Financially Challenged

It's confusing to think that education in this century is supposed to prepare you for the years to come and equip you with a problem-solving, idea-spewing mind to use to find a job and live a dream. Did I miss some classes? Maybe I slept through them. Where's the class that shows you how to negotiate a raise or gives you the hands-on experience to clean a couch? What happened to the course that shows you how to budget your measly paycheck so you can somewhat live a life of luxury? Oh, who am I kidding? It's more like a life of poverty with a few luxuries thrown in so you don't feel pinched by your empty money clip.

Everywhere I look there are young adults splurging on crazy concerts and trendy happy hours, road tripping to Vegas and LA for leisurely gambling and Rodeo Drive shopping sprees, planning weekends at the Water Park or a vineyard, and ultimately just having a downright good time. Not to say that I haven't done any of these activities. In fact, if I haven't done them, they are planned and waiting on the next few pages of my calendar. I'm keeping up with the Jones's, as they say.

But the dream...

MY dream -- to have a house with a backyard and a washer and dryer. Sounds lame, but it's really REALLY something I've always wanted. I think it's because I've moved around so much and when my parents finally got a house, a big comfortable house that we all fit in, Jill and I left for school. I've been in dorms and apartments since then. I've moved every year since 2000. Make that 1998, when it all began. And before 1998, I believe the Bryants occupied 7 other residences all over Alaska (with one small stint in Illinois). So in essence, I've never stopped moving. Buying a house would ensure that I would be in one place for at least 5 years, which would be the second longest length of time I've ever stayed anywhere. Will I get bored? Will I get the urge to move again? I don't know. But I want to come home and know that all the walls and light bulbs and paint colors and mail are mine. Not some landlord's who lives downstairs, or a property management company that takes a month to fix the leaking toilet. I want to own laundry machines so I do not have to carry my dirty laundry out into the public one more time or slyly give the grocery clerk just enough cash to maximize the number of precious quarters given back as change.


... How is it all possible? I'm missing something, a trick. Something that you are taught only after you've suffered for years. Or maybe my ambition is premature. Did our parents have their own quality home when they were 26? I'm pretty sure my father was in a trailer with a motorcycle parked out front and my mother with a 7 year old in tow was moving in to that trailer. And probably why we moved the 7 times before was because their dream of owning a house wasn't possible yet either. They were doing the same thing I'm doing, but with kids.

Now I know I'm spoiled, complaining about the "tragedy" known as my finances when in reality I think I'm better off than my parents were at my age. And look at them now. They have two beautiful houses on opposite ends of the country so that they can spend time with their three daughters. Maybe the trick is hard work and patience. Trust that if you work hard enough and maybe skip one of those concerts and stay in, or wear that threadbare undergarment just once more, you'll reach your new home someday.

Reflective Personality

I do this thing where I reflect on how I think others might view me. I'm constantly doing this and it has come to annoy me. At no point will I ever escape negative opinions from others. These are inevitable, no matter how hard I reflect and attempt to change. So why should I care that I talk too much about myself or that maybe I'm a little snobby. I'm not even that great of a friend, forgetting birthdays, breaking promises... But I know what I like: comfortability. The ability to have comfort. My comfort zone is about 4 feet in diameter with a soundproof, bulletproof, shatter-resistant surrounding pane of clear glass. I can see out, but people can't see in. It's here that I am me. And the door is mostly always open, except when I am walking down 7th Avenue or in dark parking garages. People are welcome into my space, given that they are clean and quiet. Hell, I'll even put out some chips and homemade salsa. Go nuts. Just don't spill. Or annoy me. Is this a disease? Do I have social anxiety? Or am I making diseases up because I need an excuse to be spoiled? No one can have their way all the time, except for my grandmother, whose even allowed to call people fat to their face without it being rude. So is it discipline to accept that which I cannot change? (ie. that the kitchen gets messy when you cook in it, complete organization is as mystic of an idea as nirvana, and nothing will ever fully be in your autonomous control.)

At the end of the day, after the never-ending struggle to be the cleanest, smartest, funniest, most humble, perfect, and optimistic person I can ever be, my couch offers up it's coziest corner, and gives me a moment or two to contemplate if I am or will be any of these things and if it's worth the self-doubt, the shrouding of my lack of confidence with an overly confident coat of witty comments and low-maintenance appearance and the crazy self-conflicting thoughts that put me on a daily emotional roller coaster.