Known formally as the Aunt Hannah Adventure (or AHA!) Aunt Hannah Camp is my favorite of my grand plans for the future that I dreamed up on an airplane. While I would love to have kids of my own (Hester, Jonathan, Madeleine and Pieter) and my brother is responsible for carrying on our family name, my Southern roots compel me to adopt the children of my friends as my de facto nieces and nephews. They’ll call me Aunt Hannah, I’ll take them to PG-13 movies at age eight, buy them skateboards and generally be the cool aunt every kid deserves—like Auntie Mame, but with fewer parties involving bathtub gin.

Every summer, my nieces and nephews—biological, imaginary and adopted—will gather at my home for one week of creative shenanigans. Ages six to fourteen, bunking down in my living room or tents in the backyard, hopefully having the time of their lives. We’ll do all the typical camp activities—tie-dye, s’mores, multiple rounds of Kumbaya, couple with repeated watching of classic Disney movies, hikes through the neighborhood, scavengers hunts in the grocery store, intense games of Capture the Flag, and a grand performance of a classic musical—I’m thinking “The Sound of Music” for our inaugural production. Girls will have access to my vast collection of Barbies and dress up clothes, while boys can enjoy Legos, a train set and shovels to dig for buried treasure. And of course, if a lad wants to play House and a lass wants to try her hand a piracy, who’s going to stop them? Not Aunt Hannah. She’ll be too busing hunting for gnomes in the garden to protest. Being “Cool Aunt Hannah” is a goal of mine just below being the World’s Best Mom, and I feel like Aunt Hannah Camp, with batches of chocolate chip cookies just out of the oven and unlimited access to crayons and face paint, is a major step towards achieving this goal.

Part of the reason I’m so attached to Aunt Hannah Camp is my own personal nostalgia for my childhood. I grew up in Kentucky, in a neighborhood with a giant park, in a house with a huge backyard that never seemed quiet in the summers. My most vivid memories of my childhood summers involve eight to ten other kids besides my brother and I running free throughout our house from backyard to basement, playing hide and seek and digging ditches underneath our playhouse dressed in whatever costume captured our fancy. My mother would fill big paper bags with popcorn and gallon jugs with lemonade and would occasionally appear on the back porch to take a head count and remind us to include the younger kids and not trample the flower beds in the front yard. The remedy for minor cuts and scrapes was some dirt, a Band-Aid and a hug and a ball thrown over the neighbor’s fence required strategic planning for expeditions that rivaled that of “The Sandlot”. In my memories of my childhood, screams of laughter and sunny afternoons loom large, bringing adjectives like “innocent” and “idyllic” to mind.

And that’s the goal of Aunt Hannah Camp. I want to give my kids, their friends, my nieces and nephews and any other ragamuffin the chance to run wild through the fields of imagination. At Aunt Hannah Camp, the kids can change their names to camp names, be an astronaut or a cowgirl or a sailor, and have memories of trips to the zoo, rainy days at museums and baking soda and vinegar volcanoes dyed bright purple. I want to give my favorite piece of my childhood to my future children. I realized that such a week—from Sunday to Saturday, sunup to sundown and every time in between—would be both exhausting and exhilarating, which is why there is a second part to my plan. When the last child has gone home, the last s’more has been eaten and the last encore of “So Long, Farwell” has faded away, Aunt Hannah will pack her bags and be sent by the grateful, rested parents to a spa in some remote location, where she can have some grown-up camp time, with her eyes closed and a Swedish massage. That’s something Jo March never even considered.

“It takes so little to make a child happy, that it is a pity in a world full of sunshine and pleasant things, that there should be any wistful faces, empty hands, or lonely little hearts.” ― Louisa May Alcott, Little Men

1. One of the biggest dreams of my life is to go on a hot air balloon ride.
2. After having 4 different hairstyles over the past two years, I’ve come to the conclusion that I cannot live without being able to wear my hair in a ponytail.
3. I love carrots and apples and I eat them like they’re going out of style. (Insert horse joke here.)
4. I drink caffeine at night rather than in the morning.
5. I am definitely a morning person.
6. I love naps.
7. I sleep like a champion and require three alarm clocks to wake up in the morning.
8. I someday want to have a week-long summer camp for the children of my friends called the Aunt Hannah Adventure (AHA!) or Aunt Hannah Camp.
9. I’ve wanted to work in museums since I was 15 years old.
10. This summer I got to dress up like a pilgrim.
11. I also got to sleep on the Mayflower II. No big deal.
12. And I spent my working hours playing with books that were at least 200 years old. You shouldn’t feel intimidated by my super librarian skills.

13. I’ve always been last during roll call because my last name starts with a Z, until my high school graduation, when we received our diplomas in height order. (To this day, I have no idea why.)

14. Go Badgers.

15. I’m kind of obsessed with baby pandas.

16. I love writing letters. It’s my favorite way of keeping in touch with people far away…or even next door. A letter is always fun to receive.

