Bun Head Hardships

6:00. It’s time. Run. My fellow prima ballerina’s race down the salt covered hallway, into the back nook of the dance studio where the race begins. Who will make it into ballet class first, winning the spot at the front of the barre?! I choose to start with the bun. My disheveled ponytail, tousled by my previous jazz class, is quickly swept up into a tight, neat ponytail. I quickly snatch my convenient handheld hairspray and harden the wispy baby hairs into an invincible mold. I quickly twist the horse mane into a cinnabon shape, tying another hairband around the snug knot. I scramble to find the four extra-long bobby pins I need to accurately secure my professional grade ballerina bun. I bite open my first pin, and stab it into my skull. I wince when I feel the piercing pain, but I do not want to be sat out because my bun fell apart. Not this girl. After I inserted the remaining three pins, I violently shake my head, checking that my bun remains immovable. What’s next?! I panic, looking around at my supplies that surround my feet. JAZZ SHOES? Fix it! I hastily strip my jazz shoes off my feet and sit down to endure the process of putting on my pointe shoes. I cram my foot into the hard shoe, forcing my toes to face the solid block of wood that resides at the bottom of the shoe. Once my heel enters, I quickly wrap the ribbons around my ankles. Over, under, over, under, knot, tuck. I regained my focus and repeated the process on my other foot. Only one thing left, the easiest task of them all. Leotard. I rapidly slip the bright blue leotard onto my body, untangling the straps around my shoulders. I am ready. I gallop to the studio, dodging the salty residue on the floor due to the snow storm. I made it. I won. Front of the barre for me!

TBH :) lol like my status and i'll tell you how I feel

TBH. This expression, which exploded over social media in the past year, still makes me laugh. Immature eighth graders posted their Facebook status as, “TBH!! ;) Like & I will post what I think about u in ur inbox lol.” The anxiously awaited message most likely read, “To be honest, I love you soooo much and you’re soooooo pretty and sooooo cool.” Oh, the honest truth! After trying to describe my blog entries for this semester, I can firmly say that most of my posts were “TBH” material. It started with my life ambitions and how I so desperately want my dreams to come true. The next blogs consisted of how much I hate the term, Chagrin “lifers,” how I did not talk in class and did not care, and how I realized that I feel stupid all the time. The serious tone transitioned to a more embarrassing honesty, such as how I am obsessed with eyelashes, and my unfaltering love for my Pembroke Welsh Corgi. Through all of these honest writings, I believe my most well-written blog post, and coincidentally my most truthful and heartfelt blog, remained “GUYS, I FIGURED IT OUT!” This blog describes my obviously exciting discovery to the fact that I feel inferior when surrounded by people who I believe retain a higher intelligence level than myself.  I wondered in the past week’s blog as to why I did not talk in discussion, which completely juxtaposes my personality. After soul searching and a little help from my dedicated English teacher, I found the answer to my problem. And since writing the blog, I regained my confidence to speak in class, which remains a plus. Even your own writing will impact you, who knew?! Moreover, my most interesting blog post, “The World Outside ‘The Bubble,’” also proves to highlight my honesty, even though it might turn out to offend some of my peers. The blog describes my hatred of the term “lifers,” which remains a highly celebrated term in the Chagrin Falls community. The school celebrates the fact that the student has never lived anywhere else other than the safe bubble of Chagrin Falls. It makes me nauseous. I am outwardly proud of the fact that I resided somewhere else before I unwillingly moved to the bubble.  I feel that this piece remains interesting due to my juxtaposing opinion, for most Chagrin students feel that being a lifer remains something to be proud of. Furthermore, after reading Jessica’s comment about her love for her animals, it made the top of my list for best comments. Not only did her comment make me laugh, describing her dog’s marital status and her belief that her dog is a reincarnation of a 40 year old man, it made me feel less crazy about myself. My blog described my obsession with my dog, Tootsie. I questioned whether or not my obsession remained irrational, or if I possessed good reason to love my K9. And reassuringly, Jessica told me that I did not remain crazy, but just possessed a love for dogs, which she felt as well. And Jessica, you best believe I will keep dressing Tootzers up in a hot dog costume every year!

