My town

Last week, I needed just one thing: something to counter the beginning-of-summer slowdown at work. You all know how well I handle boredom (a.k.a, not well), and my sanity was calling for something exciting to keep itself intact.

Luckily, Elk Ridge Days (which, apparently, is a thing now) was last weekend. Immersion in a nice, friendly crowd and a couple of countrified meals was just the thing I needed to wipe the painful memories of workplace inactivity from my mind.

The parade was nice and short, with a few more glamorous floats than we've been treated to in the past. The bluegrass band didn't arrogantly turn up the mics so everyone within 20 miles could hear their tunes, but rather kept the volume to a perfect background-noise level so we could eat our pulled-pork sandwiches and chat without damaging our vocal cords. I easily could have parted with hundreds of dollars on jewelry and handcrafted wooden things at the country fair. There was even a Tilt-a-Whirl type ride (shaped like a strawberry) at the park. 

And to top it all off, the weather was perfect.

But the best part of the whole celebration was the rampant Elk Ridge-ness. I've been to other city celebrations and while they're all unique and charming in their own way, they're also loud, overcrowded, and infested with cigarette smoke. Elk Ridge, even after 30 years of human habitation, can still put on a celebration without overwhelming its residents and bringing out the miscreants. 

I knew I had a good thing going while I was growing up here. But it's an even bigger blessing, perhaps, that every time I come back for a visit, everything is the same as I left it. This place continues to attract and breed good, down-to-earth people. There are still no sidewalks on the roads. It's still quiet and peaceful, and the stars are always easy to find at night. 

Sure, there are houses in places that used to be weedy fields, and occasionally another pointless stop sign will unexpectedly appear, but Elk Ridge is still Elk Ridge. It still feels like the home I grew up in, even though I belong somewhere else now. Those mountains are always there to welcome me back when I turn onto Elk Ridge Drive, completely forgiving of the fact that I stopped growing there and had to move somewhere else. This town doesn't resent the fact that I have another home now; rather, it's always there to be the home I remember, whenever I need it.

Elk Ridge is pretty great like that.

A list post, just because

• I've not had much desire to write anything non-journal-related since graduation. But I can still manage a list post, at least.
• Besides, work is horribly slow right now and I've exhausted all my other methods of pretending to be busy. I wish the insanity of July–September would just get here already.
• I'm also listening to music, something I don't usually do at work because it's distracting. Currently, "Shape of My Heart" by the Backstreet Boys is playing, which keeps making me think about a certain roommate party.
• I got 9 O.W.L.s this year, one of which I got an Outstanding on. Yay me.
• Since Harry Potter World was seriously lacking in Ravenclaw paraphernalia, I bought a Ravenclaw t-shirt online when we got home. I'm wearing it on Friday and I'm very excited.
• Yesterday I made stuffed peppers for dinner. They were pretty tasty, but I had to eat a large bowl of ice cream afterward to make up for the fact that my dinner consisted almost solely of vegetables and I felt deprived.
• I watched the Girl Meets World pilot the other day. I get that the show is targeted to a generation that can't fathom a world without internet and cell phones with cameras on them, but I still wish they would have just rebooted Boy Meets World instead of making a sequel show.
• I always forget how expensive oil changes at Jiffy Lube are. Yes, they treat you like a queen and they clean your car for you, but chivalry doesn't count when they overcharge you $30 for it.
• The window on the driver's side of my car is the only one that rolls down now, thus depriving me of one of my favorite things about summer—evening drives with all four windows rolled down.

A liminal space in Florida

Liminal space is a term you learn early on if you're an English major. Essentially, it means a point between two spaces. It can be a physical space that separates one world from another, a pivotal moment in someone's growth as a person, or even—and I may be stretching the definition a bit here—a pause in time.

My recent trip to Florida was a liminal space for me. For 11 days I rode roller coasters, played in the water, and ate lots and lots of food that I didn't have to prepare.

When we left it was still May. Now, it's not just June; we're in the double digits already. It always surprises me when I get back from vacation that nothing stopped while I was gone; mail was still delivered, emails still came in, people still went to work. It's like I lost a week and a half of my life; it went on as normal, but I was somewhere else while it happened.

