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True-Life Confessions of a Facebook Ninja

August 18, 2011 By Dashing Gray 2 Comments

Facebook NinjaFor me, grad school was one big Facebook warning label. Professors were constantly passing us articles about young professionals and college presidents alike who had suffered the consequences of an errant Facebook post. In some of these cases, I was appalled by a professional’s lack of judgment; in others, I thought the school was being ridiculous. Either way, the message was clear: watch what you post.

Some class sessions dissolved into heated debates about whether the actions taken in various cases were right or wrong or what should be done about the whole issue. The whole time, all I could think was:

Don’t these people know how to use privacy settings?!

For generations, parents have instilled in their children the importance of watching their words with the ever-popular if-you-don’t-have-anything-nice-to-say-don’t-say-anything-at-all mantra. Logically, this train of thought has now extended into if-you-don’t-have-anything-glowing-to-post-don’t-post-anything-at-all realm of Facebook. With this idea, I disagree wholeheartedly.

This is the problem with being both a writer and a public servant.

My work life dictates that I be “professional” (read: perky and devoid of unpopular opinions), while my journalistic pursuits would falter and collapse if they were not founded on emotion and opinion. When my mother commented “You probably shouldn’t have written that” about one of my Smartly posts, I countered with “But that’s exactly why I write! To share! To entertain! To start debate! If no one ever felt anything when they read my posts, what would be the point?” She gave me that disapproving look that only mothers can and moved on. I felt victorious.

Facebook brings to life all of our long-ranging debates about professionalism. Many people believe that teaching students to be professional means transforming them into robots programmed to follow extensive business etiquette protocols. While it has always been a danger to voice an unpopular opinion in a professional setting, Facebook tacks on the extra danger of that opinion being in writing.

It is true that college students need to be taught a certain level of discretion. It is not wise to post pictures of yourself draped over the toilet post-binge or to share indecent shots of your female friends’ Halloween costumes. It is probably not a good idea to update your status to include profanity about your boss or to Photoshop together cruel images about your coworkers.

But this does not mean that you shouldn’t exist.

Parents, employers, and users alike are now much more aware of the entire Facebook phenomenon than they were when the site began in 2004. They have a much better grasp of social networking opportunities and challenges, and they fear the posts of the younger generation. Each of us young’uns has heard the [MANY] cautionary tales, and we are well aware of what can happen in the wrong situation. On the other hand, we are also well aware of how Facebook has changed the social landscape. Facebook groups offered venues of support following the shootings at Virginia Tech and Northern Illinois, when deceased students’ pages became virtual forums of love dedicated to lost lives. Mobile apps have enabled busy young professionals to keep in touch in the spare moments of their days. Fan pages have provided businesses with an easy, cost-effective solution for concerns about regular communication. Walls and photo albums have enabled far-flung family to see pictures of a recent trip or offer well wishes on special occasions. Shy students have been given a portal of self-expression and self-discovery. Facebook has become an integral part of how we communicate; for all its publicized “bad,” Facebook has provided us with a lot of good.

So for me, it is not a matter of quitting Facebook. Instead, it’s a constant system of checks and balances–an assurance that the professional me aligns with the personal one. And perhaps most importantly, it’s keeping abreast of technological changes and learning how to use those privacy settings!

So when a coworker recently to commented “Wow, you’ve got your Facebook profile on super-secret!,” I smiled knowingly. Of course it is. Because I, dear reader, am a Facebook Ninja.

Filed Under: Tech

That’s What You Get (for Waking up in Vegas)

August 9, 2011 By Dashing Gray 4 Comments

“Every city has its vices. We just advertise ours.”
~Las Vegas Cabbie

Vegas is unlike any other place in the country. It’s a continuous cascade of colored lights, punishing temperatures, booze, shows, food, and girls. It’s an oasis in an inhospitable desert–a town born from a dream. Being in Vegas is like living in a dream–whether it’s a fantasy or a nightmare is all a matter of perspective.

This town is a neon-studded dreamland of smoke, sounds, and alcohol. Here, it is far easier to find a bar than a water fountain, and margaritas flow by the gallon rather than the ounce. Each hotel whisks visitors to a new country of debauchery and glitz, each larger and more bedazzled than the last.

