Gaps

The one in your tooth can be fixed with years of braces, accompanied by a bit of teasing from relentless peers. The one between your age and his… is a potential disaster.

Height gaps? Adorable.

But thigh gaps? Those are… sexy.

Because apparently the measure of space there is between your legs dictates your self worth.

But don’t forget, you also need a good rack. But not too big, because if you’re too top heavy, we all know you’re just looking for attention.

And a narrow waist—but not that narrow, geeze, go eat a burger.

And your ass should be perfectly curved… but if it looks too good, well, it’s probably fake, and it’s no one’s fault but yours if a man’s grabby hands reach out to cup it.

Skinny girls, you are beautiful—but wait! Curvy women are the real women. Just not too curvy now, you’ve gotta fit the mold. Shape yourself to abide by what society says is the standard of perfection. It’s unattainable, so they say—but you could get there.

Just don’t eat too much. But if you have an eating disorder, well, what is wrong with you? Weight gain isn’t bad! You aren’t even fat!

Yeah, tell that to every other page in the magazines, all screaming the same things; lose weight now! New diet, guaranteed to make you lose weight! Even the cereal boxes boast their methods of metabolism boosting.

Let me tell you a secret: The media wants you to hate yourself.

The more you realize your flaws in your complexion, the more makeup you’ll purchase to feel beautiful. And people may tell you that your body is fine, it’s fine, it’s fucking fine, and a body can be big, small, lanky or voluptuous—but no amount of reassurance can ever, will ever, combat how you feel when you look at that 5’11 model on T.V, with a gap between her thighs you think you would kill for.

Makeup is never advertised like war paint, but applying it sure as hell feels like you’re going into battle, and maybe it’s time we stop picking out our flaws and preaching love for the skinny and love for the large, and focus on something a little it different.

Shut off the Victoria’s Secret Runway show, flip the page of that magazine, throw away the trashy cereal box and buy yourself some lucky charms. Flip a middle finger in the general direction of anyone who tells you that your showing ribs make you an oddity, or that your love handles need to be disposed of. Let your collarbones poke through a cotton t-shirt, and if your “friend” tells you that your boobs, in that tank top, make you look like a slut, let her know how little you care by walking away without a backwards glance.

The next time a guy cat-calls you and comments on the size of your fat ass, use a key-ring, a tweezer, or smack him upside the head with a magazine.

Because darling, the media screws you over everyday.

You might as well fuck it over twice as hard.

I am a hockey addict

There is no other sport that can make me emotional like hockey does.

Hockey gives me something to believe in. I believe in my team. Even if we’ve lost 9 games in a row I believe in these boys. I believe in my goalie that he can stand on his head. The feeling you get when there’s an unexpected hero. The knowledge that the entire league will stand together in solidarity in the darkest of times will get you through a loss more devastating than that which happens on the ice. 

Hockey is more than just a sport. It is the reason you get through the day. It is the moments in hockey, the ones that take your breath away or keep you on the edge of your seats, that makes you watch every game, makes the chills run through you. It is the final shoot out. It is the Cup being lifted. It is the family you create with other fans, the fellow season ticket holders, the watch parties, the conversations as you all stay up for that West coast game. 

Hockey is the feeling when your team scores a goal or wins in overtime or a heartbreaking loss or they’re on a losing streak. The smile on my face when my boys play a great game or when they advance in the next round of the playoffs. The holiday greetings from players that turn into hashtags and t-shirts. The inside jokes and nicknames within the league, The betrayal when a player is traded to that team. 

I am an addict because there is nothing like when I see the crowd jump up and cheer when we score. When we stand together in a silent arena as a beloved player's number is retired to the rafters. When I listen to the captain speak to the crowd when they clinch that playoff spot after a six season drought. When I hug the strangers next to me when they win that first playoff game at home - because we aren't strangers anymore. 

Yes, sometimes, it hurts to be a fan. Sometimes it doesn't help you escape life. During the playoffs, it becomes your life. A loss for your team is devastating. Watching a favorite player crash into the board and see his leg snap sickens you. When, despite the grit and determination and the fight the players have through the game, and they still get slaughtered, it hurts. When you stay up until one in the morning and know you have to drag yourself to work on only a few hours of sleep, you question your own sanity. When a player with a heart problem goes down on ice, there's nothing to do but cry with the other fans in the arena. 