Which is the whole point of going on vacation, of course.

This particular trip was special, because it was the first time the entire Carter clan has vacationed together since the kids started getting married. Eleven people in all, forced to hang out with each other for 11 days.

• We mastered the child swap/fast pass systems to take most of the line-standing out of six amusement-park-themed days.
• None of us learned to like Florida's drinking water, though.
• So. Many. People.
• Most of us experienced for the first time the fiery inferno that is heat + humidity (though luckily, the worst of it waited until the last three days). I have new sympathy for the Wicked Witch of the West.
• We ate too much food, of course. I gained a whopping 7 pounds on this vacation, despite all the extra walking and melting.
• Some of us enjoyed Harry Potter world more than others. And some of us mourned that we came all the way to Florida only to miss the Diagon Alley expansion by a few weeks. And that there wasn't very much Ravenclaw stuff. Not everyone wants to be a Gryffindor or Slytherin, you know.
• There's no way we'll stay in a hotel during future Carter vacations. Staying in a house with a private pool and jacuzzi spoiled us for good. Now, if we could just find a house that actually had comfortable beds. . . .
• Some of us went from having no desire to go snorkeling to thinking it was pretty cool. Okay, awesome.
• And Florida's ocean is so, so warm.
• Having two 2-year-olds around made the trip more fun for everyone. Except perhaps their parents.

And the best part is, we made our triumphal return to properly dry air without killing each other. Accompanied by thousands of hours of video footage to document every stage of our journey. Maybe I'll share some of it in another post, because that's another great thing about vacations—making everyone else jealous of your good time.

Dream diary: Part 3

Do you ever get excited to go to sleep so you can find out what your next dream will be about? I do.

Jews and Nazis
The Nazis have taken over America and they will arrest you if you so much as look at a Jew. I let a Jew cut my hair because she was desperate (for money, I think, but I don't remember paying her), and eventually I got caught. My punishment was to have my birthdate tattooed on my arm and to be deprived of my walks for five years. Oh, and I had to go back to Domino's, of course, and Dad had to chaperone me on all of my deliveries. Which means he got all the tips.

Personal Revelation
A girl in my ward went to the temple with some heavy questions, and this is the answer she got: 8:17. Later that night, at exactly 8:17 p.m., a mysterious stranger (I think it was one of my uncles) told her to eat pasta. All of her problems were solved.

Once Upon a Family Reunion
I'm at a family reunion, only everyone is a fairy tale character, and none of us are actually related. (I never said my dreams made sense.) I think I was Belle, because Rumplestilkson Rumplestiltskin Rumple was always after me. Everyone was watching The Wizard of Oz in a room full of green food.

An Adventure with Brandon Sanderson
I was assigned to complete a super-secret quest, and who better to be my partner in crime than Brandon Sanderson? Although he didn't look like himself at all—he looked more like . . . the kind of guy who would star in a Hollywood adventure-quest movie. Our mission was to find an object hidden on a hill like the one Pacha lives on in The Emperor's New Groove. Magical guns and police-like fairies were involved. And I wanted to slide to the bottom of the hill on a mattress, like we used to slide down the stairs on boxes as kids. No idea if we completed our mission or not—stupid alarm clock.

My golf journey takes an unexpected turn

Usually when I'm offered something for free, I accept it.

Even if it's a 30-minute golf lesson. (With a PGA golf pro, might I add. The company I work for is cool like that.)

When I told my dad what I was doing, he took it upon himself to warn me about what was ahead:

"You do realize that you might like it right? Are you willing to take that risk?"

I laughed it off. I had more important things to worry about, like finding the driving range and not breaking the clubs a nice stranger graciously allowed me to use.

After a couple of lucky coincidences, I arrived at the driving range for my lesson, only five minutes late. My teacher handed me a lady-sized club, which meant it was too short. This was a bit of a relief, though, as using a too-short golf club drastically reduces the chances that you'll accidentally pound the club into the ground and snap it in half.