In this world, there’s no sense of time. The 110-degree daytime temperatures are imperceptible from the 99-degree evenings; the only difference is the absence of that big light in the sky. Days collide and overlap like tectonic plates as visitors ponder the pleasure of a midnight dip or marvel at the impressive eruptions of the world’s most famous fountain.

Tourists stumbling in from redeye flights and weekend escapes maintain an endless stream of caffeine, cocktails, and blackout curtains to overpower their circadian rhythms. Soaring daytime temperatures necessitate midday siestas for anyone wishing to venture down The Strip–the one street in America whose nighttime illumination jauntily competes with that of the day.  Even the time zone caters to this routine-less, indulgent lifestyle–the clock reads hours earlier than most of the country.

Inside, it’s midnight 24/7–hotel owners can’t allow high rollers to recognize the time slipping away like desert sand. A single, gluttonous lunch lasts them all day, eliminating the rhythm of regular meals. Seasons are indistinguishable as frigid air conditioning clashes with nature’s oven, and slot machines sound their endless loop of clinks and whistles. Years of cigarette smoke soak into everything, joining a stale blanket that transcends brand recognition and is noticeable only in its consistency. Gamblers are honed into the glowing screens of the slots with such intensity that the ebb and flow of surrounding foot traffic disappears, save the personal service of scantily clad waitresses prepared to cater to every whim.

And among all this, you have to admire Lady Vegas for her unapologetic intensity. In a country of insecurity, Vegas flaunts her good and bad with equal vigor. She is as self-assured as any model, and why shouldn’t she be? She was founded with the money of mobsters and imagined in the minds of dreamers. Nowhere on earth is it easier to lose yourself in fantasy, and she excels at creating it. Men have ruined their lives in her casinos and made it big on her stages, but she watches over all of it with a neon glitter in her knowing eye.

She is the land of opportunity–and the city of ruin.

Filed Under: Nostalgia

Windows of Death

July 25, 2011 By Dashing Gray 2 Comments

A few days ago, a man in a construction hat walked into our office area at work and, without comment, began taping off our office doors with crime-scene-yellow tape.

I might have thought it was a practical joke, except we’re not exactly big on those around here.

You see, they’re doing major construction on our building, a process that currently involves swinging large steel beams around on a crane. As you can imagine, there have been some welfare concerns involved with this process, which was best described in a recent e-mail from one of our higher-ups:

To avoid the risk of some tragic impaling as steel flies through the air outside of my office window, I have moved to the safety of ____ until the “all clear” is sounded.  My phone extension remains the same. All others on the Wall of Death will be moved to the outer reception areas of their offices.

Or at least this was the original story—until Hard Hat Man made my office look like an episode of CSI. They had previously told us we would be able to go in and out of our offices freely as long as there was no steel presently in the air, but now the story was quite the opposite—I had 15 minutes. We were like hurricane evacuees.

What do you save from your office in 15 minutes? Other than piles of the work-related stuff I needed for my actual job, I frantically grabbed up only the most essential personal items—chocolate wafers, a nail kit, and caramel coffee syrup. A girl’s gotta live.

My supervisor declared that she wanted me nowhere near the potential construction hazards—leading me to imagine some serious action-movie sequences in my head—so we began seeking out other options.

So there I was: a homeless, cardboard-box kitten in the rain.

The first possibility was in the midst of a frantic office, taking over various cubicles as their permanent occupants took staggered vacation days.

This porridge seemed a bit too chaotic.

Next was a secluded closet that may once have resembled an office, but which had since been overgrown with unwanted supplies, billions of nondescript shirts, and piles of too-important-to-toss-yes-useless-to-everyone paperwork that had stubbornly persevered through the annals of time. At the end of the world, there will be cockroaches and this paperwork. Most importantly, there was no sign of the computer terminals or desk that may once have resided here.

This porridge was too desperate.

Another option was the office of a part-timer who spends her summers out of state. This office was in the opposite corner of the building, near the end of an almost-deserted hallway. It’s always uncomfortable occupying someone else’s space, and this office in particular is located across the hallway from a notorious creeper.

This porridge too closely resembled a horror movie.

Luckily, in a last-ditch effort to find a home, I called the one person who may have had space available and was afforded a comfortable workspace—with a window, to boot! To IT’s credit, I had my computer and phone set up within the half-hour, and I was ready to go (minus my professional life being piled haphazardly on carts). Nonetheless, I have a new [temporary] home.

