Boston

I remember exactly where I was during the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. I was in fifth grade on my way to school. The bus was turning a corner and I was staring out at the golf course when my friend, who was sitting beside me, informed me that her parents told her a plane had crashed into a building. I didn't understand the significance until I got to school. My teacher was watching the news coverage on our classroom TV, which showed videos of planes flying into buildings and the buildings crashing down. Images of bloody people. The news that some people had jumped from their windows to escape the destruction only to die on the pavement. Other planes were aimed for other locations. Pretty soon the television was turned off due to our young, impressionable minds. I don't remember much more of that day, but I remember the feelings of devastation and disbelief. The absolute horror. And the one overarching question: why?

Today, I was reminded of those feelings. After all, this is the most violent attack against my country since 9/11. Bombings in Boston. At this point, everything is still up in the air. How many explosions were there? Were they all connected? How many bombs didn't explode? Are we in danger? Two deaths, one an eight-year-old boy. The injury count gets higher and higher with every update. Who is responsible? Will they come forward? Is this a terrorist attack? Will we ever know?

And again, why?

I was ten years old when I first began to struggle with this question. It was incomprehensible to me that anyone, no matter what they were fighting for, would deliberately try to kill innocent people. What kind of hate drives people to murder people they've never known? Just how deranged does a person have to be to decide to place a bomb where everyday citizens are simply living their lives?

The news says New York is on high alert. ABC news station, which I live next to, is constantly updating its live feed. I went out after work, and the city just didn't feel normal. Cops were out on the streets to keep an eye on the well-known areas of the city. The news was on every television in every restaurant and bar. I caught snippets of conversations from people walking by, discussing the probability of this being a terrorist organization outside the U.S. and whether we were in danger too. Talking about family or friends in Boston. As I sat on a park bench beside Central Park, a police car drove down the sidewalk not one foot from me. A helicopter hovered over downtown Manhattan for over an hour, likely watching for danger.

They can talk politics. They can talk religion. Whatever they want. But nothing changes the fact that today, people died. Today, people were hurt. My nation, my world was invaded. Someday, whoever did this will face the consequences. But today, pray for Boston. Pray for all the people who were hurt or affected by this awful, awful tragedy. Today, stand together.

Boston, we love you.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's . . . opening a window?

There's something about New York they never really tell you. When you live in an apartment building, you don't get to control your own heat. You can have a stable job, a family or even own the stupid building, but for some reason nobody thinks you're capable of choosing your own temperature. The gods that be (namely the second floor, where all the important decisions are made) decide just how warm/cool you get to be. Usually, they choose wrong and I end up keeping my window open half the night in the middle of winter.

A few nights ago was such a night. I had borne the insufferable heat all evening and found my apartment comparable to a sauna. I opened the window and resettled on my couch when I heard the sound of dripping water coming from outside. Well that's odd, I thought (in an English accent, I might add. Dr. Who and I have become mates in the last few days). I moved my screen and stuck my head out the window to try to pinpoint the noise.

It was dark, so I listened as hard as I could. It seemed to me that the dripping was coming from an apartment building right beside mine. I knew they had a mini water tower on the roof, and what else could it be? It's not like they have rivers in the middle of Manhattan. 

I was then faced with a dilemma-do I stay or do I go? By then it must have been 1:30 AM. Was it worth alarming someone for a problem I thought was happening? Or should I just stay in my apartment and hope nothing was wrong? My mind flew through a hundred possibilities. Perhaps the tower had somehow sprung a leak, and all the water was pooling out onto the roof. Pretty soon they would know because it would start dripping into the top floor's ceiling. Perhaps the people living there would be relocated for a while and it would be all my fault for not telling anyone!

Chill, Chels. Breathe. You don't know this city well yet. Perhaps that's a normal sound. What do you know? Do you really want to embarrass yourself by telling someone you heard the sound of water and you think that's a problem? Admit it, that sounds a little stupid. And who would you tell?

Well, I could tell one of my doormen. He wouldn't hate me, right? Okay, so maybe I'd get teased. What else is new? I'm leaving in a week anyway.

So I went down and told the doorman on duty. He thought it was a little amusing, but said he'd get someone to check it out. One of the other doormen came up with me and stuck his head out my living room window to check the location. "Yep," he confirmed. "That's the water tower." He left, promising to let me know if anything happened.

Two days passed before I saw him again. By then I figured that nothing had ever been wrong and had buried that memory in the corner of my mind where I keep things I'd rather not think about. So it took a minute to figure out what was going on when that doorman stopped me when I came home from work. "Hey Chelsea!" he said. "Remember that water tower you told me about? Turns out it did have a leak. I talked to some guys who work over there and they said they'd get it fixed."

Look at me, ya'll. Saving the world one water tower at a time.