17. My favorite book is Little Women. I also love A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and The Giver. Also The Chosen. And The Namesake.

18. Yoga keeps me sane.

19. My favorite bands are The Decemberists, Mumford & Sons and The Swell Season.

20. My celebrity doppelganger, Carey Mulligan, is engaged to the lead singer of one of my favorite bands. Carey’s middle name is also my first name…ooooo spooky.

21. I have really vivid dreams and I almost always remember them.

22. I cannot live without my hairdryer.

23. I really love doing dishes.

24. I’m allergic to cats and liquid hand soap.

25. I also hate Velcro.

26. I’m the only person in my immediate family who is left-handed.

1. 27. I’m a total klutz. I regularly walk into walls. I also have two scars on my knees from a plasma car accident in the middle of the night.

28. My favorite TV show is “How I Met Your Mother” and “The West Wing”.

29. My guilty pleasure TV show is “Grey’s Anatomy.” Also “Friends.”

30. I don’t like fruit-flavored candy. In fact, I really only like dark chocolate.

31. I’d love to learn sign language.

32. My car Nelly the Dream Wagon and I collect bumper stickers.

33. My favorite movie is “Stranger Than Fiction.”

34. I don’t go anywhere without sunglasses. I sometimes even wear them in the rain.

35. I love my home state of Kentucky.

36. Despite this, I’ll probably end up living on the East Coast within the next five years.

37. I love magazines. A lot. But they help me decorate my dorm, so I’m cool with this.

38. I own a Sarah Palin bobble head. (Long story.) I also have small collection of My Little Pony figures. (Longer story.)

39. Mermaids freak me out.

40. If I could have dinner with three people, living, dead or fictional, they would be Tina Fey, Peter Pan and Dolly Parton.

41. I know every word to “Hairspray”. I don’t know how this happened. I also know every line in “Finding Nemo”, but I know that this happened from repeated viewings of this movie.

42. My heroes are Abigail Adams, Nellie Bly and King George VI.

43. I love reading non-fiction. True life is so much better than fake life.

44. The Dewey Decimal System is one of my favorite things in the world.

45. I am hopelessly directionally challenged.

46. My favorite quotation is by Mary Oliver: “I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.”

47. If I were an animated character, I’d be Dory from “Finding Nemo” or the Toaster from “The Brave Little Toaster”.

48. I really want to go to Sweden.

49. My celebrity crushes are Gene Wilder, Michael J. Fox and Andrew Garfield.

50. I love chocolate chip cookies and vanilla pudding.

“It isn’t the great big pleasures that count the most; it’s making a great deal out of the little ones.” –Jean Webster

I didn’t start using a hairdryer until high school. I’d always had long hair, but I never did much with it. I finally realized its merits when I was running late for school, my hair dripping down my back, promising not to be totally dry until second period, when by then it would have been twisted up and out of the way into a bun that would eventually turn into a partially damp tangle of dead cells. Such was my relationship with my hair. So, I started drying my hair. It took forever, but it was a lot better than waiting five hours and leaving water marks everywhere I went. My morning routine got about ten minutes longer, but I gained valuable time to think, plot out my day and review for whatever test I had studied for the night before.

By the time I graduated from high school, my hair was almost to my elbows and my hairdryer was my best friend. Then, two weeks after graduation, I cut my hair to shoulder length, just because I could. I bought a fold-up travel hairdryer to get me through college and I was set. Midway through my first semester of freshman year, my dryer began to smoke one morning, giving off enough fumes that I worried it would catch the attention of the Resident Assistant across the hall, who might then think that my roommate and I were burning contraband candles or much worse. So my mini dryer was haphazardly thrown into the hall trashcan and I substituted by borrowing one of my friend’s every morning and running it back and forth between her room and mine.

After Christmas break, I purchased my current model, to complement a new actual hairstyle with shape and body that required careful drying in order to actually look like hair and not like a leftover hobbit wig from the Lord of the Rings movies. It was sleek and black, didn’t give the impression it was going to burst into flames at a moment’s notice and had a nifty attachment that made my thin brown hair actually shiny and smooth like the box promised. With the purchase of this hair dryer, I, a self-proclaimed girl of simple needs, became high-maintenance. I would blow dry my hair if I was running from a fire, taking out the trash or heading to church. If I was given three things to take to a desert island, I would have taken a raft, a book and my hairdryer, hands down.  Hey, if a girl has a chance of meeting Captain Jack Sparrow on the high seas, she’d better make sure she has amazing hair.

