A better story doesn’t make for a happier life.

Here’s a story:

I’m 17, and I can taste freedom. It’s at the tip of my tongue, my senses are alive, but I’m just a few mere months away from fully grasping onto it. Graduation day. 

2020 is my year. My classmates’ year. We know where we’re going, geographically speaking, but we can hardly wait to see where the next chapter truly takes us. Okay, fine; not all of us know where we’re going geographically or metaphorically speaking, but we all have dreams, in one form or another.

With every passing school day comes a bit more casualty: not caring about what the teacher is writing on the board or what our assignments are or what looks good on a resume. My resume has been sent out. I have been accepted by a university and have scheduled my freshman orientation weekend. I have checked out of high school. I couldn’t be happier to get out of this place.

Amidst the increasing check-out mindset, the world is ablaze and the flames are blowing toward us. In this case, the flames are coronavirus and while we’ve all heard about it and made jokes about it in hallway hangouts, shit is getting real now. Perfect. School is at risk of getting closed down and this time it’s not because of a snow day.

The doors are closed and it’s virus day after virus day. Weeks of shutdown. What I thought would be unexpected added freedom is actually more imprisonment. I’m at home with my parents unable to escape. And this time, I’m not taking metaphorically.

I can’t go to school. I can’t partake in the added activities I did after class. I’m unable to work. I can’t hang out with friends. 

Days pass; weeks go by. We’re still at home. Doors are still locked shut. Cancellations are the new trend, and it hits prom, class day, and graduation. 

You know all of this, but here’s what you don’t know.

Every night at 2:03AM,  I jump out my window. Why 2:03? Because that’s when the school bell rang letting students out for the day. (I like symbolism, what can I say?) 2:03 is a liberating time, and we’re all looking for some perspective, some clarity. And just when we think things can’t get more foggy, more complex, more confusing… it does. I guess this is what our parents were talking about when they said we have it easy, when they took they took the shortcut explanation of, “I’ll tell you when you’re older”, when they say “These are the best days of your life.” 

I run through yards, dewy grass hugging my feet and soaking up to my ankles more and more with every step I take. Each block a new friend joins in the midnight escape. It’s a temporary escape, but still one nonetheless. You’re the star of the night if you snag some alcohol on your way out of your house. I have yet to be that star, but I’ll happily be the soul that drinks in the benefits of the steal.

We paint abandoned walls with the images, words, and ideas that fill our heads. We climb on rooftops for a clear view of the skies while we drink in bottles and whispers. We throw our hands up on the arches of bridges for the thrill of falling without having to die. But without the thrill, without the elevation gain, without the expression of what’s in our minds, can you ever truly find clarity? Do you ever gain the full perspective? 

This one night that’s far from our first but unknowingly our last for some time to come, we get caught. Caught with our hands in the air and our feet on grounds that are marked “No Trespassing”, but we went anyways, chasing for we don’t really know what. Cans, bottles, jaws drop. Some stammer, some run.

I run.

I dodge a kid from 3 blocks down who’s standing between me and the train tracks behind me. I jump the tracks, roll through a stopped and open cargo train car on the next set of tracks and race for the brush and woods ahead. Thick with weeds, untended trees, and litter collected from the breeze. I dive forward like it’s all a closed door that could stop me. I stumble into the thick of it, etching my skin with thorns and twigs. Beams of focused lights juggle around me from behind. Low yells follow my path growing meeker the further, the faster I run. 

Nothing feels better than freedom blowing through your hair, tingling the taste buds, pumping blood through your entire body. Nothing.

Another story:

I’m home, and I’m in love.

Does it ever occur to you that the better story does not necessarily result in the happier person?

No, I’m not okay and that’s okay.

“How are you doing; okay?”
“Are you doing alright?”
“Are you okay?”

This is what we’re asked in one hundred different ways when the answer is blatantly obvious.
No.
But people rarely answer honestly. They don’t say, “No, I’m not okay. Thanks for asking.” They usually say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Yes is a warm blanket and fuzzy socks sitting fireside. It’s a hot cup of tea on a warm, rainy morning on the front porch. It’s a heaping plate of comfort food when you return home for the first time in what seems like too long. Pick your poison, but whatever it may be, it makes you feel good. When someone asks “Are you okay?” the “Yes” is comfortable.

No is cold. It’s uncharted territory. The GPS loses signal and it is tough to know which way to go next. It’s the sex talk with your parents. It’s being half in the bag in front of co-workers or flipping through channels with your grandma next to you and landing on an HBO movie for just a moment too long.