We are a hockey family. We would prefer to stay in on the weekend because we wouldn't miss any game. We wear our jerseys proudly, even if it is 110 outside. We are the people that are more likely to cry over a playoff elimination than a breakup. We are the family that will watch old games in July because we miss the game. We love the the blaring goal horn and the crack of that slapshot. We love the smell of the ice. We love the chill in the air, even if it is snowing and icy outside. We love the knowledge that this is home. 

There is nothing else like hockey. That is why I love it.

We are more than just a number

We are more than numbers formed using calculations and logic. We are not just some tiny dot on a graph or a conclusion to be drawn. We are heartfelt laughter during a Friday night out with best friends. You are the tears streaming down your face, emotionally stripped and raw from a breakup; and just as equally the tears of joy when you are overwhelmed by the presence of God on a Sunday morning.

I am more than the number flashing across the scale or the inch where the measuring tape meets when pulled snugly around my waist. I am my favorite pair of jeans that hug in all of the right places and an old, worn-in t-shirt that is softer than the finest cashmere.

We are more than the countless number of magazines and advertisements screaming "You’re not good enough just the way that you are". Beauty comes from a place inside, so hidden that it could rival the depths of the ocean. It shines through from your soul, radiating from the inside out. It is reflected out into the world through kindness and compassion towards others.

I am more than the number of people that I have dated, loved, or slept with. I will not be labelled as a slut, a prude, or damaged goods — regardless of what people say or how many times my heart has been bruised. You are the equivalent of your personal choices and the freedom to do whatever you please.

You are more than your GPA. Your thoughts, intelligence, and character could never be added up and divided into a precise percentage. You are all of the adventures, mistakes and late nights spent with friends when you should be sitting at home quietly studying.

We are more than amount of debt you owe or the balance in that checking account. I am a part of places traveled and the experiences shared. You could be diving off a cliff, trekking through the rainforest or swimming underneath a waterfall. I am the places I have been. You are the adventures you've had.

You are more than a statistic stating that you are a part of a minority, ignorantly claiming that you will never be equal to the ideal, no matter how hard you work. We are determined, ambitious, and driven by our own hopes and dreams. We are striving to be the best possible version of ourselves because that is what truly matters.

We are not the number of days, hours, and minutes we have on this earth.

You are how you decide to use that time to leave your own legacy behind.

You are all of these little things added up into one infinitesimal sum.

We are alive.

Maybe I am a little lost. And that's okay.

Sometimes its 2am and you get the urge to drive, and just drive until you’re as physically lost as you feel.

I used to think that being lost meant that it wasn’t worth being found. That if you didn’t know exactly what you were doing, or where you were going, or even what was best for you — then it wasn’t worth trying.

Being lost was the last thing I wanted, those around me were well on their way to achieving a life they already had planned, getting into pre-med courses at great universities, getting into international exchange programs, moving in with their partners, setting up businesses, even having kids. Then here was little old I, two years younger than everyone else in my year, with no idea what I wanted. That lost feeling ate at me to a point where I didn’t even feel like me, let alone a me who was on their way to achieving life goals.

Being lost lead to tears, screaming matches, therapy bills, anti-depressants, uneven serotonin levels, running away, school, and a whole lot of black clothes that showed the world just how angry I was. Oh, existential angst.

Years later and I’m still lost.

But I live in a shiny new city. I discovered that studying isn’t where I want to be right now, and I’m still unsure of what I’m passionate about. And that’s okay.

We have two options when it comes to being confused about what we want from life: we can let it get to us, we can stress, and we can let it destroy any ability we had of even remotely working out our lives. Or, we can embrace it and learn in baby steps where we need, and want, to be.

I wish I were someone who knew exactly what they wanted from life and knew exactly how to get it. But I’m not, and I’m learning to embrace that. I’ll figure it out eventually. But for now, I’m driving at 2am.

The next lost generation?

Everywhere I look, I see young, already world-weary faces and wandering eyes. Girls with drunk-blushed smiles silhouetted by city lights at dawn. A motivational quote — “to the stars through difficulty” — inscribed on a faded picture of a stormy, rocky coastline. Another urgent click-bait article tallying the world’s human rights violations. The bar-wide sigh at Saturday night’s last call. Wherever I go, I find lost people.