But somehow my hair-appliance fanaticism helped me through my OCD-induced worries and gave me some of the self-confidence that I desperately needed. When I found myself stranded at strange airports due to bad weather and cancelled flights several times during my sophomore year, I comforted myself with the fact that if I was forced to live a Tom Hanks-esque existence in an airport terminal for weeks to come, at least my hair would look fantastic because I wouldn’t have to dry it under the public bathroom hand dryers as long as I had my trusty hairdryer by my side. When I impulsively chopped off eight inches of my long locks into a pixie cut just after my 20^th birthday, the soft whine of my hairdryer masked the sound of my tears when I realized just how little hair I had left to dry. It provided me with a constant activity when I felt adrift during my first summer of living completely on my own, something I did every morning, just as regularly as getting dressed and brushing my teeth. It made my hair look fabulous during the awkward growing out stage, as my hair slowly but steadily grew past my earlobes to my shoulders. And so, just like clockwork, every morning a little past 7am, I reach for my hairdryer as I force my eyes to open wide enough for me to see where to part my hair. My hairdryer warmed up my head during the week-long cold water shortage when I showered just long enough to wash my hair. It gives me something to do, a simple task that is the same every morning no matter where I am. In the morning, my hairdryer is my best friend. It’s always the last thing I put into my suitcase and the first thing I take out. It’s the only power tool I know how to use. With the help of my hairdryer, I don’t need coffee, or a shoulder to cry on. I just need to flip on the on switch and turn my head upside down and let gravity and my Conair 1875 take care of the rest.

“How can I control my life if I can’t control my hair?” –Anonymous

1. Prince Harry—cheeky chap that he is
2.  The tiny bridesmaids and pages
3.  THE DRESS
4. Watching the Queen and Prince Philip try to get into the Glass Coach.
5. THE HATS
6. The presence of Elton John and the no-show Kanye West
7. When the ring almost didn’t fit
8. The fact that both Wills and Harry were wearing spurs
9. The Queen and Prince Philip are still adorable. He looked so spiffy in his uniform and the queen had a blanket on her lap in the car. I love them.
10. The trees inside the Abbey

However, I’ve also learned that taking a road trip by yourself is a lot like being a hamster trapped in one of those clear plastic balls. You’re all alone in your little bubble, but you can see everyone and everything around you and you think that by moving as fast as you can, you’ll eventually get to rejoin the world. These periods of scrabbling around, propelling yourself forward or in circles, are interspersed with points where you’re just exhausted, gasping for breath and wanting desperately to escape from the sphere in which you’ve been enclosed.

I recently discovered what it feels like to be a hamster on my drive back to school after Spring Break. It was the first time my sweet car Nelly and I spent nine hours together uninterrupted by the presence of other passengers. Don’t get me wrong—I love having company. It’s fun to have someone to chat with and help choose the music. But this time I was curious about how I would deal with nine straight hours on the highway. I prepared two iPods, all of my favorite road trip snacks and even remembered to put Band-Aids in my purse (I’m prone to cuts and scrapes even in enclosed spaces). Then I loaded Nelly up with all of my birthday loot, plus my new fern named Polly, and set off into the sunrise, with nine hours of solitary driving in front of me. Here’s how it went.

*****************************************************************

HOUR ONE: First things first: caramel macchiato and a banana bran muffin. Everyone knows that coffee gives you vim and vigor early in the morning. Wow, this is a great playlist! I put some really fantastic songs on here! Driving has never been this much fun. I could do this for hours…heehee, I get to do this for hours! This isn’t so bad. This is going to be fun! Just me and the open road, like Jack Kerouac or Helen Thayer or someone. How exciting is this? Whoever said driving is boring has clearly never taken a road trip like this.

HOUR TWO: Kentucky is so beautiful just after the sunrise. How lucky am I that I get to watch the world wake up today? Heehee, I’m driving South, so the Sun is on my left shoulder, like a giant flaming friend keeping me company from 93 million miles away. Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me!!! Why is the sun traditionally male while the moon is traditionally female?  This discussion is much too complicated for 8am, because it probably will involve complicated things like Greek mythology, NASA and also possibly Einstein.  I’ll have to save this thought for later in the day, when things have mellowed out a little bit. Ha—there’s the “HELL IS REAL” billboard. I’m glad I didn’t miss that. Kentucky’s such a funny little state. Or medium sized state. I guess it’s more medium than little. OH LOOK—COWS!

HOUR THREE:  Ooh, “Feeling Good”!  I love this song! It describes exactly how I feel right now. I’m driving through Nashville, I’m making progress and the car in front of me has funny bumper stickers. I wonder what the cars behind me think of my bumper stickers. Some of them only make sense to me, so I hope they don’t think I’m too out of touch with reality. Oh, look! “Just Married—Spencer loves Lucy”. That’s so cute! I wonder if they just got married yesterday. Spencer and Lucy are good names too. I bet they’ll have cute children. They’ll probably give them traditional names, like Caleb and Andrew and Ella and Maura. Omigosh, that’ll be such an adorable family! I hope my family is cute like that one day. Except I don’t know that I’d use the name Maura. It seems like it would be misspelled a lot. I’ll have to re-think my children’s names then. I’d name one of my children Nelly, but I’ve already used that name for my car. It’s okay, though, Nelly, because you are a Nelly. You have character. You have perseverance. You are indefatigable. Just like me. We make such a good road trip team. Three hours is nothing, so the next six can’t be all that bad.

