen me cry, and I don’t mean just silent tears streaming down my face. I mean full on ugly cry, where I have sought them out to be my rock in the turbulent times of my life. These people are right up there with my brothers and parents, though most of the time they don’t mock me as much. 

It is because of a few of these sister/brother friends that I started writing down my stories and thoughts and put them on the inter webs. They encouraged/bullied me into pursuing my incessant need to share my thoughts and stories. It was 75% encouragement and 5% bullying, and the other 20% came from my bedroom walls and car who were tired of having to listen to me ramble on.

So here it is. I am now blogging. And more so I am now publicly posting the blog on social media. Baby steps. I am a rambler, and I get off on tangents super easily. You should be a fly on the wall when I am writing these things down, one time is all it takes. Also just be happy that the finished products are under a 1000 words, because before I re-read and edit them they only make sense to me…and trust me, no one wants to read my stream of consciousness, I don’t even want to read it. 

So thanks for joining me in this new venture I hope you enjoy the ride. 

If you’re my friend you now know that I would hit someone with a pool cue for you. And now my brothers, parents, and the rest of the world knows that I would straight up punch a person out for them. I am sure my parents would be so proud. 

Apologies to my brothers, Mark and Chris, for posting things about you to the internet without your consent or permission. And to my parents, for not always accurately portraying you. The perspective of a child is vastly different from that of semi-grown up Kelly.

To my friends who’ve seen me ugly cry…yeah…um…let’s just not talk about it.

For those of you who understand the title, congrats, I accept you.

If you haven’t figured out the significance to the title of this post and how it relates, Google it, then let me know what you find out. Enjoy the rabbit hole.

Sorry Not Sorry

First, let me just start off apologizing for this title. I truly hate this phrase, it started out as just a working title, and then I legitimately couldn’t think of anything better. The only redeeming quality there is to this is that I didn’t hashtag it. Though just using the word hashtag, feels like I just cheapened the moment. My deepest apologies for being so modernly cliche.

I joined Twitter back in the dark ages of 2008…which by the way is a fairly big accomplishment considering Twitter was really just starting to take off at that time in larger metropolitan areas like NYC. Upon signing up I had to pick my Twitter name, a profile picture, and write something in the “about me” section. All of that was relatively easy, my picture is one of my all time favorites…me riding the wooden escalator in the NYC Macy’s in homage to Elf, my username, is basically a nickname from high school with my favorite number attached, and my bio was short to the point, and I thought represented my existential self perfectly. 

“Live, Laugh, Love.”

In other words, my bio, was stupid, cutesy, cliche, and safe.

When I was a kid in elementary school I had no problem liking what I liked and telling everyone in the whole world about it. Heck, I got “married” while on a family camping trip when I was four, and my groom and I skipped around holding hands telling the whole wide world that we were getting married.

Don’t worry, pretty sure it wasn’t legal, unless there is some weird loophole in Montana State Law that says marriages between 4 year old are only made legal if the wedding was witnessed by both families, was presided over by an elder sibling, and a Berenstein Bears book was used in place of a Bible…stranger things have happened.

I was labeled the “weird” girl in 4th grade (Weird by the way was the outcast label of the time…so much has changed) and I was proud of it! I liked listening to the Beatles, and watching old black and white movies with Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant, I loved watching Star Trek Next Gen, and I lived for the Batman animated cartoon everyday after school and X-Men the animated series every Saturday morning. I also liked watching the Power Rangers…but that wasn’t cool so I blamed my watching it on my younger brother. 

It wasn’t until I was in college that I realized the proper terminology for what I was. NERD. I was and am a huge nerd. However, for some reason, one that I am still trying to figure out, I buried the nerd flag. I was still nerdy about a lot of things, but I wasn’t being truthful about myself and who I was. 

I now strive to be myself all the time, I love the things that I love, and I shouldn’t be ashamed of those things. I know some people will laugh when they find out that I am a proud Kickstarted backer of the Veronica Mars Movie,and others will just pretend they didn’t read that I have recently become addicted to the MTV show Teen Wolf because it’s freaky and amazing and certain character arcs are all the reason you need to watch a teen soap about supernatural beings living in a fictions town in California.

Are you beginning to get my point?

At the end of it all I don’t want to have any regrets, I don’t want to be ashamed of who I was created to be. Which as my new Twitter bio states:

“Pop Culture Nerd, Comic Book Lover, Baseball Fanatic, Middle Child, Youth Minister. ”

In my last post I talked about not being afraid, and this follows right in that same vein. At the end of the day I am not afraid to be me. 

I am unapologetically, 100%, authentically, genuinely, me. And I am not sorry for that. (I also think that somewhere in the space time vortex 10 year old Kelly is cheering and punching the air for me now)

Speaking of Nerdiness…

This is a thing if you like nerds, comics, movies, celebrities, pop culture, ect. that you should check out.

www.iwantmynerdhq.com

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