It may not be my office, but my coffee syrup and I can be comfortable here for a while.

Filed Under: Humor

Unwritten

July 20, 2011 By Dashing Gray 4 Comments

In grad school, ProDevo (professional development) was a phrase I heard a bit too often. It sounded, in theory, like a good idea to join conference committees, write journal articles, attend meetings, etc., but I was overworked, underpaid, and constantly exhausted. I had no time or energy for extras, and I couldn’t help but wonder about the usefulness of grad school–a venture undertaken solely for the purpose of developing professionally–if I was supposed to pursue external ProDevo all the time. If anything, I was interested only in pursuing things that were decidedly non-developmental.

Now that I’m a professional, ProDevo—beyond what is naturally part of the job—is virtually nonexistent. Like everyone, we have no funding for just about anything—traveling least of all. I dream of attending a national conference to get ideas for my job, but I can’t go without significant cash outlay on my part–a plan that probably sets a bad precedent.

Not long ago and firmly situated in NoProDevo-land, I hired a student worker. My supervisor had encouraged me for months to do so, but I had never supervised anyone and was anxious about it–I was still figuring out what I should be doing, much less trying to supervise someone else.

What I failed to realize then was how valuable the experience would be. Mentoring her also mentors me. Talking to her reminds me that a year ago, the security of a full-time job, a house, and a fiancee didn’t exist for me. It makes me appreciate how far I’ve come, but it also reminds me of the sheer exhilaration of possibility. Where I was once paralyzed by life’s many options, she is energized. Her constant desire to add more to her life—more jobs, more internships, more student organizations, and more experiences—reminds me of the set-aside goals I had in grad school and that I can finally pursue.

In her own way, she has guided me back to writing—something that was once a joy of mine but was tainted by a soul-sucking professional experience. When I left that first job in disgust, I lost sight of why I liked writing  in the first place. I lost all interest in the whole concept; I could only associate writing with the unhappiness and frustration of a bad situation. I shelved my prior enthusiasm and told myself I would write when I had more time.

And here the time is. The opportunities presented themselves. I started over by again writing for myself and developing a blog that saw me through the second half of grad school. From there, I had inadvertently developed a portfolio I could showcase in future pursuits.

I’ve joined a community blog and am in queue to be a part of another. Partially I hope to expand my audience and enhance my resume, but mostly it’s just exciting to know that others read my work.

And so my ProDevo may not look like the ProDevo of my grad-school cohort. It may not [literally] afford for attending expensive nationwide conferences and expanding my student affairs network. But I am expanding my network and growing all the same.

My student worker has brought me to understand something I may have already known but had lost through years of “shoulds.” Her many aspirations remind me of something that deep down, I already knew—that it all starts with a blank page.

Filed Under: Motivate

Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn (say WHAT?)

May 24, 2011 By Dashing Gray 1 Comment

Bed headImagine this scenario:

It’s midnight. You’re in a new city, and you’ve spent the day exploring on foot (read: lots of walking; tired feet). Afterward, you visited a piano bar and, due to high drink costs, had only enough alcohol to make you sleepy and to coat your teeth in that oh-so-pleasant layer of scummy sugar.

You walk into your hotel lobby to cash in on a room reservation that you’ve made ahead of time and already paid for in full.

There’s no one at the desk.

There’s also no bell to ring, so you figure you’ll just wait a few minutes until they come back from rounds, a smoke break, or whatever errand they may be doing.

About 15 minutes pass, and there’s still no sign of anyone. You start craning your neck toward the back room and calling “Hello? Hello?” in that pleading way that means you want nothing more than to just go to bed in peace.

You then notice a phone sitting in the lobby. Perhaps you can call the front desk and get it to ring in the back somewhere, where someone will pick up.

No luck. It just rings at the front desk where, as we’ve already established, no one is standing.

You try the same thing with your cell phone, yielding the same result.

At this point, it’s been about 20 minutes. This is getting weird and very frustrating. Where is everybody exactly? How is it possible that you are so close to collapsing into a comfortable bed for the night and yet so far away from it?

25 minutes have passed since you walked into the lobby. By this time, you’ve tried walking around the attached hallways, which only lead into mazes of locked guest rooms. You’ve gone in and out of the front door multiple times in hopes that some motion-activated bell would ring somewhere and get someone’s attention. You’ve called the other hotel of the same chain in town, and they said they would try to get a hold of someone. Their fruitless call also went to the staff-less front desk.

