Monday, July 27, 2015

Moments With My Mission President

I have a strange relationship with people in authority.

90 percent of the time, when I first meet them, I'm very quiet. I don't say much. I just sit back and listen to what they tell me to do.
And then, generally about four to six months later, I totally and completely, 100 percent break out of my shell, and I am totally and completely, 100 percent myself.

I had one of my teachers put it best. I was one of her helpers, and I went back to visit her. She said to me, "You always just treated me like your equal. At first you were quiet, and then you just acted like we were best buds, even though I told you what to do. It was a shocking turn around."

I had the same thing happen with my mission president.

Mission president = in a nut shell, he's the man who watches over all the missionaries. He assigns them to a companion, to an area, and makes sure they stay out of trouble and remain obedient. He's kind of in control of receiving direct revelation from God over your whole life for 18 months to two years.
He's kind of a big deal.

I absolutely loved my mission president. He and his wife were two of the most humble, loving, and spiritual people I have ever met. They were in their 70’s, and as soon as I met them, I felt instant love from them. I knew they cared about me, and wanted the best for me, and all my fellow missionaries.

But it was same thing in this situation than before. When I first got to New York, I was very quiet and inside my shell. I wasn't really myself. I didn't know what to do. I was completely shell shocked!

And then six months later, I became very much myself. Almost too much of myself at times, really.

I can think of a few times when I slowly warmed up to him, but the first time I remember really being myself was in an interview with him.
It was the dead of winter in upstate New York. I was going through - looking back now - the hardest time on my mission. We were in an interview, and I started to tear up. Not like, sobbing or anything, but there were tears in my eyes.
My mission president began to dig through his bag, looking for tissues.
"Oh, shoot. I know I had some, but I think I used them up on the last missionary." He said.
I can only imagine what he thought when he looked up. I was leaning forward in my chair, my head down towards the floor. As I sat like this, I said to him, "Don't even worry, President. If I lean forward like this, the tears fall straight out of my eyes and onto the ground. That way, my makeup doesn't smudge, and no one will have any idea I was crying, and I still look good."
". . . Okay . . . well . . . hang in there." he said, and sat back in his chair.

And from there, it slowly escalated.

The next took place three months later, when he showed up at a meeting where there were about 12 missionaries gathering. After the meeting took place, an elder pulled him aside to talk to him.
I glanced at his iPad which he left sitting on the table, then I glanced at him. Earlier in the meeting, he was showing off his new iPad to everyone. He even showed some of the missionaries some of the new apps the church provided.
I glanced back at the iPad.
I glanced at President.
And I instantly grabbed it.
It was locked, of course, but I could still access the camera. It was then that I went crazy with selfies. I kept striking a weird face, a pose, or a dashing smile, and would take a picture.
A few minutes later, he was done speaking with the missionary and walked back to me, where I stood with his iPad.
"President!" I said, jumping next to him, iPad in hand, "Take a selfie with me!"
I lifted the iPad and we took a couple pictures together, then he took it away from me while saying, "Very good, Sister Stimpson, but that's enough."

A few weeks later, I was at a meeting in Utica. I wanted to ask him a few questions, but I had to wait for him to be done with a private meeting before I did so. While I waited, I stood by the water cooler outside his office and filled a little plastic cup with water.
No sooner after I had done that, his door opened, and he beckoned me in.
I sat down and we discussed the couple questions and concerns I had. I didn't drink out of my water, but I did hang onto it so I could drink out of it later.
The meeting didn't last long. Probably two minutes, tops. As he opened the door to escort me out, he patted me on the arm while saying, "You're doing good work. Never give up. Don't settle for failure."
Of course he patted the arm with the cup of water in it.
And water splashed all over my arm, my dress, my leg, and my foot. I smiled at him, shook his hand with my wet hand and said, "Thanks, President."
And I threw the cup away, which was now only one third full.

The following month, I was at a similar meeting in Utica. Here, around 15 missionaries would gather together and discuss the needs of the mission.
Partway through the meeting, we took a lunch break.
I wasn't hungry yet, so I headed to the main office in the building. It was there that they held all the mail the missionaries got, before forwarding it to wherever the missionaries were located.
"Did I get any mail?" I asked the sister missionary in charge of forwarding mail.
"Take a look," she said, cheerfully showing me where the incoming mail was.
I dug through the pile, and found a letter addressed to me.
I smiled, and plopped down comfortably in a big, cushioned chair. I draped my legs over one of the arms of the chair, and draped one of my arms over the opposite arm of the chair, and read my letter.
No sooner after I had comfortably positioned myself this way, did my mission president walk in.
He stared at me, and I stared back at him. I could feel my face flushing. This certainly wasn't a proper way to be sitting.
And so, I did the only thing my racing mind could think to do.
I nodded my head once, and said, "'Sup."
He stared at me a second longer, then said, "Sister Stimpson." and walked away.
My companion, who was standing nearby, looked at me questionably.
"What?" I said, defensively, "He already saw me. It's not like I'm gonna pretend I WASN'T sitting that way."