Alanis Morissette now her next single to mimic “Ironic,” and I have brought you all to my point via the scenic route: saying “no” is uncomfortable.

I could really go off on a tangent tying in #metoo and the culture around consent and people skills and how “no” impacts so many social situations. But I’m not gonna. Because I don’t wanna. NO.

Over time, it’s been sculpted that saying “yes” is easier. There are multiple plot lines in film and books around saying “yes” to everything. Jim Carey in “Yes Man” and Shonda Rhimes’ “Year of Yes” (which was a 2019 read of mine, and I adored it, just as a side note). But take that concept and now find balance and peace between the two options: yes or no.

“Are you okay?” Yes means no more questions.
“Will you come to my party next weekend?” Yes is how you dodge flak from friends even if the event is something you don’t feel like being a part of.

But if no wasn’t avoided, think of the genuinity that would come out of it as a result. If you say “no” in honesty, the same goes for a “yes” response. You say you want to go to the party, and it makes your presence sincere. You say “yes” to going out on a date, to having sex, to being touched in any way, and it’s a pleasant experience through and through – or at least if it’s not, it’s not because of your reply. (And yes, I just brought consent and #metoo into it *sassy shrug*).

I’m a woman with walls and keys that I throw away, so I understand the ease in saying “yes” because it’s simpler. Because you don’t want to talk about it, or fight about it, or deal with the confrontation. But yes doesn’t need to equate ease or comfort. And no doesn’t need to be uncomfortable.

“Can you make it to my party this weekend?”
“No, I won’t be there; I’m sorry.”

“Would you like to go to dinner with me?”
“No, thank you; I’m flattered though.”

“Wanna hook up?”
“No, I don’t, but thanks for asking.”

I mean, really everyone… what’s so scary? How is it that we have made no and putting ourselves first uncomfortable. Don’t let it be.
Put. Yourself. First.

---

“Are you okay?”
“No… but I will be.”

You can’t do it all.

We’ve all heard that, whether it’s from someone else or our own conscience telling us we’re incapable of whatever goal we want to achieve. You just simply can’t do it all, right?

W R O N G.

Actually, jk… I honestly don’t know. That’s the venture I’m on now. I’m standing at a crossroads and I don’t know which way to go. I’m Robert Frost-ing (mmm… frosting) my way through life right now. And depending on the day you ask me how I’m doing, there’s a metaphorical cliff off to the side that I’m contemplating jumping over… metaphorically speaking.

When I say I’m determined to do it all, I’m not prepping this to be a deep dive into my life as a working mom of three who has a Pinterest-perfect house where I manage to cook a well-balanced dinner every night, pack the kid’s lunches for the next day, and still have time to work out, so YOU. CAN. TOO.

No.

First of all, if I was a mom of three, I’d have chunks of hair missing, the family would be eating somehow-burnt boxed mac & cheese, I wouldn’t have showered in days, and I likely wouldn’t even know where all of my kids were at that given moment.

I’m not a mom.
I have all my hair.
I hate boxed mac.
But okay, fine, I haven’t washed my hair in a couple of days.

So, that’s not what I mean by “doing it all.”

I mean, I want to hustle with a career that I love. Or I’ll even settle for a job I enjoy – low standards over here. I want to continue to learn – read great books, listen to glorious podcasts. Oh my gosh, a new Netflix docuseries?! Yes, I must watch. Making time to train at my Muay Thai gym and being sure my running sneakers hit the pavement. The day’s not over yet! Get typing or set that pen to paper because you’re a writer unless you stop writing – then you’re failing. Oh, and don’t forget to drink a plethora of water and get a solid 6-8 hours of sleep.

These are just the bullet points.

Now, I’m gonna throw a wrench into this: I’m about to get laid off from my job.

Dope. So now, add job searching and freelancing to that list.

Truth be told, I hate my job. Without getting into the details as to why, this future change in my daily routine definitely has my mind constantly reeling. What will I do for money? Where will I be one month from now? Will I hate my next job?
What’s more important: money or happiness?

That, my readers, is my million-dollar question. (Side note: who’s paying me one mil if I figure it out because that’d really help me out.)

And that’s my point. The businesses that have the means to compensate their employees with a sufficient amount of money, an amount where you’re thinking “hell yeah” or “yes, I can definitely live comfortably off of that” are usually the ones where you sell your soul at the door and later, end up making a mental list of how to escape the hell that is your new office. The businesses that have much less compensation are likely ones where you could see yourself being happy with what you are doing. Of course, there are always exceptions, but I’m just stating generalities here.

So taking it back: I want to do it all, guys, and I’m also about to get laid off.

