Silver Spoon. Plastic Bowl.

The other morning I sat at the kitchen counter forcing cereal down my throat. Sipping K-cup coffee. Staring into the dark oblivion.

3:30a.m.

That is what time I woke up, fell out of bed, wrapped myself tightly inside my baby blue bathrobe, and stumbled down the stairs to eat breakfast before going to my first day of training at Starbucks.

As I stared into the darkness through the kitchen window and wondered how I had come to this place in life—getting up at 3:30a.m. to work a minimum wage job—I realized something quite significant.

I was eating from a silver spoon.

Not just a silver spoon, but a silver spoon and a fine china bowl. I was sitting in a two-story home, in white, middle class suburbia, eating organic granola out of a fine china bowl. . . from a silver spoon.

Not only was I displeased—I was horrified.

What. Is my life.

I wondered aloud.

What is my life and where is my blue, plastic bowl full of posho and beans and where is my Desire (orphan boy) with whom to share my posho and beans??? Where is my African sun and my red-dirt stained pants and my $0.25 fresh pineapple????

Where is my plastic bowl.

Later that evening I shared red wine and Baby Mama (a Tina Fey classic) with my two St. Louis girlfriends, the three of us crammed onto a love seat, stuffing our faces with cold pizza and discussing life.

“I had a very enlightening moment this morning,” I said. “I realized that I need to get out. I am antsy and tired of living in America. St. Louis is soul-crushing. I don’t like suburbia. I miss being a foreigner. I miss having foreign friends. I can never stay here for too long. In America—much less St. Louis! Eight months is too long. Way too long.”

I told them about my plastic bowl epiphany.

At this point, my dear friend Carrie, in her let-me-tell-it-to-you-straight Carrie sort of way, offered me a morsel of Truth:

“AmyRose. You need to find your plastic bowl in St. Louis. You need to quit putting living abroad in foreign countries on a pedestal and find your plastic bowl right here. You haven’t found it yet. But you need to. And you will.”

I didn’t respond.

I’m pretty sure I just took a swig of Merlot and gave her my usual “I hate that you’re right, Carrie!!!” glare.

When I lived in Korea while teaching ESL, I remember the day I realized that most of us were there avoiding life. I don’t think I met a single foreign teacher who was legitimately passionate about teaching English as a second language. We were all there in order to travel. We were there for adventure. We were there because we couldn’t find jobs back in the United States. We were there for a decent paycheck, a pension, free rent and cheap Soju (Korean vodka). We were there for all kinds of reasons—not necessarily negative reasons—but the point is none of us were there because teaching was our passion. We were there for every other reason, and teaching afforded us the opportunity to live abroad.

I also remember turning to my boyfriend one day and saying, “I feel like coming here was, in a sense, putting my life on hold. I’m glad I came. So glad. But I don’t want to do this forever. I want to do so much more. I want something so different. I thought I would come to Korea and realize I wanted to be a teacher. Instead I came to Korea and realized that I don’t. Now what?”

Now?

Now I am a teacher.

I spent the last several months getting background checks, filing for a substitute teaching certificate, and applying for various school districts, private schools, and most recently, Teach for America.

A couple weeks ago, after quitting my job at the winery, I applied for an ESL teaching job in Brazil.

Why?

Because I can’t find a job doing what I want to do here. Because the economy is horrid. Because I work for minimum wage. Because I’m restless. Because I want to travel again. Because I want to be a foreigner again.

But mostly because I can.

Because I don’t know that I can get a job in nonprofit development. Because I am surrounded by people that look and walk and talk and eat like me and it is appalling.  

Notice, I did not say I want to move to Brazil because I want to be a teacher. I want to go to Brazil because it's not the United States. 

Christine asked me last night what I know I would be good at. She asked me, of the two (nonprofit humanitarian aid/teaching) which do I know for certain I would be really great at and really enjoy.

Nonprofit work. I said.  Hands down, nonprofit development. Humanitarian aid. I am a good teacher. I know that. But I don’t think being in a traditional classroom for eight hours a day for the rest of my life is for me. Fundraising and raising awareness for something I believe in is.

“Then do that. There’s your answer. It’s that simple. Do that. Why haven’t you done it already?”

Because what if I fail.

I very well may. I may fail. Already I have ‘failed’ twenty-six times. That is the number of development resumes I have turned in during the last eight months. And because I have not yet acquired a job in the career field of my choice—I have decided to be a teacher. I have decided to move to Brazil.