Similar meeting, the following month. Lunch break, once again.
We rarely saw our mission president in anything other than a suit. I was at a table with missionaries, and my companion and I brought up the subject of what our mission president wore to bed. What kind of pajamas did this man wear?
"I'm guessing a giant 'Syracuse' T-Shirt with sweat pants." said one.
"No, I think a big night gown with a cap." said another.
"Silk pajamas. Definitely silk pajamas."
“I still can’t picture him in anything other than a suit.”
"Think he wears socks?"
"In this weather? Of course he does."
"I don't think he does."
"Think his pajamas match?"
"No."
"Yes."
"Nobody wears matching pajamas."
"I wear matching pajamas!"
"Sister Stimpson! Go ask him!" said one.
"What? What? Why me?" I blubbered.
"You're the one that brought it up!"
"I can't!"
"Sister Stimpson, what's the worst that could happen?" he presented to me.
"Don't ask her that! She's the queen of worst-case-scenario!" said my companion.
"I could get sent home early." I responded, living up to my royalty.
"He's not going to do that for asking him what pajamas he wears!"
"You don't understand," I said, "You have no idea the weird things he has seen me do!"
"So he'll be used to it. Go ask him!"
"FINE."
I stood up, and marched over to President.
"Heeeey, President," I said. "So, I'm just wondering . . . what kind of pajamas do you wear?"
"Flannel." he responded without missing a beat.
"Do they match?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Socks?"
"Nope."
"Cap?"
"Nope."
"Okay, thanks."
I walked back over to the table and said, "Matching flannel pajamas, no socks, no cap."
"OOOOOOH!" said the missionaries, followed by some cries of “I knew it”, “Wow no socks”, and “That fits him”.

Similar meeting, the following month. I came up to him, and asked him if I would be remaining in the leadership assignment I was currently in. When he told me I wasn't, I expressed my disappointment and sadness to him, and although I don't remember what I said, I have no doubt it had a touch of sass with it. To which he responded, "Well, you've still got time. I could call you to be in this position again."
"Buddy, I've only got three months left! OH MY GOSH I JUST CALLED YOU BUDDY. I am SO sorry! That just slipped out! I'm so sorry! Can I call you buddy? Is that okay?"
"Sure, you can call me buddy."
"Thanks, buddy! You're the best!"



Jump forward to the second to last month on my mission, when President arrived at our church meeting that Sunday.
"Hey, President. So . . . I never really knew my grandpas . . . I don’t think they were the best of guys . . . but I guess what I’m asking is . . . well, can I adopt you as my grandpa?"
"Sure!"
I got a huge smile on my face and said, "Thanks, grandpa! Can I extend my mission and stay a little longer?"
"No." he said sternly.
"Please?"
"NO." he said even more sternly.
"WHY?!" I said, matching his tone.
"OBEDIENCE!"
"FINE."

Fast forward to near the end of my mission. I think President might have been losing tolerance with my craziness.
He and two other missionaries came to our apartment to drop off a dresser. They did their duty, we shook hands, and they left. Soon after he left, however, I remembered a question I needed to ask him. So I said, "Oh, shoot!"
I took off in a sprint across the wooden floor in my fuzzy, purple socks and black dress.
I neared the door, and shouted, "PRESI---"
And at that moment, I slipped on the yoga mat that was laying on the ground.
And so, it came out as:
"PRESIDEEEEEEEEEEEEEENT!"
BOOM!
"OW!"
My hip and arm were already throbbing, but I crawled over to the front door and yanked it open as I whimpered "president" to myself. I stood up and ran to the front steps, where President raced back to the bottom of them.
"What is it?!" he asked, pure terror in his eyes.
"Heeeey! Good, you're still here. Sorry, I fell. So, we were talking with the elders in this area and were wondering if-"
Instantly, all terror in his eyes left, and he got this look on his face that read: 'Are you kidding me, Sister Stimpson?' and he said, "I already talked to them about it. You guys are fine."
And he turned around and walked back to the car.
"Oh. Okay. Um. THANKS PRESIDENT! YOU'RE THE BEST."

We had a really awkward last interview together. I won’t go into detail. You just had to be there. And I have no doubt he was thinking to himself, "Oh Sister Stimpson. You never fail to live up to your legacy."

The final day of being a missionary. He stood at the airport with all the missionaries who were waiting to go home. Tears were in my eyes as he shook hands with missionaries one-by-one. He got to me, and shook my hand. I held onto it and said, "President . . . can I hug you?"
"No." he said.
"Okay."
And then he gave me a quick side hug before walking away, and a tear escaped my eye as a huge smile spread across my face.

I said, mostly to myself, "He hugged me! President hugged me!"

I had the opportunity to go back to New York a few weeks ago. I knew he'd be at the Tabernachal Choir concert we were attending. Diligently, I sought him out in the crowd. And when I saw him? I hugged him, and cried tears of joy.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm just so happy to see you!"
"Good . . . so . . . what are you up to?" he asked me.
"Just . . . seeing the mission. You?" I responded.
"Oh, you know . . . getting ready to come home."
"Crazy. Are you excited?"
"Mixed feelings. Much like you had."
I nodded, then said, "President, can I take a selfie with you?"
"Sure!"
I whipped out my phone and said, "Look! I have my OWN iPhone, now!"
"Fancy." he said.
We smiled for the picture. He shook my hand once more, and walked away.

