Now Is The Time To...NOT PANIC! What?

This morning, on my way to the bus station to catch the bus that takes me to New York, I calmly let it slip in the car that I left my phone at home.

My mother starts repeatedly banging her head against her seat and calls me stupid several times, something which I'm quite accustomed to, partially because my mom is notorious for freaking out beyond reason for the smallest things. Fortunately, I do have an office phone, and I gave her that number on a piece of paper while she continued to rant on about "emergency situations". At one point, she asked me to give her my boss's cell phone number.

Ok, NO. I am in no way, comfortable with that.

This is only one situation out of many, but unlike my mom, I don't think I have a panic nerve. Or bone. Or whatever it is in your brain that signals you to panic. Funnily enough, there is a correlation between anxiety and blood pressure (ok, so it's not that funny, it's actually kind of serious), something which I discovered during a blood drive at my high school. I wasn't able to give blood that day, because the nurse said my blood pressure was too low, whereas every single one of my friends seemed perfectly fine. She told me I could take a few laps outside before coming back, if I wanted to give blood. Hahahahaha, that's funny, lady.

Neither low blood pressure nor high blood pressure is good for you, but it's just another piece of evidence to prove my absence-of-panic theory. Every time I've ever been presented with a pressured situation, whether it be a paper due in 24 hours, a train I had to catch, or standing up in front of people, my panic radar has stayed oddly low. Granted, I don't really have stage fright, but it's gotten to a point where I have had something due in an hour, and my roommate starts panicking for me.

You can call me a slacker. Hey, I procrastinate and I'm proud of it. But the outcome of any situation I have encountered has never been bad enough to make me want to panic in the future. I think the only time I've ever had a monumental panic attack was when I was 1/2 hour to 45 minutes late for a job interview. I started crying and flapping my arms wildly in the car, subconsciously moving my whole body forward in the passenger seat as if that could somehow will my mom to go faster. And you know what? I still got the job. Because in the end, we're all still human, and anybody who is human knows that there are uncontrollable forces in the world that make us late, no matter how early we plan ahead or leave. Especially in this job interview situation, I had called earlier telling them I was going to be late, and acted professionally when I got there. The trick is to not profusely apologize and focus on what you're there for.

I think the point I'm trying to make here, is that people panic about the littlest things, when the only thing it's doing is giving you a mini-heart attack. That's not to say you shouldn't ever feel pressured to do things. It's been said that a little pressure in an important situation is helpful in making sure you concentrate and succeed.

But panic is such an unfortunate state. I think part of the reason people panic so much, is because they are unsure of how they would handle the situation if something went wrong. Maybe instead of panicking to get something done - that's seem impossible to get done - focus on what you can do now, and then come up with a plan to efficiently and intelligently finish the rest later. Also, it's important to keep in mind that if you do have something due within the next few hours, you're more likely to come up with a smart solution to finish it when you're cool-headed. Or if you're late for something; ever notice how every traffic light seems to turn red when you're panicking? Chill out, dude! God is not going to hit you with a lightning bolt, I promise.

The Masters Of Metaphor

Unless you're an actual fan of her, I don't think Imogen Heap is really that much of a household name yet. But you've probably heard some of her music, like Let Go, or that song from the Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe soundtrack (Let Go was featured on the Garden State soundtrack, and Boys Like Girls did a cover of it, if you're into them).

I thought I would do a post of her, because she's basically the epitome of what I can't be. As dramatic as that seems, it's completely and utterly true. Actually, let's play a little game. What do...a songwriter, poet, and a hopeless romantic all have in common? No?

It's pretty simple. All those people have mastered the literary device that is the metaphor. Ah, the metaphor. That thing that saves you when you want to say something, but don't really want to say it outright. I would give you an example, but that would defeat the purpose of this post. In other words, I am not a master of metaphor (I wish I were, that title sort of has a ring to it).
But Imogen Heap is. Oh yes, she is. I don't know if it is a new song, but recently, I've become obsessed with a song of hers, Earth:


"You're not golden and I'm getting tired
Act like you own the place when really you've only just arrived
I caught first glimmers in hides and skins
Look who's all grown up, black swanning about the solar winds..."