Because I’m tired of eating from a silver spoon. Because I haven’t found my plastic bowl. Because I haven’t tried.

Not here. Not in America.

When I lived in Uganda for six months, almost everyone that knew me believed me to be some sort of saint. They imagined me in a straw hut in the Sahara surrounded by lions and cockroaches and living on rations. The only reality to any of that was the surrounded by cockroaches part.

Africa was easy. It was safe. I don’t mean physically safe—we were robbed in broad daylight in the middle of the city. I mean that when I lived there I was automatically doing something right. I was in Africa. I was a world traveler. I was a humanitarian. I was an adventurer. In reality I didn’t have to do much at all while there—my mere presence in Africa and absence from America meant that I was something special. I was “really living.”

The same was true of my time in Korea. Although it was far less ‘easy.’ It was not easy at all, in fact. I was sick more than 50% of the time. I hated city life.  And because I was there with my boyfriend I was an entirely anti-social version of myself. But again, being there meant I was a traveler. A teacher. A go-getter. Even. . . “brave.”

Traveling, to me, is safe. It is like the go-to answer for when I don’t know what I am doing with my life. I don’t regret living in either place. They were both life-changing experiences to say the least. And at the time, it was a good choice to go.

But now? Now it is a cop out. Now it is a safety. It is what I want to do because life doesn’t make sense here. It is what I want to do because I haven’t found my plastic bowl.

My brother, while sharing his philosophy of life the other week, said to me,

“Amy, there is no such thing as safety.”

He is right.

There is not. 

Dumpster Dinners

The other night I went dumpster diving. I had done this in college at the end of the year when the new graduates threw out trashcans, blow driers, lamps, furniture and toiletries galore.

I specifically remember a time when my non-dumpster-diving friends drove into their apartment complex parking lot late one evening only to find Whitney and I entirely inside their apartment dumpster, with flashlight and headlamp, wallowing in filth . . . or treasures, rather. 

We froze in the glare of their headlights, of their stares, for a moment ashamed--and then quickly soared beyond shame upon remembering what lie below and continued rummaging. Whitney and I were the poorest of our clique. She grew up on government cheese and discount food items from the nearby Native American reservation and I grew up on expired food and 100% garage sale attire. We were the ones working through college. If free goods were to be had, Whitney and I wanted in. So—dumpster-diving.

That was seven years ago. I was twenty-one years old and in college shopping for free furniture and half-used name brand shampoo. Maybe a full-length mirror if I was really lucky. 

This time was different. This time I was twenty-nine years old and rummaging through the cockroach-infested dumpster of an organic food store, in search of groceries for my best friend. 

We were looking for food. In a dumpster.

And while Jade felt right at home and practically dove in headfirst—tearing open bags and slowly becoming covered in grime—I did not. 

When I hit the dumpster in college I was shopping for accessories, for whatever was free and looked neat. Most of the good stuff was actually set neatly outside the dumpster and anything else was piled in heaps—not hidden beneath the stench of rotting strawberries and greasy mayo. I realized, while in the dumpster, watching the cockroaches, that some people don't do this for fun.

They do it to live. 

I don't mind dirt. In fact, one of my favorite past times in all the world is running and playing in the rain and mud. I wait tables. I am covered in sweat and food particles the majority of my shift. I have slept with cockroaches that were literally as big as my hand, crawling the walls of my home in the African heat. I have worked disaster relief jobs that required me to suck raw sewage from carpets with a wet vac. Again, I don’t mind dirt.

But this? This was repulsive. The stench. The cockroaches crawling on the food we were picking at. The cockroaches with which we were trapped inside a six by six foot metal box. The filth on my hands—my face—my clothes—my car. It was truly disgusting.

For some reason I thought dumpster diving would be fun. Maybe that’s because in college, it was. We didn’t need the items we were looking for to survive. We simply wanted them. And they were free.

Dumpster diving this time wasn’t about free lamps and apartment accessories. It was about getting free food to be taken home, rinsed off, eaten and stored because food stamp money was running low. And that made me uncomfortable. It made dumpster diving not so fun after all.

Jade, however, seemed to be having a blast. As I said, she dove right in. We went home with two watermelons, a carton of strawberries, a bag of lemons, a box of mushrooms, two eggs, three blueberry scones, several tomatoes, a box of cereal, a zucchini, and three or four not-so-frozen-anymore stir-fry dinners. 

She could eat for days.