Tootzers

Salty. This word usually associates itself with taste, but I will use this descriptor to define my attitude this week. Weirdly enough, my salty demeanor leads me to become outrageously eccentric, including uncontrollable laughter and a high-pitched whiny voice that irritates my own ears. Anyway, today as I sulked over to my anatomy group, sat down without saying a word, and did my “group work” completely alone, my fellow AP English classmate, Elliot, pointed out my apparent impudent attitude. And somehow this turned into a “let’s all make fun of Becky” hour. I believe that Elliot created this bantering to discontinue the dirty looks that were thrown his way for trying to converse with me. The topic Elliot chose: my obsession with my dog. I do not feel that strong affection felt towards a pet in any way, shape, or form should be considered bad. I feel that excessive love for animals lives as a common feeling for teenage girls. But whatever, let’s all laugh about it. Once we fully divulged into my affection for my Pembroke Welsh Corgi, Tootsie, I realized how much I really am obsessed with her. Not only did I force my group members to “oooh” and “aahh” over Instagram-edited pictures of my pet, I forced my teacher to participate in the mandatory admiration. After my dramatic whining about how adorable my Champion in Show dog looked, many other peers decided to join in on making fun of my beloved K9. Maybe making Tootsie a Facebook two years ago with my family over winter break crossed the line. Maybe I deserved the harassment I received from my classmates. Maybe I should not have cried when my guy friends stole my dog right out of my house and drove her around my neighborhood for twenty minutes. I still cringe when I visualize my cherished dog in the back of Grant Lingafelter’s Jeep, immobilized by fear. (They claim she loved it, but I highly doubt it) Maybe the heated words I spat at my girlfriends for helping my friends dog-nap Tootsie did not need to leave my mouth. Maybe I should not routinely wear and flaunt my Corgi socks. Maybe the best Halloween costume for Tootsie this year was not a hotdog. Maybe I should not take it personally when my friends call Tootsie “fish dog” for her rancid breath, or make fun of her short legs and beady eyes. But I believe that a dog truly remains man’s best friend. And yeah, maybe my obsession with Tootsie remains on the extreme side, but I do not believe I am the only one with a pet obsession….ELLIOT.   

True Life: I'm Obsessed with Eye Lashes

Almost every dancer confidently affirms that their favorite part of dancing lives in the performance aspect. And the week leading up to a big performance sends nervous shivers and excited tremors through the dancer’s body. Every day this week, I have dreamt of my performance of Mama Mia this weekend. Not only performing, but embarrassingly enough, the pre-performance rituals. I strangely possess an obsession with eye lashes. Some of my friends make fun at me and call them spider lashes while the others compliment me on my weird obsession. Either way, I love them. And I kid you not, every day this week, I have dreamt of placing fake eyelashes on the rim of my eye and feeling the lashes stretch past my eyebrows and tickle my forehead. I understand how weird this sounds, but I am not the only one who feels this way! My fellow dancers and I all undergo this feeling of adoration toward fake eyelashes and putting on pounds of make-up. But, why? I feel that this act of concealment parallels to Gatsby’s disguising actions after he witnessed Daisy murder Myrtle in The Great Gatsby. Instead of frantically torching his car or running away to some desolate island, he took a long, peaceful swim in his private swimming pool. Then the question arises…does Gatsby actually not care about the violent murder? Or, is he just masking his emotions, like the concealing powers of make-up, with the thoughtless actions of a leisurely swim? We will never find out. But I know that in my case, I purposefully cake on the make-up, glue the fake eyelashes, and sprinkle the glitter, for my purpose remains to pretend to live as someone else. And just like a five year old child, I enjoy dressing up and playing pretend more than anything else in the world.

GUYS, I FIGURED IT OUT!