A few Sunday’s ago, I got to see him at his homecoming talk.
"Hello, again!" he said to me.
"PRESIDENT!" I said in a voice far too loud for the chapel.
"Long time no see."
"I know, it's been a while."
He shook my hand, and as he shook it, he turned to the missionaries around me and said, "This sister saw me in New York and just laid one on me."
"Yup. Yup. I . . . I definitely did that." I said, unsure of what to say exactly.
He gave me a quick hug, then trotted off.
Before I left that day, I shook his hand once more and said, "President . . . can we be best friends?"
" . . . . Sure!"


And just think. These were the stories of just one of the two hundred plus missionaries President was over. And these are just SOME of the stories! I didn't even touch on my protestations to get push scooters approved, or my pleas to allow me to open a super, super, ghetto, and scary area of the mission for sister missionaries. Let's not forget the time I was motioning to him during a talk he was giving in church to fix his tag because it was crooked. Or the time he gave me good news over the phone and I screamed in excitement right into his ear.
There are many small side conversations him and I had that really influenced me, no matter how strange they must've seemed to him.
Think of all the stories he and his wife have.
Think of all the missionaries they presided over.
Think how many bizarre missionaries like myself they had to deal with.
Think how much love they had.
Think how many people they influenced.
Despite my weirdness, I am so grateful they were patient and loving with me, because through that patience and love, both  taught me so much that I know nobody else could. They truly exemplified the Savior.




Friday, July 17, 2015

Good morning, Awkward

Hello my friends!

Now, a couple weeks ago, I posted a story about the very first morning with one of my companions. We got off to a really weird and awkward beginning.

Well, if we're being honest here, that companionship? We got ourselves into WAAAAY too many awkward moments. It was hysterical, really. Sure, missions in-and-of themselves are awkward, and I had had QUITE a few of those awkward moments. But for some reason, this companion and I got ourselves into more awkward moments in a such a short amount of time than I had my whole mission.

Since last time I talked about our first morning together, I find it appropriate that I talk about our last morning together, because it was just as awkward, and made a pretty good story, too.

We had gotten calls a few days earlier finding out that my companion would be moving areas, and I would be staying and receiving a new companion. Our instructions were, the day that everyone would have to move, we would meet up with the elders (male missionaries) at 6:45 in the morning, and drive to Utica; the central location for all the missionaries that were leaving.

We talked to the elders the night before to confirm plans.

"Okay, so we'll meet you at the church at 6:45?" they asked us.

"Yes." we responded.

"You PROMISE us you'll be there then?"

"YES! We PROMISE! We wont be late!"

My companion and I crawled into bed that evening, setting our alarm clock for 5:50 a.m. Too early for my taste, but what could you do?

As with every other night on the mission, I was so exhausted that I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Before I knew it, I was waking up to the gasp of my companion. Still groggy, I opened my eyes. . . to hear her say, "SISTER STIMPSON. IT'S 6:40 RIGHT NOW."

Instantly, I shot out of bed. Probably within thirty seconds, I had changed into a dress, and as my companion changed, I was throwing her bedding into a suitcase.
As she continued to quickly get ready for the day, I dragged her suitcases towards the door and frantically called the elders.

Voicemail.

"Uh, hey guys! So, uh, you know how we promised you we'd be there on time? Well, we woke up at 6:40, so we're gonna be late, BUT DON'T WORRY! We'll ALMOST be on time! OKAY SORRY BYE!"

I hung up, and began to throw on some makeup as my companion finished gathering the last of her unpacked items.

Probably about a minute later, the elders called back. I grabbed my companions last suitcase with one hand and dragged it to the door, and answered the phone with the other.

"HELLO." I said.

"Yo." they replied.

"HI! OKAY! DID YOU LISTEN TO MY VOICEMAIL?"

"No." the responded.

"Okay, so, we woke up at 6:40, so we're going to be late. But don't you fret, because we are on our way now. So we will ALMOST be on time!"

"Wait, you woke up when?!" he asked.

"6:40. I am so sorry! But we're on our way!"

That was a half lie. Dragging her suitcase to the door was kind of on our way . . . to the car . . .

"Sister Stimpson."

"What?" I said frantically.

"It's 5:50 right now."

I stopped dead in my tracks. I looked at the clock hanging above our desk. Sure enough. 5:50.
A second later, the alarm went off on our phone. I quickly hit dismissed, dropped the suitcase, and said, ". . .I hate my life."

"What is it?!" my companion asked, one shoe on, the other one in her hand.

"Sister . . . it's 5:50."

"WHAT?!"

She looked at the clock, and saw what it said. She then stormed, furious, back into the bedroom, flopped down on her bed, and yelled angry things into the pillow.

I put the phone back up to my ear.

"Elder?"

"Yes?" he responded, sounding fairly amused.

". . . we are most definitely going to be on time."

And that we were. We were also accompanied by a series of laughs and questions from the elders.

"How did you guys think it was that early, anyway?" asked an elder.

"I MISREAD THE CLOCK. IT WAS TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING, OKAY?!" replied my companion.

"Did you not look at the clock when you woke up, Sister Stimpson?!" one asked.

"No."

"Why?"

"Cause I already knew I was late. There's no sense in looking at the clock if you're late. It's not gonna speed you up - it's just going to stress you out. So if I know I'm late, I just hurry."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

I scoffed and said, "Okay. Let me know how on time you are when you're already late and keep checking the clock."

"Valid."