HOUR FOUR: Why is the sun so bright? Why is my coffee gone? Why am I just now driving into Alabama? Why does my left kneecap hurt when I haven’t been using it?  Are the other drivers on the road judging me for dancing so I can stay awake? Have I listened to Cee Lo Green too much already? Is it possible to listen to too much Cee Lo? If I could take a road trip with three other people, living or dead, who would I chose? Who told me that taking a solitary road trip would be fun? Were they insane? Was I insane? Am I going insane? Should I even try to answer that question?

HOUR FIVE:   So this is what fresh air smells like…look! People! Outside of cars! I can listen to their conversations while I pump gas! I can also regain the feeling in my fingers. This travel plaza is like the Mecca for travelers on I-65. It’s got everything. Even the Denny’s looks inviting. But not so inviting that I would actually eat there. And they have showers for the truckers. At least there’s coffee. Coffee is so delicious. It makes me feel human again. Let’s hit the road again, Nelly. Are you ready for Alabama? Or better yet…is Alabama ready for us?

HOUR SIX: What was I thinking when I put these songs together on this playlist? So. Much. “Glee”. Why so much “Glee”? I need to wake up. Let’s crank up some palate-cleansing Joni Mitchell. Joni knows what it’s like to go through hard times by yourself, with nothing but a car and a houseplant. She’s been there. She’s a soul sister. Ah. There. That’s much better. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale…

I’m getting a blister.

HOUR SEVEN: Am I there yet? Am I there yet? Am I there yet? Okay, that’s an annoying thought. Let’s get rid of that one. What are you going to do this summer? Oh no, that’s much too close. Can’t think about that. Too much reality in NELLY THE DREAM WAGON. Okay, how about this: What are you going to do after graduation? That’s a whole 14 months away, that’s like forever. There are lots of good options out there. Graduate school seems nice. But expensive (Dangnabbit, li’l shoulder devil! Quit being realistic!) Maybe I’ll put off going to grad school for a year or two. Do some traveling. What do you think, Nelly, could we take on the Yukon? Or maybe I will join the Peace Corps. Or the Park Service. Or I could teach kindergarten. Maybe I’ll write a book about my zany college years! I could call it: The Terrible True Adventures of a Wide-Eyed Coed. That’s a catchy title. I could write it in haiku. But it probably wouldn’t get published. I should probably live more before I write a book. I should put off the real, dog-eat-dog world for a little bit longer. Maybe I will go to grad school…and why can’t it be Mother Sun and Father Moon?

HOUR EIGHT: Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer, take one down and pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall…

Twenty minutes later: I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts, deedle-dee-dee, there they are all standing in the road, dum dum dum…

Ten minutes later: I’m Henery the Eighth I am, Henery the Eighth I am, I am…

Ten minutes after that: And I-aiee will always love you-ooo (I’m talking to you, Nelly. And you too, Polly. My heart will always go on, you know it will.)

HOUR NINE: 40…more…miles…I can make it. Is this what the Donner Party felt like? I’m out of coffee. And granola bars. All I have left is a pack of gum and some almonds. Please, Exit 4. I’m begging you. Just show up already. If I can just make it to Exit 4, everything will be okay. This nightmare can end. Life can return to normal. Just FYI, Polly, this car is not your new home. No, your new home is so much better than this. You’ll like it on the windowsill. It’s very roomy, if you don’t count the picture frames and the postcard of Princes William and Harry. And the garden gnomes and the pinecones and the Sarah Palin bobblehead and the slinky. And the play-doh. Plus, it gets a lot of sunlight and you’ll have a nice view of your new pal Nelly and the rest of the antics in the parking lot. I promise I’ll try to remember to give you lots of water and love. And if I forget to water you, just know that you were loved. I mean, you’ve been there for me for the past 613 miles. You didn’t complain about the two straight hours of Joni Mitchell or the 14 times I listened to Tik Tok (that was a low point, don’t judge me for that). And here we are—exit 13. WE’RE SO CLOSE I CAN ALMOST TASTE IT. WE CAN MAKE IT. Come on, Nelly. Just a little bit farther and then you can hang out with your parking lot pals. Omigosh. I thought this moment would never come. There’s Exit 4! Unless it’s just a mirage. Please don’t be a mirage, please be real, please be real…

***************************************************************************

I turn off the highway onto a more familiar stretch of road. As I turn onto campus, everything seems like a dream. It already feels like I’ve never left. Everything seems like a normal Sunday afternoon. My usual spot is open and I guide Nelly into the space and turn the key. I made it. We all made it. I did it. I drove 623 miles alone. I have no idea what just happened. I feel like I could run a marathon. Or take a seven hour nap. Hmm. Well. This was…fun. We should spend more time together, Self. We’ll just ignore that whole Ke$ha thing. What happens on the road stays on the road. It’s a good thing Nelly can’t talk.

