I like my house. I like my hair. I like my haircuts. But I don’t like call centers.

It is 12:52.
It is 12:52 and my stomach is growling.
It is 12:52 and my stomach is growling and I am at working (kind of)
It is 12:52 and my stomach is growling and I am at working (kind of) and remembering that I should really eat lunch more often.

For one week, I have been completely exhausted. Like fall on my face while walking, fall asleep during phone calls, can’t carry on a coherent conversation exhausted. It has delayed my marathon training because all the sudden my soft bed seems wayyyyy more appealing than running to Smithfield. Every once in a while I go through stages where my body decides (without my permission) that it needs a new schedule. Here’s to hoping that this is simply a stage. With an end in sight.

My parents don’t love my decision to run 26 miles. Something to do with that little thing called atrial septal defect. I promised I would be careful. They said I should visit the cardiologist. Since that went so well last time…

My average week has become a giant blur of phone calls, press releases, and editing. I like it. I like my morning walks to work. I like that Logan smells really good in the morning. I like midnight food runs with Mitch and Derek. I like that the library is silent. You just don’t get that during the school year.

I don’t like call centers, but that’s another story.

A finally visited the Statesman office a few days ago. I shouldn’t say finally, because it’s only been a month (even though it feels like a year). I sat at my computer where Chelsey had left me a great note leaving me custody of Rif-Raf, the stuffed giraffe.  I got a little scared sitting that empty, Mac-lined room. Well, not so much scared as intimidated. Yes, me. The girl who scares the living daylights out of the opposite sex. The girl who bites of way more than she can chew and then succeeds. Most of the time.

 I’m already ready for the school year to start. I miss my classes and homework and learning. I miss goofy, flirtations nights in the library. I miss late night roommate chats. Despite this, I think I’ll need the next 2.5 months to completely digest where what direction my life is heading in. I feel under-qualified, unprepared, and slightly misplaced. I’d like to clarify, it’s not a bad thing. I appreciate being thrown off balance. It keeps me on my feet, ironically. There’s just a lingering fear that I’m going to fail and end up sitting at a call center, being hit on by random men the rest of my life.

A few weeks ago, I told my parents that I’m a 19 year-old with the mind of a 26 year-old and the heart of a 3 year-old.

Nobody knows how true this statement is. 

The next three years hold a world of potential. (Hopefully) I’ll be a degree-holding adult. The possibility of  being married is suddenly…more real. I could be a returned missionary. I could a world traveler. I could be a master in the art of kickboxing (hahahahahahahaha. okay. not really).

The point of this overdrawn post is this: I can do really hard things. Even under-qualified as I am

 

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