"I know."

And, as awkward as my time with that companion started was, it ended just as awkward. Though I have to say, thanks to the people I served around, it was one of the best times I could ask for.

Have an awkward day, everyone.


Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Real Time With Camilla: Episode 2

Occasionally, I like to just write down my thoughts and feelings about life, like most bloggers do. But, I hate reading those kinds of blogs, so generally I don't write them.

However, I've made a few observations about my future career that I wanted to express, because A) There's a lot of awkwardness behind them and B) I don't know. I felt like it.

So, without further ado . . .

Welcome to Real Time With Camilla: Episode 2: My Thoughts and Feelings of Being a Journalist in Training.

For Episode 1, please see this. Although it's WAY more serious than this one.

I guess you can say I'm a journalist in training. Yes, I have a LOT to learn and a lot more experience to gain, but I still have some baby experience with journalism that really has opened my eyes for whats ahead in the future. Recently, I've noticed some trends that seem to keep reoccurring throughout my history of being a journalist in training.

I suppose I've been "in training" since my senior year of high school, when I was on the journalism and yearbook staff. From there, I took many journalism course every single semester to get more experience. My second year of college I was on the school newspaper. And now, I write for a marketing team. From the time I was 17, I have been telling people I want to be a journalist.

Throughout all of these jobs and tasks, I've seen these reoccurring patterns of a "journalists" life:

1. People either flee from you, or flee towards you.

Journalists don't usually blend in. Who else walks around with a notebook, pen, and some sort of recording device in hand? Maybe a detective. But if you think about it, journalists are a different type of detective.
So, right away, people know you're . . . up to something. 
And that's when they decide what to do with you. Generally, there are two types of people:
A)Those who flock away from you before you have a chance to hunt them down
or
B) Those who want to make their presence known and run towards you.
So who are these two types of people?
Well, let's start with Group B.
Group B: With my experience they're, well, generally the people you don't actually want to talk to. They LIKE publicity, which is good! . . . they're just usually really weird, too. They remind me of those attention seekers in class who just want to get noticed, so they answer most questions with an answer that's totally and completely wrong or just flat out bizarre. . . but they got what they wanted! Attention.
And then there's Group A.
Group A: These people flee away from you. This usually occurs after you cornered one of their friends. They take advantage of you being distracted and just RUN. Generally, they're the people you actually want to talk to. They're just uncomfortable with it, which I get. It's not a comfortable situation to be standing there with a recorder in your face while you answer questions you were NOT prepared to be presented with. (For the record, it's not very comfortable being on the other side of the recorder, either.)
To these people: Chill. It's really okay.
Especially when it comes to a school newspaper or something. We're not CNN. We're not here to make you look stupid. We're both feeling uncomfortable right now, so embrace it.  All we want is a good, intelligent quote from you that we can use in our article. And that's all. No big deal.
So chill.

2. People have very skewed visions of who journalists are.

Which is sad, really, but I do get where they're coming from.
Allow me to get on my soap box, which seriously? I NEVER DO THIS PUBLICLY.
I can't tell you HOW many times people have rolled their eyes and scoffed at me for my career of choice, and have said something along the lines of "all journalists being biased" and that they "never report the truth."
False.
What have I noticed about this? Generally, those who think that, don't like the truth. Or, they're watching/reading the news with a particular biased in mind.
I could seriously give you a HUGE rant about how journalists handle biased and seriously, for the most part, they do a good job of dealing with it. But I'm not going to cause I doubt any of you care. But if you do, just google "transparency vs. objectivity." and that'll give you some answers.
So I will leave it at this:
Oh, the truth doesn't fit your own personal biased and beliefs? So sorry. Cry me a river, build a bridge and get over it. Accept that life just ain't fair. 
Thank you.
Oh? Also? T.V. shows portray journalists to be absolute idiots or complete jerks. Just know that in real life, journalists generally DON'T break the law to get a story.

3. Your awkward moments are really, truly recorded for you to blush at for years to come.

So . . . one question that's required to start out with is always asking the person how to spell their name. My first journalism teacher POUNDED this into our head. It's EXTREMELY important that journalists spell names right.
I remember sitting in the 6:30 a.m. class, third row, as he would howl, "I DON'T CARE IF THE NAME IS BOB JONES. YOU NEED TO ASK THEM HOW TO SPELL IT!"
Now that in-and-of itself is a pandora's box for weird looks.

Me: How do you spell your name?
Person: It's Jake Smith.
Me: So . . . Like . . .
Person: Jake. Smith.
Me: J-A-K-E, S-M-I-T-H?
Person: . . .yeah. . .

Feeling stupid level: exceeded.

I've been working on a less-stupid way to approach this, but let's be real here. Smoothness is NOT my strength, and I really haven't found a good way to tackle it.

Now, the second very important question to always ask someone is the person's official job title, just to double check it's right for my article.
But then I run into this:
Me: Okay, and what's your official job title?
*Professor gives blank look*
Professor:  Um. I'm the head of the department.
or
Professor: . . . I'm a professor.
Me: . . . .COOL.
I find it's much easier to pull the "I'm a naive college student" card rather than explaining, "well, sir/ma'am, it's just procedure to insure that I refer to you with the correct job title cause sometimes your internet profile is not up to date or, in a crazy situation, you don't have an internet profile at all, or, in an even crazier situation, the internet profile you have was so obviously created by you and not a professional that it is absolutely blinding to look at because of how hideously made it is."
Naive card is so much easier.