“The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”  –St. Augustine

Let me explain. My high school prom was held in the convention center in May 2008, the height of the primary run during that election season. Hillary Clinton was holding a rally in an exhibit hall while 250 high school girls and their dates danced the night away in the ballroom. Someone, either an adolescent prankster or a hard-core political type, pulled the fire alarm, forcing high schoolers and campaigners to flood the sidewalks outside the building and mingle with the protestors and limo drivers. Somewhere, between dancing and sitting on my purse on the sidewalk, I tripped over my own feet and either severely sprained or broke the second toe on my right foot. Because I am just that graceful. Honestly, though, while some of my classmates complained and cried that Hillary Clinton had ruined their night of nights, it made my prom all the more exciting, simply because I wasn’t that excited about prom to begin with.

I know, I know. Prom is supposed to be the highlight of a girl’s senior year. But for some unknown reason, I hated dances. I didn’t like crowded rooms with lots of people (claustrophobia), I didn’t like loud music (ligyrophobia or melophobia) and I really didn’t like it when all those things collided. I attended exactly two dances during my entire high school career—our costume dance junior year dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz (my best friend was the Scarecrow) and my senior prom. It must be said that I did not and do not hate dancing. I quite enjoy it actually. In fact, my Dorothy costume was a relic from my eleven years of ballet school. I don’t know why school dances seemed so horrible to me. I would rather stay home and pumice my feet or something, I guess.

But back to prom. What does prom mean anyway? Allegedly, it’s short for promenade, which is basically a glorified stroll. So how did it come to be associated with a fundamental right of passage? But I digress. I went to prom for three reasons. Reason Number One: Everyone else was doing it. All my friends were going. I might as well go. I was only going to lose six hours of my life or so, and it seemed at least slightly more fun than studying for final exams. Reason Number Two: I was going to have to give the school $105 anyway, so I might as well get a meal out of it. Reason Number Three: I didn’t want to tell my daughter in 30 years that I didn’t go to my prom. It seemed so important to so many people, so I might as well see what all the fuss was about.

And then I broke my toe. Which made the evening infinitely more enjoyable. I don’t remember what we ate for dinner, and I only know our colors were purple and white because I thought it ironic that my prom’s colors would shortly be my college colors. I remember dancing and laughing and taking the requisite pictures with favorite teachers. One of my best friends and I had decided to stop looking for dates because it was too stressful, so we just hung out with each other and our friends and their dates, taking all the pressure out of the situation. I wore a dress I had purchased at a vintage clothing store for $15 the previous year, and I wore my hair out of its usual messy bun, just for the special occasion. All of my friends were in a flutter about flowers, but someone handed me a dandelion and I was set. In short, I didn’t consider my prom to be worth anything special because it was going to be special no matter what I did. I put in just enough effort and then I just had fun. So really, I ultimately succumbed to the ideal of prom: dress up, go out, be crazy with your friends. One last night of youthful fun before graduation and college and real life.

Prom isn’t my favorite high school memory but it’s one of my most ridiculous. Why? Because at my high school prom, I broke my toe and someone at the Hillary Clinton rally pulled the fire alarm. Yeah, that’s right. My prom story kicks your prom story’s ass. Night of my life until that point? Probably not. But on the other hand, every night afterwards has to top a fire alarm, a Clinton and a broken toe. And that makes going to my prom totally worth it.

“Chaperones don’t enforce morality; they force immorality to be discreet.” –Judith Martin

One rainy Sunday afternoon I found myself in charge of 70 or so school age children.  We were in a gymnasium, and I knew that if I didn’t come up with an idea before long – pure chaos would ensue.  At that very moment I remembered a game – an old roll playing game called Wizards, Giants and Goblins.  So I got my charges to calm down (no easy feat, thank you very much), and I explained the rules of the game:

“Now,” I proclaimed, “if you wish to be a Giant, stand at the front of the room.  If you wish to be a Wizard, stand in the middle.  And those who wish to be Goblins stand toward the back.  All right, let the play begin.”  I allowed the children several minutes to confer in huddled masses until the action resumed.

As I was standing there I felt I tug on my coat.  When I looked down, there was a little girl with blue, questioning eyes.

” ‘Scuse me.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Scuse me, but where do the mermaids stand?”

“Mermaids? Mermaids?” I sputtered.  “There are no mermaids.”

“Oh, yes there are.  For you see, I’m a mermaid, and I wish to know where to stand.”

Now here was a little girl who knew exactly what she was – a mermaid, pure and simple and she wanted to know where to stand.  And, she wouldn’t be satisfied standing on the sidelines watching the others play.  She had her place, and she wanted to know where to stand.

But, where do the mermaids stand? – all those children we try to mold and form to fit into our boxes.

Sometimes, I have moments of inspiration.  I looked down at that child, and I held her hand -”Why the mermaid shall stand next to The King of the Sea.” (Yeah, King of the Fools would be more likely.)