Really, she had food at home. It may not have lasted long, but it was there. Jade dumpster-diving for her dinner didn’t make me uncomfortable. The thoughts the situation provoked did. I thought about all of Jade’s California friends, her homeless friends, her wandering friends—who do this not once a month for extra food, but every day for all their food. I thought about all the starving people in all the world who don’t do this for a ‘late night adventure’ but rather, simply to survive.

Honestly, this wasn’t one of those life-changing moments for me where I realized I needed to ‘quit my day job’ (that I don’t have) and go feed the hungry.

I realized I’m glad I have friends like Jade.

There was a time in my life (age 0-24 years) when almost every person I knew was white, middle-class and conservative Christian. I am entirely grateful for my upbringing and my education and I would not change anything at all given the chance. But sometimes, when I look back and see that, I want to vomit.

I am overwhelmed when I look at my life now, and back at the last five years, and see conversations with bearded homeless men; car rides with hitchhikers and their dogs; art parties in Korea with Americans, Canadians, Christians, Jews; sharing coffee with abortion rights activists; accidentally attending a lesbian beach bonfire (which for the record was maybe the most entertaining/fun bonfire of my life).

I am thankful for these interactions. I am thankful for the ‘Nons.’ The non-believers. The non-whites. The non-middle-class. The non-'normal'. The dumpster divers.

Because they make me see.

Why Being Single is Awesome

Happy Belated Valentines Day, everyone!!! In leu of surviving the only holiday specifically created for couples, I have written a list of fourteen reasons why being a single woman is awesome. This post is dedicated to Lydia, Christine and Rachel . . . and also everyone else who is single. Enjoy :) 

1.     We understand what “moving home for family” really means.

Exhibit A:

Brand New Friend Christine whom I found online and met at a bar: So, what brought you to St. Louis?

Me: Well, I just moved back from Korea. Before that, I was in Arkansas. Before that, Africa.  Basically I haven’t lived here in eleven years and I just kind of figured it was time to be near family again.

Christine: (long pause, pensive stare) Oh. So you had a really bad break up and had to come home? Me too.

2.     Extreme heartache/pain breeds creativity.

Everyone knows the best songs, poetry, and stories are written when the artist is severely depressed and alone. Going through a horrific breakup followed by months of singleness may not be fun, but it absolutely helps to create some incredible art.

Example: Noah and the Whale- The First Days of Spring album

3.     Being single forces one to embrace independence.

When with a significant other, things are paid for. Decisions are made together. Emotional, psychological and other support is provided almost always. When single, we are on are own pretty much 100% of the time. Does my neck and upper back hurt like hell? Do I have a million knots that seem to never go away? Do I have some nice, strong man-hands to help alleviate the pain and provide exhorbitant amounts of oxytocin? NO. I do not. I rub out the pain myself. I use essential oils that don’t actually work but make me feel all-natural. I POWER THROUGH. If my break pads fall out of my car in the middle of the road and I go careening down the hill and into traffic, do I have someone to call and assist me in fixing my car? No. I do it myself. . . with the help of a neighbor named Zeus.

4.     Options are endless.

I read a blog recently (www.waitbywhy.com) about singleness. He basically explained that those of us who are single are actually in a much better place then those that are in a relationship that is doomed to fail because we are one step closer to success! While those in a relationship that will soon end still have to struggle through trying to make it work, it not working, devastation, and months of healing—those of us who have been single for a while now are already on the mend, don’t have to worry about making something last that shouldn’t, and can date anyone we choose! I mean, we can literally go out on the town, to the post office, or really anywhere and look at every single male we want to look at without an ounce of guilt. Then we quickly glance to the ring finger. If occupied—look away and get over it. If not? Who knows . . .

5.     We get to redefine ourselves.
      We’ve all been there. We’ve been that super independent woman that once in a relationship somehow almost instantly becomes a clingy, needy and slightly crazy person that we barely recognize. We sometimes find ourselves growing our hair out, or chopping it all off, or dying it, or letting it go natural, or getting manicures, or whatever else that is entirely not our idea but seems to please the man. Maybe we even cease listening to country music—or start listening to country music (gasp!) There’s nothing wrong with these decisions, but sometimes it is easy to get carried away and in the process lose our identity entirely. Being single for a season (or forever) allows us to redefine who we are. To find whom we once were but seem to have forgotten existed at all.