At first, I did not know the reason. Actually, I did not know a problem existed. If any of you happened to stumble upon my blog post from last week, you probably noticed that I kind of went on an emotional rampage, attempting to make excuses as to why I do not talk in class discussion. I knew I possessed a problem, and I did not know the answer. But I think I found it. Get ready, things are about to get personal. I surprisingly found the answer to my problem in the character Gatsby. But, I will not give all the credit to this tangled fictional character. Whether Ms. Serensky knows it or not, she assisted me in completing my search for what remains wrong with me. First, after asking what could possibly be wrong with me, Ms. Serensky went on to give me a little pep talk. And as I walked out of her classroom today, I discovered it. THE ANSWER! A man who possesses all the money anyone could ever ask for and enjoys the company of many people who remain enthralled by his existence holds a flaw. A single flaw that he covers up by his ravish parties and pleased smile. A flaw that I first discovered in my reading last night. The great and distinguished Gatsby lives as an insecure man. And I do not know if he even knows it. Then the light bulb went off! I can confidently state that I remain the busiest person I know. And I love every minute of my crazy lifestyle. Every day I go to school, go to the gym, go to dance until ten, and then do my homework. And most of the time, I end up waking up at five in the morning because I fell asleep doing my homework. Oh, and did I mention that I work three jobs!  The addiction to my hectic activities sometimes leaves me blind to what I actually am feeling. I discovered today that I have become insecure. Like Gatsby, I cover up my lack of self-confidence with mind boggling undertakings, as he covers up his anxiety with parties and money. The strangest thing subsides in the fact that I never have been insecure before. I lead the Varsity Cheerleading squad for the past two years. I received a lead in every dance production I took part in since tenth grade. I remain confident and positive during these moments. But once I step inside of a situation where I feel intellectually inferior to the people surrounding me, I lose it. Which remains why I struggle to talk in discussion and express my opinion. I keep putting myself down, but I know I possess what it requires to take Advanced Placement English. I just need to move past this bizarre feeling of self-doubt and know that I can do it.

The Silent Treatment

Lately, I’m always the one. The one who everyone glimpses at during the awkward silence, my peers speculating if I inhabit the will to fill the void with an intelligent discovery of Myrtle’s disposition. I remain the one who feels Ms. Serensky’s eyes glaring at my downturned head, unable to look up because I consciously feel the “Come on Becky, TALK!!” expression that shoots from her eyeballs. The cause might lay in the fact that my parents just paid my enrollment and housing deposit at The University of Alabama. The cause also might lay in the senioritis that runs through my veins, which were apparent my sophomore year of high school. Or finally, the cause might remain that I just don’t have anything to say. I will fully admit that I remain intimidated during the intellectual discussions that take place on a day to day basis. I know for a fact that I do not obtain a membership to the “smart group,” my own personal classification of who could easily write for The New York Times or become a prestigious doctor at The Cleveland Clinic. Don’t get me wrong, I do not think I view myself as stupid. But, I take Advanced Placement English to challenge myself. I know that I do not exist as the Ivy League type, but I like to surround myself with people who live as that type. But throughout class, I endure listening to my classmates discuss the points that I wanted to discuss. Not only do I endure just them taking my points, but they find a particular underlying meaning of the simple anecdote. But that’s not all! They also say it in a way, using literary devices and advanced vocabulary that leaves me speechless. Literally. But wait, it gets better. Other people find themselves in this same predicament. Their point already made, and they need to say something so a check can reside next to their name. So, they repeat the same exact point with the same exact quotes, and twist the wording up. Yay, overkill! And now, I remain completely speechless. I know I need to find an answer to this problem, for my grade will most likely suffer due to my silence during discussion. But sometimes, I just don’t have anything to say.

The World Outside "The Bubble"

Oh, the woes of arriving to a brand new school. Imagine, arriving to a school where everyone knows each other. LIFERS!! This term not only makes me nauseous, but makes me weirdly thankful. When I lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, I attended an extremely diverse elementary school and middle school.   A lovely mixture of African Americans, Indians, Asians, and Hispanics. I grew up around all different types of people, forcing me to accept and love any type of person, no matter their race. Imagine the culture shock I endured when I moved into the bubble! I lived as one confused thirteen year old. Consequently, as I read Roddy Doyle’s New Boy, a surge of memories swarmed my brain. I felt the same confusion and anxiety that young Joseph experienced. It happens to every new kid. The uncomfortable out-of-place sentiment. At the time of the move, I full heartedly believed that my life ended. I believed that I could not survive. Forced to leave my best friends behind and discover new friends. Forced to live in a sea of white. To my surprise, however, when I visited my friends in Charlotte this past weekend, I underwent an astonishing revelation. I missed the bubble. I missed the small town. I did not even know what to think! And get this…I discovered, when I made it back to Chagrin, that I missed Charlotte! So I guess the cliché phrase remains true. You always want what you cannot have. But no matter who I miss, and who I don’t, I am tremendously thankful for my past. It taught me more than I imagined. The difference between big city and small town and the difference between diversity and uniformity. I believe that moving at such a key time in my life really will positively impact me in the long run. I lived in both worlds, and I know what the world outside of the Chagrin bubble looks like. Hip hip hooray for non-lifers!