So, we stood together – the mermaid and the King of the Sea – as the Wizards, Giants and Goblins roiled by in grand procession.  It isn’t true, by the way, what they say about mermaids not existing.  I know they do for I’ve held one’s hand.

Now, this is a delightful story. It’s about childhood individuality, something that I believe in strongly. It’s also about a young female who insists that she be given her proper place in the world, something else that I’m all for. But every time I read this story, I can’t help but wish she wanted to be something other than a mermaid. I’ve only recently figured out why this is so and I feel the need to ‘fess up, and get it out of my system. So here goes.

Mermaids freak me out.

I realize this may alienate some fans of “The Little Mermaid”, but I actually feel much better. What is the deal with mermaids? Are they people? Are they fish? And mermen—seriously? Ethel Merman was a great entertainer but I honestly don’t see why her name must be bastardized for the sake of finding a male counterpart to Ariel’s species. The word “mermaid” isn’t even that bad, but the concept of being half-human, half-fish just disturbs me. No wonder Ariel wanted legs—she was tired of her lifelong species confusion.

I honestly don’t know why I have such an aversion to the idea of mermaids. Maybe it’s because I don’t really like fish (other than the characters of “Finding Nemo”) and I don’t really like swimming (unless I’m in the ocean). Maybe it’s because I never understood the movie “Splash”. Honestly, Tom Hanks? After Daryl Hannah goes to all that trouble to learn how to walk and talk and everything, you’re going to learn how to become a fish person so you can be together? The woman spent an entire day in front of the television just so she could figure out how to form coherent sentences, and you want to waste that talent by going to live under the sea with Sebastian? I don’t buy it. I can suspend disbelief to believe in witches and wizards, fairies and unicorns, Ents and dwarves and hobbits, but I do not get the mermaid thing. It just freaks me out. Centaurs and satyrs and fauns too—please, pick a species. Except you, Mr. Tumnus. You keep wearing your scarf and hanging out around lampposts.

My first memory is making an eyelash wish that I could be Tinkerbell. When I was four, my mother asked me who I loved the most, fairies or Jesus, and I innocently answered fairies. I was more upset when I found out about the Tooth Fairy than when I found out about Santa. I’ve always loved Peter Pan and the idea of Neverland. J.M. Barrie even includes a mermaid’s lagoon in his book, about which Wendy is very excited, but I always wanted to hear more about the fairy kingdom. Magic dust that helps you to fly with an infusion of happy thoughts, living in a tree top, knowing that you never have to grow up—it always seemed so pleasant to me. And so sparkly. Fairy dust is basically just magical glitter, and I love all things shiny.

So, if I had been one of the children with Robert Fulghum, I suppose I would have insisted that fairies also be given a place in the game. Someone else might have insisted upon pirates. Or ninjas. Or squirrels.  And ultimately, that’s the thing about Fulghum’s story. As children, we are usually pretty confident of our identities. It’s only when people try to tell us who we should grow up to be that we start to wonder who we really are. And that’s a shame, really. Life is much more fun when populated by wizards and giants and goblins and fairies and gnomes and yes, even mermaids. I know that I will always feel a little more akin to Tinkerbell than Ariel, but it takes all kinds to make a world. And every world needs a little magic.
“Magic is believing in yourself. If you can do that, you can make anything happen.” –Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Six hours into Christmas break, loaded down with trinkets and treasures for everyone I’ve ever met, I approach the one security checkpoint line at my college town’s provincial airport. It’s just me, the wide-eyed coed carrying the maximum number of bags allowed aboard an aircraft and a dozen business people who seem to have invisible luggage. I try to blend in, but I keep tripping over my shoelaces as I attempt to toss them into a plastic bin along with my keys and laptop. While they glide effortlessly past like so many swans, I’m forced to be the ugly duckling in a winter coat I need for my destination but not for the current setting (temperature 79 degrees and rising). I maneuver my bags onto the conveyer belt, locate my boarding pass and photo id and tiptoe gingerly through the scanner, ignoring the idea that my feet are making contact with the unidentifiable stains left by previous travelers. And then it happens: A TSA agent notices me. She looks official in the way that only airport security can, with a navy blue shirt with so many pockets and insignia that I’m completely unaware that she’s holding a wand scanner until she brandishes it front of me. Ohpleasedeargodno. Not this humiliation. Not in front of the Blackberry Wielders.  I just want to make my flight. I just want to go home and experience holiday cheer with my dignity still intact. I never did anything to deserve this. I pay taxes, I vote, I limit my carry-on items to one bag and one personal item. I promise I’m a good person.

“Is your bag the orange one?” Wand Lady gives me a look that tells me she has perfected x-ray vision, the perfect reasoning for her title of Employee of the Month.

“Actually, the color is persimmon, but yeah, it’s mine.”