Besides the lyrics, the song has an insanely catchy beat, and of course, Heap's signature use of voice technology to create that acapella style. I love it. But if you ever asked me to reproduce something like this, it would be completely futile. It took me several tries to figure out the actual meaning of this song. The current accepted meaning is that it is a "green song" - a song about how we are destroying the earth, just because we think it is ours, whereas the earth has existed far longer than humanity has. You see, Heap is playing the part of "mother" earth, scolding her child (humanity) for creating such a mess of this place. It makes sense, when you see the title, which is appropriately named Earth. But this meaning is far from being the only one. Some say that it's called Earth, because her voice is the only instrument being used, giving light to the "organic" feel of the song. I used to think it was about being in a one-sided relationship, with someone who wasn't giving it his/her all. I don't really blame myself for that explanation, given that 98% of the songs today are about relationships, love, etc.

But you see what has happened?!? Imogen Heap has mastered the use of the metaphor so well, that people like us are able to create millions upon millions of explanations about the true meaning of the song. While I am highly impressed by this, part of me is a little annoyed. Not in a jealous way, but more like "Why would you do that?" annoyed.

Maybe I've just always been a blunt person, but if I were feeling something, whether it be sadness, happiness, frustration, depression, etc., writing it down in metaphor would not help me at all. Some people might say that the point of the metaphor is to convey your emotions, while still keeping them to yourself, but that is so counterproductive.

If people don't understand the exact meaning of what I'm trying to say, I feel like I've failed at communicating. Is it because I'm always trying to prove that I have something intelligent to say? I don't know. Maybe songwriters and poets are so confident with themselves, that, as long as they know what it means, nothing else matters. This is why I could never be a poet, or a songwriter, as hard as I have tried in the past. I'm not saying that metaphors aren't beautiful. In fact, one of my favorite choral arrangements by Eric Whitacre, titled Sleep, is anything but failure and yet, one big metaphor.


"What dreams may come both dark and deep
Of flying wings and soaring leap
As I surrender unto sleep
As I surrender unto sleep..."

In my favorite analysis of this song, Whitacre is describing death, and one's thoughts before dying. That topic itself is for another day, but when I realized this, the metaphors spoke to me even louder. It made me stop and appreciate the flexibility of the English language, and how something so depressing can be made to sound beautiful. Of course, part of Eric Whitacre's charm is his amazing use of suspension chords, and his unconventional chord progressions. Oh, look at me, geeking out on choral music.

But am I jealous? Not at all. Never would I want to write something that people couldn't immediately understand. That's probably why I'm studying to be a journalist and not a poet. So here I stand, in the sidelines, cheering on those who are the masters of metaphor. That's it. No strings attached. Let them do what they do best, while I continue to shout my feelings from the mountaintops, till the cows come home.

To Wear Or Not To Wear?

Here's a semi-age old question; what's hotter? Baring all, or covering up?

For the longest time, I've kind of envied those supermodels and people with supermodel-like bodies for being able to wear a bikini without a care in the world. Let's just say, I've always had to work hard to get that kind of stomach. I'm not fat, per se, but I'm not a supermodel. Otherwise...I would not be writing this and would be super modeling right now.

So I bought a bikini the other day. It was from Victoria's Secret (what is her secret, anyway?) and the model wearing it looked super-fabulous and tan. I'm pretty tan, so I've got that covered. But when I later looked at pictures of myself in the bikini, I was not satisfied. And I'm pretty picky about my body. I don't have the flattest stomach, nor the slimmest figure (whoever makes humans has gifted me with great child bearing hips), but I tend to run in the small sizes at department stores. So while the beach trip was fun and relaxing, those pictures left me with rather disappointing thoughts.