Now you're probably all like, "Camilla, what does this have to do with your embarrassing moments being recorded?"
I record ALL of my interviews.
And listen to them MULTIPLE TIMES while working on stories. So I get to relive that uncomfortable moment over and over again and squirm each time I listen to it.
And sometimes I do embarrassing things DURING the interview.
Examples:
One time I dropped the pen while interviewing someone. So, in the middle of the interview you hear *clink*
"Oh, shoot. Hold on a second. Just let me. . . *rustlerustlerustlerustle* THERE we go. Okay. What were you saying?"
"Uh. . ."

I've also realized just how obnoxious my laugh is. I've REALLY had to learn to control it, cause sometimes I'll laugh in the MIDDLE of a good quote. So then I'll have to slow down the recording and try to decipher what they were saying through my obnoxious haha's.
Let me tell you. My laugh slowed down? Sounds even weirder than my normal laugh.

I'm excited to see what the future holds for me, really. How many more embarrassing moments will I get myself into? How many more weirdos will I interview in the future? How many important people will I interview? Will I influence anyone?

Well. I guess time will tell. And in the mean time, I'll continue my training in becoming a journalist, and feeling like Rita Skeeter whenever I go out to interview someone and they run away from me.




Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Welcome to the Area

I recently took a trip back to upstate New York, where I served my mission. While I was there, I was able to visit one of my old companions, because she was working in an area I had worked in during my mission.

I visited her, as well as many other people I met during my time in that city. One of the families brought up my blog and we began talking about it.

"You know," she said to me, "Your companion told us a story about the first morning you were together. Why haven't you written on that?"

"Oh, crap. I forgot about that. That was pretty uncomfortable."

And so, here it is.

To fully understand and appreciate this story, it is important to understand the whole process and set up of a mission. If you are unfamiliar with the set up, please refer to my post on May 5th. Or, if you just need to feel better about your life by reading by far my MOST uncomfortable, embarrassing, awkward situation on my mission, and possibly my whole life, please refer to that story by clicking the big red "May 5th."
If that doesn't work, just know that I hate technology.

Anyway.

It was time that time of the mission: time for a change. After 7 1/2 months of being in the same city, I was told I would be moving to a city I had only heard about, but was not familiar with, to be with a sister I had only seen once before, but had never talked to and did not know.

I was sad, but I knew it was right, and I really didn't have a choice otherwise.  And so, I went.

It was a two hour drive to the central location where all the missionaries moving would meet up. From there, it was another three hours to the area I was assigned to. I was packed into a van with 5 other missionaries I knew. They crammed our suitcases in between us like a sardine can, and there we went.

I knew nearly all the missionaries I was in the van with, and one of them knew the sister I would be serving with.

"What's she like?" I asked him.

"She's great. Very obedient. Passionate. She wears tights no matter what the weather," he responded.

"Okay," I said, still nervous and sad to be leaving the area I was familiar with. "All I know is that she has pretty hair."

". . . I can't really be the judge of that." he responded uncomfortably.

It was late in the evening by the time we got to the area and I met my companion. We talked. It was chill. But two hour later, we were crawling in bed and falling asleep.

The next morning. 6:24 a.m.

We crawled out of bed, said our prayers, and then it was time to exercise.

"So, I like running, but my previous companion wasn't the biggest fan." she said to me.

"Well, I don't mind running. We can go, if you want. " I responded.

It's true. I don't do it as often as I should, but I really don't mind running. I always feel great afterwards, and once I get going, I quite enjoy it.

"Really?!" she responded excitably.

"Yeah." I said, still groggy and really not understanding how anyone could be that chipper in the morning.

"Okay! I'll get my running shoes."

We both put on our running shoes, and took off.

The air was cool and sticky. Still waking up, I jogged next to my companion. It felt great! It had been MONTHS since I had run this long and this hard!

We ran through a few neighborhoods. I was feeling pretty good and then . . .

Side ache.

I gripped my side, and slowed down to a walk. My companion still had plenty of energy, so in order to stay near me, she ran in zig-zags in front of me. Up and down the street she went, zig-zagging. The pain in my side would not go away.

Oh, I was not going to be like this. I was young! I needed to get in shape, pronto!

So, despite my ribs and lungs yelling at me, I began running again.

We left the neighborhoods and went to a main street, my companion not tired at all, and me feeling like a fat kid who had just eaten a pound of cake. My ribs still screamed at me, but I refused to be held back by them.

#pride.

We crossed the street and entered into another set of neighborhoods. And that's when it really hit me.

It had been MONTHS since I had run this long and hard. I was not in shape in the slightest, and here I was, making my body run on an empty stomach while half asleep . . . BY MY OWN FREE WILL. Not to mention the fact that my finger was in a ginormous bandage. (That's a story for another time.)


I not only began to sweat, but I began to be shaky, and I could feel the color draining from my face.

"I'm . . . I'm gonna walk," I said to my companion, gripping my side.

"Okay." she said, taking off in her zig-zag up and down the street thing.

I began to walk slower than molasses, my entire body shaking. I felt so weak and so nauseous. Sweat was pouring down my face. My ribs were still screaming at me.