“I’m going to have to give it another look-over.” She tears it from the scanner and dumps the contents on the counter, poking through the detritus with the wand until she finds my wallet. My green, perfectly organized wallet. She hefts it, then opens it, looking up at me in disgust as she openly judges me for my collection of movie ticket stubs. I hope she sees my frequent flyer card so she can tell that I’m a serious traveler, albeit one who can’t remember to wear slip-on shoes for security.

“You have change. It’s setting off the scanner. I’m going to have to send it back through.”

I have change. This is not news, and should be no big deal, right? Right? But she stops the line. She pushes all of the bags on the conveyer belt out of the way of my measly, normal-sized wallet jangling with monetary contraband. She scrutinizes every detail on the overhead screen as if performing complicated word problems about organization of my dollar bills. The Blackberry Wielders sigh, and shift from one foot to the other, and glare at me as though I am the reason that they will not be able to make a call to Sweden before the market closes and their plane takes off.

“I’m sorry!” I want to shout. “I’m sorry I like to keep the state quarters from the places I’ve travelled recently with me at all times until I can return to my childhood bedroom and press them into the commemorative map that has been gathering dust in the back of my closet since the 7^th grade. I’m sorry I don’t use exact change at all times, so I can rid myself of these useless pennies before the U.S. Mint eliminates them forever! Please, kindly TSA agent, take all the time you need to separate my copious loose change by value and then by year so that you can make sure they won’t explode in the middle of the flight that is scheduled to take off in 26 minutes roughly two football fields away. I don’t have anywhere better to be. My connecting flight will certainly wait while you accomplish this task.”

After sending my poor wallet through the equivalent of two strip searches and three x-rays, the agent finally seems satisfied that FDR has no intention of jumping off of my dimes and performing an in-flight striptease and returns my wallet to my possession. I can hear it quietly weeping from the indignities it has suffered—especially now that the offending coins are so jumbled that the zippered compartment containing them will no longer close properly. The crowd of disgruntled Blackberry Wielders has lessened, leaving behind only the memory of their snickers at the naiveté of someone who doesn’t know that carrying more than $1.47 in change is unacceptable once past the ticket counters. I return my battered wallet to its rightful home in the depths of my purse, first checking to be sure that the agent didn’t “accidentally” confiscate my Wendy’s card for Free Frosty Fridays in the process. Then, with my head held high, I collect my strewn shoes, jacket, scarf, People magazine and 3oz Ziploc plastic bag of toiletries and make my way to Gate 7B, hoping against hope that I have a window seat next to a Buddhist monk who has taken a year-long vow of silence that will prevent him from asking any questions about the range of a marshmallow bazooka and whether or not a slanket really is superior to a snuggie. Because really, I might just whack the man with my overburdened wallet and hope that the gentle tinkle of my change reminds him of his abiding need to meditate for the remainder of the flight.

“When you think about flying, it’s nuts really.  Here you are at about 40,000 feet, screaming along at 700 miles an hour and you’re sitting there drinking Diet Pepsi and eating peanuts.  It just doesn’t make any sense.” –David Letterman

Happy Halloween!

2007: Who is She?

She is adventurous, sailing the sea of life with more than a few waves. She is impatient, always ready to move on to the next big challenge. She is a dreamer, creating castles on the air of what she wishes her life to be, knowing that some may never be fulfilled, but willing to believe in the beauty of her dreams. She wishes she could stay just as she is, but realizes that the time to take the next step of her journey is swiftly coming. She is a student, a lover of history, with a voracious appetite for knowledge. She worries that she will disappoint those who are closest to her. She wonders what God’s plan for her is and hopes that it will soon be revealed. She is ENFJ-Extroverted, Intuitive, Feeling and Judging. She is a hidden introvert, afraid of loud noises, with a dislike of the crowds where she often finds herself on the edge. She is a musician, creating a symphony from the notes of her days. She is a sprite, lively, laughing, loving, ever-ready to give a hug, with a never-ending smile. She puts pressure on herself to live up to the expectations she feels people have for her. She is a palindrome, looking from the end to see the beginning. She is ever-changing, always optimistic, always joyful. She lives in the moment. She is beautiful.

2010: Who is She?

Starting at the basics, she is a daughter. A sister. A friend. A student. A girl. For all her confidence on the outside, she feels vulnerable and lost much of the time, second-guessing many of her decisions and actions. She lives in the constant uncertainty of becoming someone she dislikes or who is disliked by others. She loves staying up late and getting up early, and depends on naps to get her through the week. She hates being sick, but somehow manages to always catch something just when it’s the most inconvenient. She has one biological sibling, a hilarious Sibling-Creature who will one day rule the world. Her sister is not related to her but rather was mutually adopted on a school bus somewhere in the middle of nowhere early in the morning. Her family is everything, and as of today, she gets to see them sooner rather than later. Her friendships often feel like extensions of her family, a feeling that she relies on when she’s far away from home.