I was ready to begin. It was pleasantly warm, if a little windy, and I was surrounded by grass and sunlight, about to play a sport during work hours.

Maybe my dad had a point.

It was a very productive lesson. Since I started at the I've-only-been-golfing-once-in-my-entire-life-because-my-dad-never-took-me-golfing-when-I-was-a-kid level, I had lots to learn. My teacher recorded my swings and replayed some of them for instructional purposes. I've watched enough golf, unfortunately, to be able to recognize when someone knows what they're doing. My first few swings were pathetically wimpy, but by the end I could detect a little bit of athletic grace in my stance and swing.

And boy, did it feel cool when the ball actually moved more than a couple yards.

That's when my thoughts entered dangerous territory.

Maybe I'll start coming to the golf course on Saturday mornings to work on my technique. 

Are you seriously considering giving up your Saturday mornings for golf?

I think if I was good at this it would be a fair trade. Besides, Lorie says I'm a natural.

You don't even have your own clubs, freak.

Maybe I'll ask Santa to take care of that for me.

Only then did I realize what was happening: I was trying to figure out a way to incorporate golf into my life. Because it's—oh heck, I'll just say it—fun.

I tried to deny it the moment I made the admission. But let's look at it logically. Golf is a sport. I like sports. Guys like golf. I like guys.

I'm in.

The sad thing about spring/summer

Contrary to popular belief, spring and summer don't mean warmth.

Not if you work in an office all day.

We live in a world full of useful conveniences like smartphones and wi-fi and Netflix and thousands of other little trinkets (virtual or otherwise) that make our modern lifestyle so great. But the corporate world has yet to figure out how to combat the rising temperatures outside without overcompensating and freezing its residents for several months.

I recently packed away all of my sweaters to give my lighter apparel some breathing room. I haven't touched my boots for weeks. But here I am, wishing I had worn a turtleneck and boots instead of a short-sleeved shirt and sandals.

It's May 15, guys. It's just not right to be thinking about sweaters and suffocating footwear during this time of year. I shouldn't have to worry about cold fingers and whether I'm wearing enough layers.

Winter is over; all anyone wants right now is to be warm.

So today during lunch I am going to take my jacket off, get in my car, park it in the sun, and soak in the saturated warmth for an hour. It may not be enough warmth to protect me from the rest of my afternoon, but at least for a short while, I will be wonderfully thawed.

The trick to being happily introverted: Know your limits

Since I finished school, I've had two main goals: (1) enjoy not being busy and (2) have fun. (Pretty great goals, right? Lots of potential for growth here.)

And by "have fun" I don't just mean watching reruns or resurrecting old projects or reading through an entire library—I'm talking about the "get out into the world" type fun. Unfortunately, when you're an introvert, this kind of fun is often more work than it is play.

All those high school stomps I went to in an attempt to have a social life? Work. Reluctant appearances at ward activities? Work. To exacerbate the problem, I've also wasted many a Friday night feeling guilty for passing on possibly memorable social experiences to hide in my room.

Sometimes I was hiding out of fear, yes, but sometimes I was hiding because I needed to be alone. Period.

After years of lofty goals, predictable failures, and mini triumphs, I think I've finally figured out what my limits are: 1–2 non-routine social activities a week. If I can meet that quota, I know I can happily skip out on other things and allow myself to recharge, guilt-free.

For example, earlier this week I was debating whether I should go to FHE. I knew I had a bridal shower and a wedding to go to later in the week, so I ceased the I-must-force-myself-to-go-to-this mind game immediately and enjoyed a lovely evening at home instead. Not only did I conserve energy by staying home, but I also conserved energy by not torturing myself with an endless pro/con list regarding the significance of going to this one activity.

I've been a much happier introvert since I figured this out. There's been much less internal turmoil over my own shortcomings and much more effective use of my energy. Sure, I'm still fully capable of working on those shortcomings, but I have a much better feel for when I should push myself and when I should just let myself be.

An introvert who abides by his or her limits as much as possible = a happy introvert.