We turned the corner, and I walked pathetically over to some random person's front lawn. My legs gave out, and I collapsed helplessly on their grass.

And promptly threw up. Right in this person's front yard.

Then I just completely gave up on this whole running thing and laid completely flat in the grass, gripping my retainer in my hand which I managed to take out before I threw up.

My companion raced over to me and said, "Oh my gosh are you okay?!"

"Yeah. I mean . . . I just I threw up." I groaned.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, ". . . We can walk from here."

And that was how the relationship between me and this sister I didn't really knew began to grow.

From throw up.

Have an awkward day, everyone.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

So Not Legal.

My life, guys. My life.

To start, I am going to answer questions that are necessary to completely appreciate this story:

Q) How old are you, Camilla?
A) 22.

Q) Why do you wear make-up, Camilla?
A) Because if I don't, I look like I'm in high school. I mean, even WITH make-up I get mistaken as a high schooler, but the chances of that happening are lowered.

Q) Wait Camilla, are you single?
A) Recently, I took the liberty of looking up the meaning of my name. It means, 'Nobel Virgin.'
This explains so much.
So yes, I'm single.

Now, I'm not completely thrilled with these facts. I mean, I'm not miserable and moping around all the time, but I also don't wake up every morning and think, "YES! Another day of being single and looking like a high schooler! Just what ever 22-year-old strives to accomplish, and I have achieved this without even trying!"

Anyway. Today, I went to visit my friends. I really hadn't been out in public at all that day, so I didn't bother putting on make-up.

My friends and I got on the subject of boys, and I was left to wonder how on earth I can diminish my awkwardness enough to attract the opposite sex.

During this encounter, I realized how I really hadn't eaten anything that day besides a couple of granola bars and cheerios, and how blasted hungry I was.

Thankfully, a Mexican restaurant sat right next door to where I had visited my friends, and I eagerly walked to the restaurant to get some type of subsistence for my body.

I walk up to order my food. Behind the counter, I see two pubescent high schoolers  probably between the ages 16-17, donning terrible looking man-buns.

"What can I get for you?" asked one.

"Small pork salad, please."

"Sounds good." he said.

He got the first part of my salad started, the handed it off to the second high schooler, who looked at me and immediately said, "WOAH! You look JUST like my cousin! That was FREAKY!"

"Maybe I am." I replied monotonously, because I really was not in a mood to talk. I just wanted my food.

The kid gave me a weird look. Then I said, "Just kidding. I'm not your cousin. I could act like her if you wanted me to, though."

"She is pretty cool. She's in the army and stuff."

"Nice." I replied, when really I'm thinking, 'I'm so blasted hungry, please just give me my blasted salad before I pass out from hunger."

He then began to ask me a series of various questions.

"What would you like on your salad?" he started.

"Um, those diced tomato things--."

"Do you rock climb at all?"

I blinked, then said, "Um. I mean, I did in the fifth grade once. Then my shoe fell off and I came back down, and didn't feel like going back up again."

"C'mon! You just gotta monkey crawl back on up there!"

"Yeah, I gotta try rock climbing again." I said, feeling my face turn red.

"Corn and onions on your salad?"

"Yeah."

"You really gotta try rock climbing again," he continued, "It's so great. Gotta get yourself out into the sun!"

My thoughts? "Um. I have a sun allergy. Are you implying that I look pale? Because I already know that. It comes with the redheaded gene. Back off."

. . . My subconscious gets a little defensive when I'm hungry or tired. I consider it to be part of survival mode. Please don't judge me.

What I really said?

"Yeah I think that's something I'd probably enjoy."

"Sour cream, ranch, and cheese on your salad?" he asked.

"No thanks. But does the mango dressing cost extra?"

"Uuuuuuugh." he said, looking from me, to the dressing, back to me, "I really like you. So for you, no, it's free"

"Well thanks."

"But you gotta give me your digits."

Crap.

". . . . . . . . . . . . I'm in a relationship."
Lie.
That's a big, fat lie.

"Ah man. Well, you have a good day!"

"Yeah, thanks. You too."

He slid my salad down, and the cashier began to ring up the price. Now, the cashier had such a thick, Hispanic accent I couldn't understand a WORD she was saying, so I just say 'yes' to everything. While I'm agreeing to whatever this lady is saying, High School Boy turns to his friend and says, "Hey, we're getting pretty good at this."

I rolled my eyes and fished out my money to pay the cashier. First of all, I wondered how old he thought I was. But I knew already: He probably thought I was somewhere between ages 16-19.
Second of all, why on earth would he hit on a girl that looked like his cousin? Is he attracted to his cousin?
Both of these facts are just flat out wrong and illegal.

"You know," said High School Boy to me as he slid back up to the cash register, "If you'd like, you and your boyfriend could come rock climbing with me sometime."

Here was my thought process: "Crap. Okay, which guy friend can I get to agree to pose as my fake boyfriend to go rock climbing and scare this high schooler away? WAIT. WHY AM I PLANNING ON GOING ON THIS? I HAVEN'T AGREED AND I DON'T NEED TO AGREE TO DOING THIS."

So what did I say?
". . . . . . . . . . . . . . .No."

"Ah, okay. Well have a good day!"

I had to pay for the stupid mango dressing.