In a moment of desperation, you even screamed at the top of your lungs like you were being attacked because—let’s face it—this is an attack on your humanity.

What do you do now? Who else is even working at midnight?

I’ll tell you what I did: I called the police.

Yes, it was a ridiculous situation. Yes, the police probably have better things to do. But I was at a loss for appropriate action. I needed somewhere to sleep now. Plus, I’d already paid for this particular somewhere, so I couldn’t just up and choose a different one.

The police assured me that they would send someone over to make sure everything was ok. A few minutes later—we’re about 30 minutes in at this point—an officer walks in, and I admit with embarrassment that it was indeed me who called. He informs me that the other hotel across the parking lot (a different chain name) is actually attached, and he calls over the desk clerk from over there to see what’s going on.

The clerk says that he hasn’t seen our hotel’s employee yet tonight, and that she should have gotten in at 11. He knocks on the same door that we did—the one that employees enter to go into the back portion of the desk—and also yields no response.

So he slowly opens the door. I see his eyes pan around the room and then down to the floor. I see him give my fiancee a look, although from the angle I am standing, I can’t discern horror or annoyance specifically. The other employee enters the room and crouches down near the floor, gives a shake, then gives a significantly harder shake. Finally, there are signs of life.

The desk worker has been sleeping on the floor the whole time. Jon later tells me from his glimpse inside that she had set up a full bed for herself on the floor, complete with blankets and pillows.

I can’t hear if any words are exchanged, but the employee slowly emerges. Her hair is a mess, its short cut sticking out at countless odd angles. Her face shows no signs of remorse or panic, but rather she yawns laboriously, stretches a bit, and ruffles the back of her hair to smooth it down. In a small moment of victory for us, this ruffling actually makes her hair look worse.

The cop stands there just long enough to witness all of this, then whispers, “I’ll let you voice your complaint to her” and exits. I’m pretty sure he was trying to get out before he busted out laughing, and that he’s currently radioing in a pretty entertaining story to his cohorts.

So, finally, after she asks us if we’re “logging in” (…?) and to confirm our names—despite the the printout we handed her that lists everything in writing—we receive our keys. It is 12:40 a.m.

I sincerely doubt that this stuff happens to other people.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Misc

Everything but…

May 8, 2011 By Dashing Gray 4 Comments

“I’m not saying that everything is survivable.
Just that everything except the last thing is.”

~Quentin Jacobson, Paper Towns by John Green

In speaking with a student today–an ambitious young woman who has endless creativity and enthusiasm and maturity beyond her years–I discovered that she was “sort of broken up” with her boyfriend of 6 years. He sees their recent history as her distancing herself from their relationship; she sees it as taking time out to figure out who she really is.

I commend her for this. The better you know yourself, the more ready you can be for a relationship because you are coming into it as one whole person–not a half of a person who seeks the other.

Yet she feels guilty about the whole thing. She is constantly being told by friends that she is selfish and foolish because she is not devoting enough time to “her man”–the man who, by the way, these same “friends” insist she needs to marry ASAP.

I feel for what she’s going through. It is hard to be a young woman, even in the advanced-technology, improved-womens’-rights era of today. The truth is that no matter how far women have come, people will always question us. Friends and family will want to know why we can’t just settle down already. The enormous wedding industry will tell us how we should run everything for “the big day” (consequently reminding us that there is no question about whether or not we should have said day). Womens’ magazines–I’m looking at you, Cosmo–will always focus more on men than women. All this mixed with our own fears, insecurities, and worries that we’re not doing things “right,” or that we’ll die alone.

And then there are all the choices. We live in a fast-paced, information-saturated society that is more advanced than any before it. We have access to countless ideas instantaneously and constantly–all in the palm of our hands. While the generations before were expected to take a job–with limited options, if you were female–for the rest of their lives, we have an overwhelming cornucopia of opportunities at the beginning of our careers and throughout our lives.

Yet with these opportunities comes a price. It’s a paralysis that seems to particularly affect the most ambitious and analytical of women. We see everything. We want to do everything, and we want to do it perfectly. We’ve been told since birth that we can do anything.

But the paralyzing truth is that we can’t. There are still barriers in our lives, in ourselves, and in society that keeps us from doing everything we want to do.

