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.

You're not really a Nice Guy

You tell us that you’re nice guys, and it’s our fault that you can’t seem to hold our attention.

You tried to prove that chivalry wasn’t dead by holding the door open for us and by paying for an incredibly expensive dinner we didn’t ask for when we were in the bathroom, so we couldn’t even offer to split the bill. You looked disappointed when I squeezed past you to get into the doorway of the popular, crowded café – what, you’re angry I didn’t thank you making sure the door didn’t slam in my face? Would you be upset if there was a man behind you, and he didn’t offer thanks? Would you have held the door for a man in the first place?

I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the ex on the first date, but that should set off warning bells in your head anyway. Maybe I’m not over him, and maybe I claim to be, but anyone keeping score at home could have told you to chalk it up to a frustrating evening and just let me go. The wine I was drinking kept my mind from wandering back to the ex who just wouldn’t stop texting me. The steak was to show you I wasn’t “that girl” who ordered a salad; I was the girl who genuinely wanted you to like me.

And when I realized that I just couldn’t wrap my head around dating the guy in front of me, I tried to make a graceful exit. How graceful it actually was shouldn’t be a matter for discussion, and it shouldn’t be an excuse for you to insult my choices in men. Aren’t you supposed to be a nice guy, after all?

On that note, Mr. Nice Guy, let’s talk about how wonderful you were to me. Sure, you listened to me talk, and gave me your full attention. You say you didn’t expect anything in return, but you clearly expected a goodnight kiss and a second date, since you’re so still so upset about this date days, weeks, months later. If you were really a nice guy, you’d understand that this wasn’t working for me, drown your disappointment in a beer with your buddies tomorrow night, and try another date with another girl next weekend.

You think you get it, explaining my insecurities as a reason for me to consider you once more, when in reality, it just makes you as disgusting to me as the self-proclaimed jerks you hold yourself so highly against. At least with those men, I knew what I was getting myself into. And while we’re on the topic, who the hell are you to judge me? You’re in your thirties and still can’t manage to shave without cutting yourself. Your belt never matches your shoes. You’re so proud of your life accomplishments, but I’ve managed to balance my checkbook and my social choices. Go ahead and show off that fancy new car of yours. That Mustang you love more than anything is the most accomplished thing you will ever have. You’ll be riding in it alone, you know.

As the insults keep coming, my suspicions keep rising. If you know where I’ve been, why did you want to date me in the first place? If you’re so convinced that I don’t need a nice guy, why are you still dwelling on my meager existence? If you’re such a simple guy, find a nice simple girl who’s never dated anyone in her life and will dote on you like a housewife from the ‘50s. They opened doors for women and paid their dinner bills back then – they also discouraged married women from having careers and you know, living their lives. Times were simpler back then.

If you’re so convinced that the only reason I’m interested in you is because I’m washed up, maybe you should step back and re-evaluate your own perfect life with the little accomplishments you’re so proud of. Maybe you’d notice that I’ve grown up and moved on, too, and realized that I was looking for someone I could share my life with, not my bed with. I wasn’t expecting you to be sitting by the phone for me – but since I called you, clearly you’re not finding that “nice girl” you’re looking for, either. I’m glad I’ve taught you some lessons by now, but it’s clear you’ve still got some learning to do.

Bottom line – I thought I was ready to date you, but judging by your frustration, you were never ready to date me. Stop dwelling on my own emotional baggage and learn to unpack your own. You’re not nice, honey, you’re bitter. Stop pushing for pity as The Nice Guy, and start actually becoming one