So I leave and go to my friends apartment. I stayed there to eat and talk to my friend, then it was time to head home since it was getting decently late.

Now, the apartment complex my friend lives at double as housing for EFY kids. (EFY = a camp for LDS youth ranging from ages 16-18.)

As I left the housing, an EFY student raced up to the door and opened it for me. I smiled and said, "Oh, thank you!"

"I hope you find the right man." he responded.

"Thanks! I hope so too."

I walked a little bit farther, stopped dead in my tracks and shouted, "Wait. . . WHAT?!"

I turned around, but he was already gone and the door was shutting.

I don't know, guys. Maybe he was a little guardian angel there to give me hope that one day, someone will fall for me despite of my awkwardness.

Happy awkwardness, everybody.
Hey, guess how old I am in this picture.


Wednesday, June 10, 2015

The Mistake

My friends. Mistakes are a part of life. I think that's what this whole blog really proves. We can't get out of life without awkwardness, embarrassment and mistakes. And recently I've made a couple of them.

Recently, I returned home from a trip to Arizona. Although I was only there for three days, it was packed with fun-filled activities of four-wheeling, going to the Gilbert Temple, movie watching, eating delicious food and seeing good friends.

I returned home on a Sunday night and, let me tell you, I was exhausted. That Sunday had already included four hours of driving to see friends and to get to the airport, and a two hour flight back home to Utah. I was sweaty, slightly sunburned and just outright exhausted.

I landed back in Utah around nine o' clock and was ready to crawl into bed, but knew I had another hour drive back home to my apartment ahead of me.

As I left the airplane, one of my friends called me. I hadn't talked to her in quite some time, so it was fun to catch up briefly and see what she was up to. I talked to her as I waited for my dad to pick me up.

After a few minutes, I saw my dad roll up in my moms car. He wasn't driving to the edge of the sidewalk, but was stopping in the middle of the left lane. Odd, but whatever.

I continued talking to my friend as I waved at my dad in the car, and signaled that I was coming. I grabbed my suitcase and raced to the trunk of the car.

I popped it open. It began to raise a few inches, then my dad pushed a button and it began to close again.

"Very funny, dad," I thought as it closed.

I continued talking to my friend on the phone as I pulled on the latch of the trunk a second time. My dad repeated the process of closing the trunk.

"Oh come on," I grumbled to myself and said to my friend, "Hold on a second. DAD! DAD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? OPEN THE TRUNK."

A third time. I pulled on the latch, and just as it began to raise, it lowered and closed once again.

"DAD! YOU'RE BLOCKING TRAFFIC! COME ON!" I apologized to my friend once again for yelling in her ear.

My dad then got out of the truck and approached me as I began to yank the now-locked trunk, grumbling to myself and my friend.

He gently touched my arm, and I whipped up to see . . . not my dad.

"Miss, I'm sorry, but I think you're mistaking me for someone else." he said.

I stared at him and said, "Oh. Crap. Yeah. You're driving my mom's car and well, you look like my dad. But hey! It makes a good story!"

"It does. You can tell everyone about it." he said as he walked back to the drivers seat and I walked shamefully back to the sidewalk with my luggage.

"Oh, I will!"  I yelled back to him. "I'll post about it on Facebook!"

And with that, he rolled off in my moms car as color rushed to my face.

One of these days I want to hear HIS side of this story.

Have an awkward day, everyone.


Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Caught in the Act

So, we all do things in our life that we really hope other people don't witness. But because there must be embarrassing situations to enjoy the non-embarrassing situations, we all get caught in those moments.

And I had the pleasure of that happening to me multiple times this week.

The Garbage Can

One such experience happened the day of cleaning checks. After a fun night out with friends, I got home around midnight and remembered that cleaning checks were the next morning.

Knowing very well that I would NOT get out of bed at a reasonable hour to do my chores before the managers came to check my apartment, I knew it was best if I stayed up a little late to do them.

I scrubbed the toilet and shower down, swept the floor, de-junked my desk, and in the process, filled the garbage can to the brim with paper towels, dirt, hair, and papers. These were in the small garbage cans - the kind that a grocery sack can fill. It was time to take it out.

I took out the bathroom and my personal garbage bags and tied the top, threw on some shoes and headed out into the night to the dumpster.

Let me paint in your head exactly what I looked like at this moment: make-up smeared under my eyes from the days activities, wearing basketball shorts that showed off my pastey-white, harry legs, a bright blue t-shirt that read: NEW YORK, greasy hair because I had yet to shower, and topping it off with the very first pair of shoes I managed to find: black high-heels.

I looked like pretty stellar if I do say so myself.

I left my apartment and ran downstairs to the main courtyard and realized . . . I had just moved in a couple weeks ago . . . and had NO idea where the dumpster was.
And I sure as heck did NOT want to tromp around my apartment complex looking like THIS in the middle of the night.

I began towards the pool, which still had a few kids lingering by it. I saw a small, public garbage can sitting by the gate that entered the pool, and thought, "Meh. Good enough."

Now this was one of those garbage cans that had a square top and a flap on it. I went up to it, put my first garbage bag up against the flap and went to push it in . . .
and discovered that my trash was a little TOO full.