Once, there was the metaphorical path in the yellow wood. A path, and an elusive second option. Today, there is a multi-lane freeway in those same woods. They’ve ripped down the trees and radiated roads out in all directions. And as we stand at the center of all those roads, looking out further than we ever could before, we realize that eventually, we’ve got to pick one. Because we have to move forward in our lives. Because not picking one really isn’t living. Because we’re ambitious and we want to grow.

But we stand in those woods for a long time, struggling to choose our path. We eventually realize that, in opening some doors, we close others. We can’t do anything because we want to do everything. We’re meticulously hand-crafting the lives we want for ourselves, but there are too many question marks.

But that doesn’t mean that life isn’t worth the journey, even when saying “yes” is more terrifying than saying “no.” Because, dear student, there are countless choices out there. We can read and research forever. We can take in countless facts and advice, but eventually we must act. And when we act, things may not turn out the way we had hoped. But they will be real. We will be moving forward in the highway of life, and new exits and opportunities will pop up along the way.

And the truth is, not everything is survivable.

Just everything but the last thing.

Filed Under: Misc, Motivate, Nostalgia, Relationships, Spirituality

Why Grad School Ruined My Life (and Made Me Fat)

May 2, 2011 By Dashing Gray 4 Comments

I know, I know. A higher education is supposed to open doors. More degrees = more opportunities, and all that. And since I am someone who in fact works in higher education, I must believe in it, right?

The answer is yes it does, and yes I do. I definitely wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for my master’s degree, and the fact that I have one at all is a great point of personal pride.

But tell that to the 15 extra pounds I packed on—and still haven’t lost—in year one of grad school.

Grad school, though great for intellectual development, is not exactly the prime place to optimize one’s girlish figure. Major stress + no free time + a billion late-night caramel lattes is not a good combination. Oh, the love-hate, addictive relationship I have with those lattes.

And then there’s the actual content of those grad-school classes. Grad programs, particularly those for Higher Education, are all about sensitivity to diversity and personal identity development, so most classes become sociological debates. Combine two years of this as a full-time student with a year of GA-ship in the Women’s Center, and you develop this near-constant, uber-feminist, damn-the-man, “what do you mean when you say ‘gay’?” mental feed that is very hard to turn off. Super Bowl beer commercials aren’t advertisements, but the misogynistic media oppressing women (and what does that body wash commercial say about men’s identity development?). Pop culture vampire movies are blatant demonstrations of white privilege. And can you believe the lies that Disney sold us as children?

You want to see my inner social-justice crusader go ape? Try suggesting to this 20-something, master’s-holding, recently engaged (after much related overanalyzing) individual that it’s selfish for a woman not to have children.

Yes, life was much simpler—albeit suckier—before grad school. When you’ve been constantly exposed to those kinds of debates, it’s really hard to just turn them off. I overanalyze everything. And you, dear reader, usually get a taste of that inner insanity in this blog.

The latte habit isn’t easy to kick, either.

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Opinion, Politics

In Defense of Home

April 22, 2011 By Dashing Gray 7 Comments

I live in the far-west suburbs. Or rather, I live in a semi-rural area that most “true Chicagoans” would probably equate to shoe gum in the hierarchy of suburban prestige (assuming they were willing to admit that any suburb deserved any prestige, or that where I live even qualifies as a suburb). Nonetheless, it is more modernized and populated than most people give it credit for, and I generally find things here to be pretty satisfactory.

It seems that most people who live in Chicago proper are vehemently passionate about their lifestyle choice and are willing to engage in a heated debate about it with anyone who will listen. I don’t exactly mind this; it is good to show pride in where one is from. Maybe Chicagoans have always been this way because they incorrectly interpret “the Second City,” as an insult from New York, Chicago’s older and even more prestigious sibling. Or maybe it is because the most vehement people I know on this subject are from extremely small towns themselves—far smaller than where I live now—and are desperately trying to shuck off those past identities in an attempt to urbanize and modernize.

No, I don’t necessarily mind this ferocity because we should all be ambassadors to our hometowns; if we won’t defend where we live, who will? However, I do not apprciate the flak I’ve been receiving from these very city folk for my choice of homestead. Their arguments are always a “top this,” an “either-or.” They come out along the lines of “I love Chicago. It’s great. Too bad where you live sucks. I bet you wished you lived in Chicago.” I mean, not in so many words, but you get the point. This will not stand.

