Ugly.

I hear quite often men introducing their “beautiful wife.” That is alright.  Then, many of them elaborate a little more, “How did I get so lucky as to find a wife that good-looking?” or “She keeps herself pretty for me.” Maybe I am being overly analytical, but these things hurt me to hear. What if he met my husband and me? Would he think poor guy? It feels as if being beautiful is the only thing women have to offer to the world. I am not beautiful, not even close, so is my husband unlucky? Would this person pity my husband for being married to such an ugly woman? Even if I were good-looking, I wouldn’t want to be put on a shelf, as if I were a prize awarded to a man. Since I am so hard on the eyes, does this mean I am worthless? If any of these men HAD to be married to me how would they introduce me, …and this is my…um…wife, or would they even introduce me at all, maybe hide me in a closet or make me duck down as not to be seen with me in front of people who would pity them?  I am likely never to be introduced as “Shannon’s Beautiful Wife,” but maybe people can dig deeper and say, “This is Lauren, she is, smart, sometimes goofy, but always kind.” I have many good qualities, and for too long have I let them go so unnoticed, but those cannot be put up on a shelf like a trophy, those are not things that your husband’s friends can ogle. I guess that is why I do my best in school, to try to offer something to the world, even though to the shallow I will still just be seen as ugly and never anything more.

On The Road

For the past few years, I have read Kerouac around my birthday. It's like a present to myself. An escape, really. My own personal birthday adventure. While I am firmly planted right here with no hope of new atmospheres anywhere in the future, Kerouac never fails to take me on his adventures. He tells of them in such a way that I feel I am riding in a limo going 110 or that I am in a jazzy lounge breathing in music right there with him. As exhilarating of an experience it is to read my favorite novel, On the Road, it always leaves me saddened. When am I going to get to have an adventure of my own? Now, I know it is not plausible to drive across the country on a whim just to find a "Dean Moriarty", but it would be nice to do something.


Earlier, I was staring at the books piled up on my dresser; then, I looked over at the picture of newborn Asia. I looked around our humble home, at the snow piled up outside on the cars. I thought about me going to college to try to make things better. I decided that I am on my own adventure, right NOW. I am "on the road", if you will. Sometimes we all like to complain about our journey. Sometimes it seems like it is taking forever to get to our destination. But like Sal (Kerouac's fictional self), in On the Road, what if we get there and it is not what we thought it would be like? What if we find what we are looking for and it is not as good as we'd counted on it being? That's why the journey is important. The journey is where we have the most fun, learn the most, and meet those crazy characters we eventually call either a friend or a memory. The journey IS the story; Kerouac knew this. That is why he called his novel On the Road. You hear constantly that it is about the journey and not the destination, but once it really plants itself inside of you and you really grasp it, the journey is so much more fulfilling…and appreciated.

What Day Is It?

Today is January 5^th. I mention that not to remind or inform you, but rather myself, because the fact that it has been nearly two weeks since Christmas hasn't quite registered in my brain yet. Back in November, I was so consumed with papers, essays, and finals that it became an insistent chant in my mind, just get through finals just make it through finals. I was convinced that once I had taken my last final that I would have the time to sit down and look at my Christmas tree and listen to Christmas carols and the spirit of the season would fill my heart. Simply, I would just have time to absorb the season, enjoy it. But that didn't happen. My last final was on the 16^th of December, and our first Christmas gathering was on the 18^th. From there out it seemed that time itself had sped up and I was left a spectator of events. It was like I reached the platform just in time to watch the Christmas Train speed past, the wind catching my hair, standing there a whirlwind of glitter, paper, and twinkling lights.

Now here it is three weeks past my last final. I finally have the time to sit and enjoy and absorb, but it is all over. They say time flies when you are having fun, and considering this Christmas was fantastic, I would to assume that is the reason. I'm not worried; if this year goes by as quickly as last, it will be Christmas again tomorrow morning.