Well, like I said, I was NOT about to go hike around my complex looking for the dumpster when it was midnight. I was DETERMINED to make this grocery bag full of trash fit.
So, I put the second grocery bag down, pushed with all my might against the first grocery bag, until it finally slid right on into the trash can. Success. Now, I had to do this once more.

I repeated this process. I pressed the grocery bag against the flap, leaned onto it and. . . nothing. I shoved it a couple more times. Still nothing. It was jammed. I sighed, threw my fist back, and began punching the crap out of this poor little trash bag. Inch-by-inch it slid into the trash can, until finally, I threw one last punch, and it slid right inside, and the flap closed.

I dusted off my hands, and turned around to walk back to my apartments . . . to see two girls and a guy staring questionably at me.

I nodded once at them, shoved my hands in my pockets, and walked away with my head down and heels clicking back to my apartment, hoping they wouldn't notice where I lived.

The Jacket

This one, oddly enough, involved a trash can as well.

As part of my job, I report on a few events that happen on campus.

On this particular day, it was raining, and I had to report on an event. So, I threw on my black jacket, threw the hood over my hair, and started my walk to campus.

Within seconds my feet were sopping wet, as well as my jacket. I half walked/half jogged to campus until I finally reached the building where the event was taking place

And it. Was. PACKED. People filled the main parts of every floor as they took part in the activities provided and talked to one another.

Instantly I stripped off my jacket and tied it around my purse, and got to work interviewing people.

As I squeezed through the crowd, the weight of my bag was exaggerated from my jacket, and I found that it kept swinging and hitting people at twice the speed and weight as it normally would. I found myself constantly apologizing to people as my bag hit their butt, back and thigh at a fast speed.

Not only that, but it was INCREDIBLY hot in that building. Almost as soon as I stripped off my jacket did I begin to sweat. I tried holding my jacket a few times, but it was too clumsy and warmed my arms and hands up too much when I cradled it.

The jacket was getting in the way far too much. I had to do a tricky balancing act as I would hold out my recorder while interviewing people, hold my jacket, wipe sweat away from my brow, AND take notes on the interview all at once.

The jacket had to go. But where? I could just see myself hiding it under the staircase, only for some good citizen to turn it into the lost-and-found, and me not being able to rediscover my jacket.

I thought about hanging it up in the bathroom but no, I could see someone taking it or turning it into the lost-and-found there, too.

I trotted downstairs which was the least-crowded floor, although it still had a good amount of people. I wandered the hallways until I found an empty one. In the corner of that hallway sat a garbage can. I began to concoct my plan right then: I would simply move the garbage can, ball up my jacket, and hide it behind the trash can. Brilliant.

Quickly, I went over to the garbage can and wrapped my hands around the sides. I was surprised by how heavy it was. I tugged and pulled, but it only managed to move a few inches at a time. So, I knelt down, wrapped both my arms around the body of the trash can, and did this really weird looking backwards-hobble-while-squatting-while-holding-a-trash-can move.

I really wonder if anyone else had ever done a move like that before.

As you probably predicted, I hadn't moved it that much before I toppled over on my butt and had to let go of the trash can. But I had moved it enough to hide my jacket between the trash can and the wall. Quickly, I balled up my jacket, placed it in the corner, and shoved my whole weight into the trash can. It moved just enough to hide my jacket.

The whole event had made me sweat even more. I wiped my hands off on my pants, pushed my now-sweaty and soaked-with-rain hair back, and as I wondered why I bothered to shower at all, I turned around . . . and made eye contact with a mom holding her two-year-old, as she looked at me with a very confused look.

I gave a small smile, nodded once, shoved my hands in my pockets, and raced away in the other direction, hoping that I wouldn't run into her again.


The Hang Nail

The last even happens to me far too often, but it doesn't get any less embarrassing.

I was sitting in class and you see, I sit behind a really cute boy. I've only talked to him once. Partly because we don't get much of a chance to talk in that class, and partly because I already got all the small talk questions out of the way and now have nothing to say to him.

But I get the pleasure of staring at the back of his head and examining his neatly trimmed hair.

But anyway. Enough about my weird infatuation. All you really need to know is I think he's attractive.

Now, as I mentioned in a couple previous posts, I have an unfortunate habit of chewing my hang nails that I just have not been able to kick. It's an issue.

Because of my peeling cuticles, I have taken a break from painting my nails, so my habit has gotten even worse.

Now this particular day, the boy was sitting kitty-corner in front of me. It was a discussion based class this day, and we could pipe in with a comment whenever we wanted. At one point, the girl sitting next to me raised her hand to comment. As the teacher called on her, the attractive man sitting kitty-corner in front of me turned around to see who was talking.

We made eye contact.
. . . right as my thumb was up to my mouth as I knawed the life away at a piece of dead skin.

I froze.

He looked at me.

Slowly, I lowered my thumb to my lap, but the damage was done.  He had already seen my disgusting habit in the act. He knew my shameful addiction.

He turned around. And I shamefully went back to chewing the crap off that stupid piece of dead skin.

I KNOW, GUYS! IT'S A PROBLEM!

I still haven't talked to that kid. I think I basically convinced myself that he found me disgusting after he saw me chewing my hangnail.

Either that, or he thinks I suck my thumb.

Both those are terrible habits, and I wish he didn't think I did either of those, but alas. I was caught in the act.


Happy Awkward Tuesday, everyone.