For the past couple of months, I’ve told my anxiety to pipe the fuck down and am looking at this crossroads as an opportunity, as newfound freedom, and as a chapter that gets me closer to where I want to be for the long run.

Easier said than done, though. Like, way easier.

I have applied to a slew of jobs that have all replied with rejections or haven’t sent a reply at all. I have, however, turned down opportunities that I know would be just another miserable desk job. Some may see that as honorable, others likely view it as ignorant, but what can I say? I like to live on the edge, and sometimes I’m fiscally idiotic.

My plan immediately following this layoff is to load my beloved Subaru Forester (meet Florence Vroom, aka Flo) and drive north to the Adirondacks.
“But, Kait; that’s not gonna make you money.”
I know, guys, but sometimes you just need fresh air and to escape. And that’s what I want and need more often than not. Peak foliage is basically tomorrow, and all I wanna do is motorboat a pile of leaves, ya feel me?

With that being said, I’m going to pack Flo with warm, comfy clothes, my hiking pack and boots, a bed in the back, and a full tank of gas and hit the pedal to the metal until I reach Route 8.

I think the next chapter in my life is geared around finding happiness that hopefully comes with a paycheck, but one that I’m rewarded for making a difference, not for staying quiet.

If you were to ask, “What are you doing?” I couldn’t give you a straight answer. It’d be something along the lines of “spiraling through the weeks,” “flailing through the days;” but give me some time, and maybe next time you ask that question, I’ll have a bit more of an answer for you.

Until then, stay tuned, and you can read about me flailing along the way.

 

Buy a Ticket

Getty Images

Book the flight. Buy that concert ticket. Order the new something-or-other that will ignite your creativity, launching the next life chapter.

And this is why you should…

Planning the Night, or Lack Thereof…

I had to make a decision under the gun: go to the concert or not. A group of friends was buying tickets to a band that I used to listen to in high school and college. Screamo is typically a genre from my past, but every now and then, I dabble in the nostalgia. Under pressure a few months before the concert date, I said “sure, I’ll go.” The tickets were booked, and I figured I’d worry about it once it got closer.

Summer Came and (Mostly) Went 

There I was… facing the Friday night with A Day to Remember ticket in hand. I was heading out there with my boyfriend just a night before our one year anniversary, and what better way to celebrate than to get tossed around in moshpits until midnight? Out of the group of half a dozen friends that planned to, only one other showed up, and after lathering on negativity for the first hour of our evening, he bailed. I sighed with relief.

It was a weird week, guys. My job has been unpredictable with layoffs lurking around the corner, and therefore, job hunting is at an all-time high. It’s every man for himself and the job market in our city is very competitive, so after weeks of hunting opportunities with my fangs out and claws clicking on the keyboard for endless cover letters, I was ready to unwind.

I didn’t know either opening band, but their angst and passion intrigued me. My eyes locked on the stage, I started walking hand-in-hand with my boyfriend, leading and weaving our way through the packed crowd on the floor, determined to be center-stage. After one song led into the next, a mosh pit started to open up right where we were standing – not my plan, but I didn’t back away. I get shoved forward and pulled in. Before we both know it, we’re the wall defining the moshers from the by-standers. After a couple of more songs, I end up surrounded by strangers, no one I know near me, and I can’t help but to stand there and just smile.

I’m getting knocked around, giggling, and then reaching out to help people up off the floor. Nothing at all was in my control, and for the first time in a while, that felt good. By their closing song, band members are climbing pillars and balcony railings, and I’m down on the floor just watching the chaos unfold around the crowd. I’m in awe over the chaos and its capacity to be fun, not alarming.

I make my way out of the crowd after their set and find my boyfriend with a couple of his friends that he bumped into near the bar. I’m participating in small talk but hardly listening – my mind is locked on whatever rush I had in the crowd, a concert experience that I haven’t indulged in since I was probably a teenager.

During the conversation, the headliner bashes out their first chord and I hear my favorite running song bouncing off the industrial venue’s walls. All of me is jittering, holding back charging back into that crowd – like a kid who wants to dodge adults’ boring conversation, a girl on her period in a chocolate shop, a kid who’s just been handed his driver’s license after passing the test (pick a simile) – I just want to go, go, go.

Facing the Headliner

We find the pathways in the crowd, like channels in an anthill. Weave through, stop, turn and make sure all are with you; weave through some more, stop and repeat. Quicker than I could’ve hoped, we were back in the center with a view of the band on stage. The people who were next to us were showing the level of enthusiasm that I was feeling inside. Standing still to listen was far from a plausible option.