Some tears are worth the joy

Today, I cried.

In public too, which has always been an embarrassing thing for me. I sat there with a missionary couple on one side, my best girl Sarah on the other and two Buddhist monks sitting behind me. Not the most ideal place to break down, but at least the majority of the watchers wouldn't think anything was wrong.

But hey, when the Spirit calls you don't have much of a choice.

I had formed my "conference questions". I had set my goals. I was ready to have a good experience. What I didn't expect was the overwhelming feeling that, among all the people in the world, this talk was meant for me. I felt like the speaker had peered into my soul, dragged out all the lonely and hurting portions, and patched them up individually. He said the most comforting words I have ever heard, then gently steered me towards a path to happiness.

Then, I was reminded that my Heavenly Father loves me. I'm not always emotional, but even I couldn't hold back.

I remembered just how much I love General Conference.

If you're struggling with anything, whether you're Mormon or not, the words of the apostles and prophets will find a way to help you. Find the hope that only the true gospel can bring.

You will never regret it.

lds.org

Me, myself and marriage

What is it about marriage that makes LDS people (girls especially) go, well, a little crazy? Oh yeah, maybe it's the whole YOU CANNOT BE A GOD/GODDESS WITHOUT IT. Slightly important. Not to mention the I-don't-want-to-be-alone-for-the-rest-of-my-life outlook. And it's good to focus on marriage. After all, when our entire religion is based on going back into God's presence with our eternal families, you might want to spend some time discussing that.

Still, all this marriage talk is starting to drive me a little crazy.

As you may know, I'm not exactly looking for marriage. I'm not in love and haven't seriously dated anyone in a while. So it may come as a surprise for you to know that I deliberately went to a marriage discussion today.

I know, I'm shocked too.

I was with the girls from my ward. All of them great, attractive, leading fulfilling lives, etc. The topic of conversation: what is wrong with our ward? Nobody dates! And . . . we spent 2 1/2 hours discussing that fact. Oh, there were relationship stories thrown in, people asking for advice, and the occasional hilarious comment, but really. After an hour I was ready to be gone. Now obviously the girls there were amazing people. I look up to them. They're very intelligent and wanted to make a change. But I was curious. Where was the planning? If we didn't like how things are, shouldn't we put together a game plan? A few suggestions were brought up, only to be shot down or left to die without discussion. The overarching conclusions: Dating in the ward could be better. Things need to change. Everyone's relationship is different. The end.

And I thought, did we really need to get together to come up with that?

See, here's my perspective. I'm a single 22-year-old who is happy where she is. And I see nothing wrong with that. Now, I understand that, as you get older, marriage becomes a higher and higher priority. I get that. My bishop gets it too. In fact, he gets the people in my ward better than they get themselves. During ward conference, he remarked "I have never seen so many unhappy people who are so unwilling to do anything about it." The man should write a book.

So if you're not dating and you want to be, do something about it. Getting a bunch of girls together in a room to bemoan the fact that the men in the ward need to step it up isn't going to help. Men always need to step it up, in girls' opinions. Instead, how about the girls do something? Invite the guys over. Make them food (fastest way to the heart, ladies). Ask the guy on a date. You may not get married, but at least you'll be dating and doing all you can do to get to that goal.

In the meantime, realize that it is possible to be happy without being married. Of course we're always working towards the best life we can imagine for ourselves, but there's nothing wrong with being happy with the single life. Or the dating life. Be happy wherever you are, and then life can only get better.

And if you're still not satisfied, please take into consideration the words of a former roommate: "If you don't like where you are, change it. You are not a tree."

So who's BYU playing again?

I went to it. The big one. The one everyone was so excited about. That's right folks, I saw BYU play in Madison Square Garden! Everyone in my office was excited. Every LDS member in New York was planning on going and bought their tickets early in the morning before any other time zone thought about waking up.

And I, of course, had no idea what the big deal was. My sister called me and said, "BYU is going to the semi-finals! We're buying tickets. Do you want one?" And I replied, "wait, which sport are we talking about?"

My fellow office mates were astounded (and I don't use that word lightly) to find that I didn't much care about the game. Especially Sister Jones, who could tell you the stats of every BYU player known to man. "Well dear," she said, "try to look like you're having fun at the game. You don't want to disappoint your family."

Unfortunately, my family already knows. My dad pinpointed me exactly. He called me the day of the big game to chat (about the game, of course). "So what time is the game, Chelsea?"

"I don't know. I'll have to ask Torie."

"Where are your seats?"

"Somewhere in the stadium. I don't think they're nosebleeds, but I'm not sure."

"Do you even know who's playing?"

"BYU?"

"I didn't think so."