After moving to the “Deep South” two and a half years ago, she’s become accustomed to the major cultural differences. Grits and gravy over casseroles, football over basketball and unsweet tea over sweet tea have all become facts of life, and she now understands that a mention of horse racing, expressways and Benedictine will just cause eyes to glaze over with disinterest or confusion. She feels that she’s found a place on her college campus, but sometimes feels unsettled by the changes that occur each year.

The things she wants to do are often complicated and contradictory. She wants to stay at home, but travel the world. She wants to try new things, but nothing too outrageous. She is a palindrome, able to be understood backwards and forwards. She probably cares about what other people think too much for her own good. She doesn’t want to come off as too proud of her accomplishments and she doesn’t want to seem too self-indulgent. She tries not to let others define her, but sometimes ends up defining herself by what others say about her. She suffers from at least one major crisis of identity per year, when she doubts herself, her gifts, her dreams and life goals. She knows and believes that she can do, achieve, be whoever and whatever she wants to. She works hard when she really wants something, because hard work makes something worthwhile.

She likes to be alone, but she sometimes gets lonely in a crowd. She lives too much in her head, internalizing her feelings until she feels like she’s going to explode. She doesn’t like burdening other people with her problems, choosing instead to try to help others with theirs in the hope that her own troubles will be forgotten. She believes in maintaining a childlike sense of wonder. It’s the reason why she loves Pixar movies so much. Even though she’s not necessarily in the targeted age range, she can still learn something from the sweet, colorful stories. Sentimentality and nostalgia from time to time make her happy.

Two of the things she is most proud of have all come in the past six months. They are things she and others have termed Brave Things, although they sometimes seem small and insignificant. First, she cut her hair. This should be ordinary, run of the mill, nothing special. But until she cut her hair she had no idea how much she felt defined by it, how much she liked to hide behind it. Without it, she looked at herself differently, in excruciating detail, inside and out, analyzing her aspect of her life. When the analysis was complete, the microscope packed away and the hair already starting to grow back, she decided that she really did like herself and skipped merrily off into her next great adventure. Or so she would have liked. Her summer internship was undeniably the coolest thing she’s ever done (in her humble opinion) and yet before she began, she retreated once again into fear and scrutiny. Thankfully, this didn’t last very long. Instead, she took Woody Allen’s advice and masked her incompetence by plunging in with enthusiasm. It was the best thing she’d ever done. She knew for certain that what she wanted to do with her life was really for her and tries harder to prevent nagging fear and doubt from invading her life and taking over her mind. To her, her dream is true.

She has known she wanted to teach history since she was fifteen years old and walked into sophomore American history. Of course, it could be traced back to her childhood love of the movie “Johnny Tremain”, but sophomore history sealed the deal. Now, the medium of teaching has changed, but the dream of learning about the past remains the same. She refuses to be daunted by the idea that “those who can, do and those who can’t, teach.” The teachers she has had have proved this adage to be wrong time and time again. Her passion for history and museums may seem strange and boring to some, but the stories she finds in the past are so exciting that for once it doesn’t matter to her what other people think. Every day on the calendar has a past, present and future and because she lives in the present and hopes to know the future, only the past remains elusive until she learns its stories. Her life is an extension of past lives and work. History is her dream.

She has other dreams too, of course. She wants to ride in a hot air balloon and witness the Olympic Games. She wants to visit all 50 states, and every province in Canada. She wants to hug a panda and visit the statue of Peter Pan in Kensington Garden. She wants to be a good person, to love and be loved. She wants to give and contribute to the world. She wants to teach a child how to ride a bike and tie their shoes the left-handed way. She doesn’t dream of sailing around the world or climbing Mt. Everest. She’d rather hold the original Declaration of Independence and visit the Crayola factory again.

She doesn’t like to do things wrong. Growing up, she usually didn’t break the rules and she did what was expected of her. She has never questioned this because she doesn’t want to know what would have happened if she had bucked authority. Her overactive imagination helps enough with that. Although she has questioned some of her decisions, she only regrets not following through with her Senior Prank idea.

She believes in magic, fairies, the power of prayer and chocolate, luck and smiles. She remains an ENFJ and thinks that these letters actually are a pretty good definition of her personality. She loves Spring and Autumn, both beginnings in their own way. Carrots and vanilla pudding can make any ordinary day special. Her favorite holiday is unabashedly the Fourth of July and although vastly historically inaccurate, “Pocahontas” is her favorite Disney soundtrack. The movie Stranger Than Fiction always makes her cry, because living your life seems so beautiful when broken down into the mundane and marvelous. She believes in doing what brings joy and using optimism to change reality, using imagination to create dream spaces. She has no idea how to live in the real world, or the so-called grown-up world but relishes the excitement of the journey. Her imperfections make her perfect. She is a sprite, lively and laughing, a lover of children and animals and daisies. She wouldn’t change anything because she believes herself to be beautiful and she knows her life is wonderful.

La Vita è bella.

“The stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own.” –Mary Oliver