One friend gets sucked up into the mosh pit – around and around this maddening swirl of people creating a whirlpool of what only select people of this generation may call dancing. It really depends on who you ask.

One guy who I had met about 20 minutes prior nudges into me, “Wanna go up?!” He’s pointing up on top of the crowd, where everyone’s hands are up in the air, either cheering or carrying surfers that just traveled from the back of the crowd. I’ve never been a surfer and this sure was one rowdy audience. “No, no I’m good.” I laugh as I look at my boyfriend with that “no way” look. He smiles.

And then I think, why not? Why is that so out of the question? You have never crowd surfed but that doesn’t mean you can’t now…

I look over at the guy and yell, “I changed my mind!” And I jump up, just putting faith in this new dude and my boyfriend to catch my body weight and successfully pass me off to the crowd in front of us. They do.

And off I go.

Hands are grabbing my arms, legs, sides, feet, and all I could do was laugh. I was on top of the crowd, alongside the band, completely immersed in people’s passion and enthusiasm for one thing. The one thing we were all focused on – the music.

It’s one of those things that are rare, right? How often are you somewhere where everyone is feeling so passionate and general positive feelings around one sole thing? This concert wasn’t a tailgate concert. There weren’t bandwagoners who didn’t know what they were getting into. No one was there to just sit at the bar with some background music. Everyone was there for them. Everyone had their hands up and a total fuck-yeah mentality, and I was living for it.

If It Means a Lot To You… Then Stay Til the End

After song-after-song of continuous good vibes and crowd surfers traveling over our heads, the setlist winds down to their one slow song that the entire crowd knows every single word to: “If It Means A Lot To You.” This is the song we would blare in high school through the staticky car speakers that were partially blown out, driving around aimlessly hoping our cars didn’t break down, and every guy and girl in the car belted out every word.

A band like A Day to Remember can’t close a show with a slow song, no matter how much everyone praises it. After we all have our lighters and cell phones swaying in the air, they do a quick 180 and bring it back to what we’ve been doing all night, and blare one of their top songs, “The Downfall of Us All.”

Everyone’s tired, though some aren’t showing it as much as others. Soaked in sweat and tossed drinks, no one even cares what goes on around them at this point.
The song reaches its final moments and confetti falls around us, sticking to our skin,

-A Day to Remember at Buffalo Riverworks on September 6, 2019. Photo captured with iPhone7.

hair, and clothes. The music and cheering so loud it was hard to decipher them from one another.

I look up and smile as colored confetti falls down like snow, flickering in the dashing spotlights, the amplifiers’ feedback drowning out any other background noise. I’m in a snowglobe of complete chaos with no control of anything around me, and it’s okay. For the first time, it’s okay to have no control, and I never want to leave.

 

Write, but Don’t Count the Words

Perspective on six- and ten-word stories

This idea was birthed into my life during my upper-classman semesters at college: “Write a story using only six words… It can be about anything, and you can write more than one, but it can’t be more or less than six words,” my professor had said to our 12-person class.

Now, you’re expecting me to tell you about the stories I wrote or the best one in the class, but the truth is I can’t remember a single word I wrote or any others that I heard from my peers. But I do remember thinking it was a clever idea. It forces us to write something with severe complexity into utter simplicity. Six words. That’s all you get.

More recently, I came up with one that has remained my Twitter bio for a year or more now: “Wanderlust, but afraid to be lost.” For me, it’s pure accuracy. After being comfortable with who I am for probably the first time in my life, I have this dire urge to take a jump and go somewhere new, but I’m afraid that I’ll lose myself along the journey.

However, the more time I spend on Twitter and especially Tumblr, the more I see these creative six-word stories… and ten-word, 12-word, 13-word, 20-word and 27-word… (Are you catching what I’m throwing down here?)

It seems that writers, bloggers and social media moguls around the world have wrung out the restriction and creativity of a six-word story altogether. Rather than using this concept to construct their complex idea into six words, they’ve decided to write a quote, count how many words there are and then title it as such.

There is nothing impressive about a 23-word story — you might as well just title it as you find suitable because the 23 isn’t impressive and it’s not adding to your quote about heartbreak. Now, a 10-word story? Well, it’s just a six-word with a bone tossed to the writer, so I think it still has that sense of creativity to it.

The trend of this x-amount-of-word story has really picked up and taken off with all sorts of turns and twists that, for me, dissolved its uniqueness and creativity. So for all of you writers, bloggers, or artistic expressers, leave the math out of it and just write something that feels real to you. Quit counting the words.

And that’s my 393-word perspective piece. (Just kidding…)