So, in defense of home, here’s my top-10 list:

  1. I am a 20-something who not only lives in more than 300 square feet of space, but who also owns it. I don’t have to worry about leaky windows and dangerous electrical from the turn of the century because my building was built in 2004.
  2. I don’t have to work two jobs to maintain my standard of living, which in turn provides me with the time to enjoy where I live.
  3. I can hop in the car—without going outside—whenever I want and drive it to the location of my choice. Once I arrive, I can park there. My car is waiting for me upon my return, and the trip doesn’t smell like urine. My beloved garage protects my car from snow, and gas is as affordable as it’s ever going to be.
  4. Free corn, anyone?
  5. There’s a local place where I can buy mixed drinks for less than $5 regularly, and there’s no cover charge or coat fee. Similarly, I can afford to eat out regularly. Too regularly, probably.
  6. I can go to any restaurant/club around whenever I want—and actually get in.
  7. No random roommates.
  8. I can walk down the street without being hassled for money.
  9. I don’t pay the highest sales tax in the country.
  10. There are actually trees here. And grass. And bike trails. And you can actually use them because a billion other people aren’t also there getting their weekly dosage of nature.

And, might I add, that the big-city benefits are a train ride away?

So there you go: why where I live is worth it. No, I probably won’t live here forever. No it’s not my ideal place. But it’s a pretty great start. You should come visit sometime—and hey, enjoy some roasted corn while you’re here.

Filed Under: Misc, Nostalgia, Opinion

Enchanté

April 15, 2011 By Dashing Gray 6 Comments

The French have this word. Enchanté. It’s a word you say after an introduction, meaning “nice to meet you.” It’s a nice word, a friendly one. I would love for English to pick it up.

Anyway, any proper introduction requires some background. Back story, if you will. Something along the lines of “Steve, meet Anna. Anna works with me.” This tells you a bit about how our metaphorical Steve knows Anna and alerts you to remember that she must be the one he’s been talking about…

These introductions may be brief, but they inform us about our worlds and how things piece together. We like to have such information when we’re trying to make sense of things. It helps us feel a bit more comfortable–and I’d love for us all to be friends. So let me start at the beginning. To introduce myself.

Hello.

Nice to meet you.

I’m new here. My name here is Dashing Gray. I’m a 20-something introvert in an extroverted world, but I hide it well–sometimes. I work in higher education and enjoy it most of the time, but students occasionally leave me wondering “Higher than what?”

Grad school taught me to question society and overanalyze everything. Even so, I’ve stumbled into a lovely interracial relationship that has blossomed into an even lovelier engagement. The wedding and marriage in general are frequent writing topics, as harshest feminist rants tend to surface in conjunction with conversations about dyed shoes and monogrammed napkins.

My name, Dashing Gray, is a combination of two different but similar ideas.

The dashing part—besides a nod to stunning good looks everywhere—is based on the poem “The Dash” by Linda Ellis and Mac Anderson. The gist is that, on one’s tombstone, there is a date of birth and a date of death, but the important part is the dash between:

For it matters not,
how much we own,
the cars….the house….the cash.
What matters is how we live and love—
and how we spend our dash.

It’s a good reminder to us all about the nature of life. And its fleeting-ness. And all of that. But you know the story.

Dashing is also a commentary on my often-hectic lifestyle. Good hectic, most of the time. I like things that way.

And then there’s the gray part. That comes from this song, “Beauty of Gray” by the band Live. The whole song talks about how we’re really not all that different from each other, which is something I learned the slow way in the five years I spent in an interracial relationship that eventually blossomed into an engagement. (to the tune of “finally” from plenty of outsiders. More on that eventually). My fiancée and I come from vastly different backgrounds on paper, but we’re alike in many ways. The song says:

This is not a black and white world
To be alive
I say that the colors must swirl
And I believe
That maybe today
We will all get to appreciate
The Beauty of Gray

This very grayness is why I write. It’s all about the ambiguity, the confusion, the lines–sometimes desired, sometimes imagined, sometimes fought–that we live with, or near, or in spite of that shape our lives. Lines that, despite how real they seem, don’t actually exist. Real life is the gray. And I’m slowly learning that it can be beautiful.

So enchanté. Nice to meet you! I hope to see you around. Maybe we can explore the gray together?

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Filed Under: Misc