One day after that, for giggles, I decided to try on my mom's bathing suit that she also bought from the same place. It is a one-piece, firetruck red, swimsuit, with a halter neck and an open back. I tried it on.

WOW.

I'm not really a vain person, but I looked good. I almost couldn't imagine wearing that to the beach because it seemed too Baywatch. But why? It covered almost my whole body, yet it seemed - dare I say it - sexier than that secret bikini of Victoria's.

Now, I've learned in my 18 years on this earth that women wear skimpy clothes to look hotter to men. Not that it hasn't worked. Call them whatever you like, but skimpy clothed women have always gotten the attention of men. There could be various reasons for this:

1. They show more skin, therefore those parts of the female body that are usually reserved for the bedroom  are now free of charge. If it's free, why not look?

2. If a women is fit and toned, calf muscles, abs, and a perky upper shelf can definitely be a turn on.

3. It's...wild? Showing more skin shows that you're not afraid to showcase your body. Be proud of what your mama gave you! Confidence is always key to a man's heart.

4. Women love to tease. What's the point of wearing anything if all you're covering is your chest and down there (in extreme cases)? Because you're showing everything but not really. You can see it all but not really. April Fools!

I'm sure those who are skimpy clothes advocates can cook up more reasons. But the more I try to think up reasons, the more I realize that less clothes means showing more. Suddenly, I'm reminded of all those times I accidentally gave away the ending to a book or a movie to my best friend. She hated me every time I did that. Why? Because there was no fun in it for her anymore. There was no more personal satisfaction that she figured out the ending all by herself, that she figured out that at the end of Sixth Sense, Bruce Willis was...oops. Nevermind.

The mystery is gone, people! Everything is handed to you on a silver platter, with ribbons and ponies! Forget about actually wondering what that beautiful women over there looks like underneath all those clothes. She's basically spelled it out for you. You're not wondering anymore; you know. One look, and you know everything. Done. Finito. End of story.

That's not to say women should wear burlap sacks and paper bags over their heads. No. But next time you're thinking of choosing a strapless, skin-tight, dress, that is dangerously close to revealing your lovely buttocks, think again. It can still be skin-tight. Why else do you think Cat Woman is so hot? Her whole freakin' body is covered up, but it's still hot. You're still showing off your body, but not really at all. And by covering up in the right spots, you actually give off the image that you are actually toned in places where you're not. I mean, I do have to say; a woman who exudes sex appeal while wearing a long gown with sleeves is pretty awesome in my book. Let the men do some wondering! They don't do much else anyway.

It's A Love/Hate Thing...

I refuse to write a post about how it’s my first blog post. That previous sentence will just have to do.

Because I work in the city, and I don’t live in the city but live in a small town in New Jersey, (unfortunately – cue Kelly’s Clarkson’s “Breakaway”) I usually take a bus or train to commute an hour into the Big Apple. Except nowadays, I’ve been taking the bus to the Port Authority Terminal because it drops me off right at Times Square which is where I need to be. Perfect.

But there is a reason that most people take a train. Actually, you can’t really even say “most” people, because with the population of the East Coast, and the popularity of New York City, you’ll find a massive crowd wherever your specific form of transportation may be. Either way, the train is still chosen over a lot of other types of transport. That’s easy enough to figure out; it comes every 15 minutes to a ½ hour, the tickets are a pretty decent price (well…used to be) and the trains are a nice temperature. But in my case, I’d have to take the train to Penn Station, then take a subway, and I’m a broke college student, and…

Okay, let’s stop boring the world with my train opinions. The point is, the only reason I take the bus, is because it is conveniently close to my work.

