Apr. 7, 2014
My mom spent the majority of my adolescence trying to get me to eat disgusting foods. I was always more than willing (maybe just willing) to try whatever she put in front of me, but she never seemed satisfied when I said I didn’t like it. “You’re not giving it a chance!”
As a consequence of this (unwarranted) mistrust, she resorted to deceit – smothering fish in sauce and telling me it was chicken, mashing up mushrooms and hiding them among my vegetables, calling it V8 juice rather than tomato juice…
On one particular morning, I looked down at my eggs and they were several shades too bright. I asked my mom whether they were radioactive, and she tried to play it off like she didn’t know what I was talking about. (She’s a bad liar.)
“These eggs are the wrong color.”
“What are you talking about Adelaide? Just eat them, we’re going to be late.”
I was having none of it.
I told her that I was not taking one bite until somebody came up with a logical explanation as to why they were the wrong color. This was how I imagined people became afflicted with the Ebola virus. “Well they didn’t look right…but my mom told me to eat them…so I did….and now I’m dead.”
It took some persistence on my part, but she eventually admitted that they were eggbeaters and “much healthier for me.” (To which I responded that I was sure Yellow dye No. 8 had many health benefits.)
While I did eat them and they weren’t too bad, I do feel that we all could have been saved a lot of time and suffering if she’d explained to me the situation right off the bat.
My brain functions kind of like an assembly line. I process one piece of information at a time, and if something doesn’t make sense, the emergency lights come on, people start running around screaming bloody murder, and the whole plant shuts down.
I don’t even have a particularly good memory. I never once won the multiplication tables memorization game we used to play in fourth grade. I almost never remember people’s names the first time around. But if you come up to me and you look really Italian and you say your name is Helga, I guarantee you I’ll remember it. Because it’s a logical inconsistency. (Were you adopted? Were your parents interested in German culture? Did your parents have a friend named Helga? Did something tragic happen to her?)
I can be logical to the point where I drive myself (and everyone around me) insane.
On the plus side, I’ve never gotten the Ebola virus.
On the not so plus side, logic has its limitations. And I’ve paid for my commitment to it. I’ve done a lot of things that made all the logical sense in the world, but didn’t feel right.
Most of them didn’t work out.
For example, I wore a leather jacket once. It was really cool. All my friends gave their approval when I picked it out. (I swear I saw Jennifer Aniston wear something just like it once.) But the first time I wore it in public I felt weird and uncomfortable and I wanted to take it off the whole night.
It just wasn’t me.
So I returned it and resigned myself to the cruel fact that I’m just not a leather jacket kind of gal. I’m okay with that. (Do I still get a little jealous when someone looks awesome in a leather jacket? Sure. Who doesn’t?)
Still, it’s fairly easy for me to accept when an outfit doesn’t feel right, or to stop reading a book when I realize it doesn’t interest me, or to say hey, I don’t like this kind of pizza, I don’t think I’ll eat it anymore.
It’s even easy when someone calls for the ball for me to say, hey you’re not so open, I don’t think I’ll give it to you (even if that person is really demanding and kind of scary when you don’t pass it to them).
It’s much harder to look my friends and family in the eye and say I don’t want to go to Yale anymore. Or, I don’t want to make six figures a year, I want to do something that pays so little that the woman at HR Block laughs at me when I hand her my taxes.
I want to do something that makes no “logical” sense. All I can say is that I want to be happy, and I’m pretty sure happy is located through there. *points to really dark forest*
Robert Frost made “the road less travelled” sound way more appealing than it really is. Taking “the road less travelled” makes it sound like there were two roads and you picked the one with a sign that said “less travelled.” In reality, “the road less travelled” doesn’t exist until you take it. And half the time you think, oh yeah I’m gonna be different, I’m gonna forge my own path. And you end up getting poison ivy and coming down with the jungle fever, and ultimately going back the way you came from, metaphorical tail between your legs.
Not all less travelled roads should be travelled – that is what Robert Frost should have thrown in there somewhere.
Still – sometimes you get a feeling, and if you’re brave enough to risk your time, your body, and (maybe most importantly) your pride, things can work out pretty great.
I’m not getting paid right now. I made a decision earlier this year that I needed to play full games at whatever level that was possible. It was a tough decision. I lost 25 pounds this off-season. I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in. I feel strong and confident – and as always, I believe that I can keep the ball out of the net.
So on some days, patience is the hardest thing in the world.
I was asked by a few NWSL teams to tryout and maybe earn a roster spot. I was called by a team in Sweden whose goalkeeper got injured. Each time, I had the overwhelming sense that I was already in the right spot. That being in Washington, training with the Spirit, and playing with their reserves was what I was meant to do.
Of course I can give you all the logical reasons why I’m here. But the real, true reason isn’t totally logical. I feel like I belong here. I like the people. I love the training. I feel genuinely cared for, and I feel pushed to be a better version of myself everyday.