Guilty Pleasure

I am an introvert. I have expressed this truth many times on the page, as well as aloud. I like being alone. I like having time dedicated to nobody or nothing but myself. It is rejuvenating and immensely relaxing. So, what do I do in my holy solitude? What makes this hermit experience so thrilling that I need to indulge? Well, there are a number of things I enjoy like reading, writing, taking a nap, watching a movie and going for long walks through the forest, but my favorite pastime is also my guilty pleasure. This of course, is nothing sexual. In fact, many of you may consider this pleasure anti-climatic and extremely lame, but I don't care. What I love to do, more than anything in the world, is to drink wine and sing along to my favorite musicals on tape.

It is true. I am a closet theater freak. Yet,  I am embarrassed by this past time. I hide my soundtracks and original cast recordings where no living soul can find them. I watch the video recordings in solitude. The only moments I burst out in song are in times when I know I am completely alone. My shame for this relatively uncool pastime among my age group has heightened to new levels. No longer do I borrow tapes from the Library for fear of what the librarians think of me when I set Sweeney Todd on the counter. At the local video rental, I ignore my desire to pull Annie Get Your Gun off the shelf and rent some romantic comedy instead.

At 22 years old, I have reverted back to my days as a pre-adolescen, questioning everything about my world. Why am I so insecure about a hobby I enjoy? Why am I ashamed of enjoying the theatrical and musical arts? Why am I so concerned about what other people may perceive as cool, or uncool? It is rather pathetic. Yet, here I am doing it anyway.

In the end, I suppose everyone has there own guilty pleasure. Everyone has something they enjoy that may be surprising or lame. And if you love something, love boldly. It is probably more refreshing than doing it in secret. And on that note, I am going to go sing Broadway's greatest hits loudly in the shower. I hope the neighbors hear.

Struggle

Sometimes the things I want so desperately to write about I cannot. It is not because I have difficulty formulating the words or expressing thought. That part comes easily. I do, however, struggle with the content. Recently, I find myself wanting to record things closely entangled in my life. Though these experiences make excellent stories, I hesitate to share these events for fear of putting myself or others at risk. Words are immortal. You can wipe away their physical presence, but their meaning lives forever. It is a constant struggle deciding when to hold back, and when to let go.

Stomping Grounds

Last weekend, I loaded my Saturn with a few CD's, a water bottle, a mitt-full of cash and hit the road toward my old stomping grounds in Western Michigan. Driving along interstate 80, I sang along to my mix tapes and embraced the landscapes around me: the leaves on the mighty maples transforming into brilliant shades of auburn and gold, the Kalamazoo River blue as the sky above, and the familiar worn billboard advertising Russ' fine dining.

For the last three years, this sleepy Dutch suburb was my home. I have fond memories dancing in its cobblestone streets, exploring the infamous pine grove, and wandering around Centennial Park entranced by its twinkling Christmas light display. But, as I stepped onto the grounds of my former campus, I couldn't reconnect to these memories. I felt like a stranger, an outsider. I felt extremely out-dated. For only graduating a short time ago, my return to campus made me feel like an old alumni returning for my 30th college reunion. I did not recognize a single soul parading around the school grounds. It was in this moment I realized my college years of youth and beauty were over.

Feeling utterly depressed about my age and membership in the working world, I met my fellow graduates at a local bagel shop for a quick lunch. Surrounded by friends, food, and good conversation, I regained feelings of warmth and love. I found my home once again. There is an old saying that, "home is where the heart is" and I now fully understand this proverb. While the physical structure or landscape of a home contributes to an overall feeling of inclusion and safety, it is the people with whom the house is filled that really makes the structure a home.

Though I am still saddened by the fact that I am growing up and progressing through the chapters of life, I am comforted by the relationships I have with friends throughout the globe and the memories shared on 12th Street.