But. It. Is. SO. Disorganized. And hot. And disorganized. And there’s always a huge line of people waiting for the wrong bus, running around like headless chickens, trying to catch a word with the careless employees of Port Authority. And since I’ve been taking the same bus for over two months now, I’ve gotten used to the disorganized structure of the bus station and find myself directing panicky people in the right direction. No, that’s at Gate 8…Yes, I know what the sign says, but in about ½ hour, a bus conductor will come out and tell everyone to go to Gate 8…Okay, sure, you can stand there and wait for him…

It’s actually kind of nice, knowing how the system works, and helping frenzied people. For a crazy second, I thought it would be cool to work there – then the amount of driving around I would have to do hit me, and that thought vanished in a blink. But the other reason that I take the bus, is actually meeting all these frenzied people. Like, just yesterday, there was a French couple with twins from Switzerland. Who woulda thunk it?! Good thing I’ve got 6 years of French on my resume. Although I kept quiet for awhile and resorted to watching a beefy looking man trying to explain the bus line to them in slow English. There is no bus at 6:30…the next one is at 7:15…no, no, the 6:30 one is only on Monday thru Thursday…yes…no, the next one is at 7:15…do you understand, that’s only Monday thru – is that French you’re speaking?

Not to brag or anything, but I’m pretty sure I could have translated everything that man said into simple French for the nice couple. Let’s see, Monday = Lundi, 6:30 = Six heures et demie…

But honestly, it is actually really nice meeting all these people. That same day that I met the French couple going to Lambertville, I had missed a 6:00 train by two seconds and had to sit there for about an hour for the next train (another reason I hate Port Authority – the gap between each bus is about the same time it take for grass to grow). Fortunately, I had Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and some snacks handy, so I sunk down onto the shoe-trodden, gum-infested floor and tried to immerse myself in the book. But with about half a million people running around, give or take one thousand, it’s difficult to isolate yourself from the world so easily. Actually, you’re kind of missing out if you do. People-watching is probably one of the best things to do in a city with so many people. You get all kinds down at the ol’ bus station. Let’s see if I can categorize them (at least at my gate):

1. The white-collar workers coming home from work. Usually carrying a briefcase or rolling backpack, the Daily News, and sporting sweaty pits, forehead, the works.

2. Older women, around 50+, wearing khaki pants, a colorful “fashionable” top, sandals, some luggage, if any, heading over to the casino that just opened up on our bus route (why anyone would want to go to a casino in the middle of Pennsylvania is beyond me).

3. Various young people, usually women, who are just there, and are probably in my situation.

4. The tourists. Enough said.

5. The elderly, who usually are at the wrong gate. But it is so heartwarming to help them to the right gate. Honestly. I always feel so good when they get home safe. =)

6. The inevitable crazy people who talk to themselves. I usually keep a safe distance away from them, so I don’t really know what they’re like. I had the pleasure of putting my French into action when I overheard the French couple talk about how there was a crazy guy right in front of them. Oh, how cute.

You always think that people don’t actually notice these things, but they do. I do. Those sweaty pit stains you unfortunately see? That man probably just ran here from 4 blocks away, because he found it useless to hail a cab in such nice weather, although after running for 2 blocks, realized that the weather was a little too nice and possibly borderline heat wave. Normally, he could have easily caught the earlier bus, but today was special in that he had to stay late because someone at the office messed up some project that was now his responsibility to fix. Now he’s trying to head home from work quickly, and is pissed that the next bus doesn’t come for an hour, because he needs to be home in time for something that’s going to piss his wife off if he’s late for. But hey, why not open up the newspaper in the meantime and see what kind of mischief Lindsay Lohan is getting into this time?

I could write on for ages about the people at Port Authority. I’m sure there are enough stories there to feed a third world country. And by that I mean if their stories could somehow generate money, and with that money you bought food to feel a whole third world country, well, there you go.

After I stop working in New York for the summer, I won’t need to take the bus to commute anymore, because I attend school there, full-time. But next time I have the choice between the bus and train, I might take the bus, only because they’ve got practically a full-sized mall on the main level. Yes, that’s why.