You probably do too. The newly-minted grad who left America venturing out into unknown landscapes seeking spiritual solace and answers or simply a little more time before applying for the ordinary, entry-level job that she only joked about one day taking. The uplifting phrases that people post to get them through the tedium of everydayness, sharing their solitude with anyone that will listen. The social media activist’s silent call-to-arms from their desk chair soapbox. The exhausting work weeks that lead to fleeting weekends. Everyone seems to be a stranger in a strange world. When I see them, there is a moment of recognition; I recognize the lost because I see it in myself.

I experience the same sinking feeling when I read Fitzgerald’s stories about the crestfallen capitalist or the drunk socialite walking down a street crowded with other lonely people watched over by the all-seeing eyes of Dr. Eckleburg. I feel it when I read stoic Hemingway’s stories of all-too-human heroes, poised and gracefully resigned to fate. It’s in their tone. Between the words there is a sense of bleak acceptance of modern existence and its challenges; a sense of the world being too large and too chaotic for them to understand.

To be “deracinated” means to be torn up by the roots. The Lost Generation was made up of the 1920s’ 20s-somethings, young men and women that were deracinated by World War I. Lives were lost and the ideals of the past were lost with them. Whether or not they had fought on the European front, they were different after the war. The atrocities of war broke them, shattered their once optimistic view of humanity. Their homeland didn’t feel like home, and nowhere else did either. With no roots to secure them, they were free but without any meaning. I wonder, are we Millennials any different now?

We didn’t grow up during a World War, but September 11th had a similar effect on us. Terrorism destroyed our sense of security, of protection, and left us with a pervading feeling of uneasiness and instability. For those of us that were young when the attacks happened, we subconsciously realized that tomorrow was not a given. When we hit college, we started believing that “you only live once” in order to justify decisions today that would leave us with hangovers tomorrow. This is paranoia manifesting itself. Rather than cope with the fact that tomorrow is not promised, we don’t think about it. Furthermore, with technology and media taking such large roles in our lives, we have become hyper-aware. Videos of children strapped with bombs walking into crowds of people have desensitized us. We’ve made empty friendships based off of likes and filtered photos rather than honest conversation and shared silence. The economy is terrible and diplomas don’t assure us of anything. We flail and flounder through self-help blogs that after a while begin to say the same thing.

We are freer now than ever, yet increasingly dissatisfied with everything. We think what we want is more, but what we really want is meaning. In a post-modern world where meaning is assigned by the individual, we crack under the stress and anxiety of trying to determine what it is we want to do. And this cycle will repeat itself until we find a solution like the Lost Generation did.

And so what did the Hemingways and Zeldas do to overcome this meaninglessness? They admitted defeat. They gave up on trying to shape the formless and chaotic future. They stopped looking backwards at the painful past to provide answers for them. All that was left was the present moment and their selfhood, and so they worked with that. If they were going to navigate the modern world, they had to begin with themselves. By turning inward they cultivated rich identities and personas. They began to live for experiences that would shape them as a person. They traveled, drank wine, swam in foreign oceans, and used these experiences to define themselves as unique beings, as innovators that walked on the cutting edge until their feet bled.

But they didn’t stop there. They used these experiences to create. They poured the entirety of their existence into typewriters and found resurrection through catharsis. The war had turned cities to dust and fields to ash. Once the mourning was over, they started anew and created better, grander monuments that were testaments to life for the sake of life. They planted new roots in the burnt fields. They pulled out their splinters and shrapnel and with those sharp pieces built new cathedrals where the old ones had fallen. They treated life like an immense work of art, and because of this, they grew back stronger in the broken places. By expressing themselves through art they saw their true selves. And after all of this turmoil and creation, they glowed like a rising sun that illuminated their generation-wide dark night of the soul.

We must do the same thing if we want to stop feeling lost and directionless. We need to start by discovering ourselves. This process requires us to abandon what society and Facebook tell us we should be doing and instead do what brings us to life, what ignites us. Existence is not going through the motions of comfortable routines. We need to embrace the excitement and fear that comes from exploring unfamiliar places.

So dislodge yourself. Swear off complacency and security and live like a bullfighter, hanging on to each moment as though it were your last. Don’t settle for certainty. If we can do this, we will find and define ourselves. Only then can we create and contribute to the human experience so that others may find themselves as well. Treat your life like a work of art so that when you are gone others can look and see the beauty and bravery of your existence. This process will not be easy, but in the end, I think we will see that it was worth it.

And that's where I'm going from here. As I look on as part of the next Lost Generation, I've decided to take a leap into the unknown.

And by losing myself, maybe I can actually find myself.