Hey, at least I'm trying. I even had my sister teach me some basketball terms. I can now add "free throw", "foul shot" and "Brandon Davies" to my vocabulary. Maybe next year I'll attempt to understand what the heck all the fouls are about.

Confessions of a shopaphobic

I wear clothes. I like to look nice. But when it comes down to it, I'd rather take a midterm than shop for the darned things. Walking into a clothes store can make me more ornery than three consecutive nights with no sleep. Due to this irrational reaction, I still have clothes from my high school days simply because I can't bear to shop to replace them. On my days off, you may have difficulty telling the difference between me and a homeless person. I don't take credit for the crazy hair in this picture though, humidity really is out of my control.

My older sister gave me my first experience with 'What Not to Wear'. You know, that show where they take people who couldn't dress themselves if their lives depended on it and turn them into stylish gurus. "Chelsea!" she said, "I watched this episode and thought of you." Ouch - or it would have been, if I even knew that the show existed. As if a girl who hates to shop would watch a show about shopping. So I sat with her and watched it. The poor girl was bullied into giving up ALL her clothes, even the ones she loved. Then she walked into a store and reenacted my entire life story. "Ugh, look at that. That is so ugly. This is pointless. I'm going home." I was right there with her. Or I was, until my sister looked at me and said, "you know, that was the part that reminded me of you. You act exactly the same way." And she was right. Her "casual" comments throughout the show got through to me - this was a threat. If I didn't want Stacy and Clinton to toss my pathetic wardrobe, not to mention be humiliated on national television, I had better get some better clothes.

So I went shopping. Found a few outfits, started caring more. I based everything of the thought, "if Stacy and Clinton saw my clothes, would they be mocking me?" I got compliments on my style, and for a while all was well with the world.

Then I started to slack off. After all, the new clothes high can only last for so long and my hoodie was much more comfortable. My main motivation became, "would Stacy and Clinton mock me that much?" Bag Lady Chelsea hadn't returned, but Informal Chelsea was making an appearance.

Then I applied for an internship in New York and, by some miracle, got it. Welcome to round two of shopping for hours, getting "internship appropriate clothes", so said my mother. I now wear a skirt six out of the seven days of the week (work and church). I look respectable and even have some great outfits. Still, my style is somewhat lacking.

"But you live in New York!" basically every girl on the planet cries. "Go find something!" But see, here's the problem. While I know HOW to dress, I just don't want to go shopping for it. In fact, I am probably the only female on the planet who was not excited about all the shopping options of the big city. Welcome to my life's dilemma. I did go once, and found this lovely gem. Valued at $5860.00, you could own this coat for the generous price of $2109.97. Why didn't I buy it? Let me count the ways . . . .

No worries, I did find a dress with a much more suitable price. But that's not the point. To me, most clothes look like that coat up there. Gaudy, overpriced, and completely unnecessary. Find me a subtle-looking shirt and I'm happy. Lucky for me I have an older sister and mother who know me well and can coerce (or threaten) me into submission. Really, I love you both.

My shopaphobia isn't going to end anytime soon. Neither is the need to look good. I just have to grit my teeth and bear it - unless anyone knows of a Shopaphobics Anonymous I could go to?

Hitting the wine

When the conversation lags, I like to ask a somewhat controversial question: what would you do if you weren't Mormon? I'm not really looking for an honest answer, just an interesting conversation. Until recently, I would answer with, "I would drink wine with dinner. And maybe champagne at parties." See, wine was an unknown existence. It's always gorgeously colored, and people talk about its hint of fruit or heady aroma. And really, who wouldn't want to drink out of a wine glass? They look so elegant!

Notice the past tense in the last paragraph.

I was in my apartment reaching for a pan in the back of my cupboard. That thing could rival Mary Poppin's bag with all the miscellaneous junk I've found in there. I stood in front of it, searching by feel for something I had put away only yesterday. Where was the stupid thing? Finally, my hand grasped a handle. Success! I pulled it out, unintentionally bringing random Tupperware lids and the last tenant's wine bottle along with it. Next thing I knew I was standing in the middle of shards of glass and a dark red, sticky puddle that was quickly growing.

Have you ever smelled wine? I'm quite curious about the first person who saw rotting grapes and thought, hey, I should drink that mess. And the headache after is totally worth it!

Wine has the absolute most revolting smell. It's something like cleaning detergent mixed with the first whiff when you open the bottom refrigerator drawer and discover the fruit you forgot about for six months. I had to open all my windows and throw away each bundle of wine-soaked paper towels as I used it up. By the time my oven and fridge had been pulled out and cleaned under, I had already decided. It doesn't matter that I already don't drink alcohol. If I weren't Mormon, I would have made my resolution on the spot. I will never, ever drink wine. No amount of research can convince me that something I can't even bear to smell would taste any better in my mouth. Looks like I'll need a different non-Mormon fantasy.