6.     We can dance like no one’s watching.

In reality—everyone is watching. But you know that saying, “Love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like no one’s watching . . .” Something like that. Anyway there’s something about being a single woman that makes it okay to actually do that in public. My dear friend Christine and I have been known to break out into interpretive dances to hit pop songs like “Clarity” by Zedd. I mean—those dancing around us just stop and stare in awestruck (or horrified) wonder. It is really fantastic. There was also the time we were so tired of dancing alone during slow songs that we invited the entire bar/club to dance with us . . . it pretty much turned into a group hug/slow dance of thirty complete strangers J

7.     We can walk at whatever pace we want to.

You know what I’m talking about. That guy you dated that walked suuuuuuuper fast . . . or painfully  slow!? Awful. When you are single you can walk however fast or slow you want to according to your current mood (which we all know varies greatly). In fact, you can even choose whichever pattern you would like to walk in!

Fact: I sometimes walk in zigzag patterns on my way back to my car in the Wal-Mart parking lot . . . just because I can.

8.     We can get up and go.

Anywhere. Any time. For any reason. No questions asked. This may mean a trip to Italy. Or? It may mean an impulsive road trip to Iowa to see your college besties. No matter. You are single. There is no one else to invite or coordinate schedules with. GO.

9.     We can find great joy in flirting with random old men.

Sometimes we can get a bit down about our singleness and have self esteem issues. Thoughts like, “Am I too old? Do I even have any eggs left? Do they assume I’m taken so they don’t even try to approach me? Do I smell? Do I have something in my teeth? Do I come off as desperate!?!?” cross our minds. It is then we may take the opportunity to hit on a random sixty-five year old man at the local indie art store. Nothing dirty or inappropriate. Simply dropping a sale pamphlet next to him and then giving a smile as he responds,

Old Man: I just got out of the hospital for back surgery so I can’t pick that up for you, pretty lady!

Me: Dammit! I was trying to hit on you.

Old Man: I figured (winky face).

Old Man’s Old Friend: HAHA! You wish, Earl!

Old Man: Maybe you should try that trick on the next good-looking man your age that walks by.

Me: Good idea.

(I ACCIDENTALLY drop an Xacto knife minutes later)

Old Man: Shoot! He missed his cue, honey. Next time.

Old Man: (In line behind old men waiting to check out)

You followin’ us, sweetie?

Me: Always

Old Man’s Friend: Wellll now. Any girl that can get away with sportin’ cowboy boots in the middle of St. Louis city in the Loop is fine enough to stand by me!

10.  We can use our nephews as man-bait.

It’s kind of the same idea as a guy walking a dog to get girls. Except nephews are WAY cuter and they also allow us to show off our nurturing, maternal abilities.

11.  We can watch endless chick flicks, indie films, The Bachelor, etc. and not be judged for it.

While I’m at it. . . we can even watch ANTP. There is no need to stand at the Redbox in the frigid cold for hours or browse Netflix for days trying to agree upon a movie you would both enjoy. It is our decision and our decision only.

12.  We can secretly grin ear-to-ear when we see unhappy, bickering couples because thank God that’s not us.

Is it terrible? Yes. Will we go to hell for this? Maybe. But there is absolutely no denying that we all, at least at some point in our single lives, have secretly rejoiced over witnessing an incredibly unhappy couple argue over whether they should go see a movie tonight or stay in, order take out or eat out, hire a sitter or stay home, purchase a bottle of wine or simply a couple of glasses. We witness couples engaging in all kinds of lovey-dovey activity all day every day. Couples surround us. We are the absolute minority (if over twenty-five years old and living in the Midwest). Therefore, when we see a couple that clearly can't stand each other, although admittedly horrible, we inwardly rejoice. Because that could have been us.

13.  We can be pegged as lesbians and not care.

There was a time in life when this would have been offensive. Now? Not so much. I feel that once over twenty-five years, women tend to develop a sense of moxie that prior to turning twenty-five was simply unobtainable. The first twenty-five years of life (especially the first eighteen) are so full of insecurity and traumatic adolescence and first love and heartbreak that once twenty-five comes along we just sort of get it. Finally. Not entirely, but to an extent. We know who we are much more so than we did back then. Our self-esteem is probably at its peak because we survived middle school, powered through high school, partied through college, and finally—are finding ourselves in the real world. Or are we? Ha! We are trying. The point is that sometimes we may go to a bar with a girlfriend/friendgirl and be sitting quite close. And hugging. Or have our arms around one another while sharing a gin and tonic. And people may stare in wonder, or they may straight up ask if we are together. But because we are strong and confident single women, we do not react defensively; “No I’m not a lesbian! I have a boyfriend!” and then proceed to freak out and move ten feet away from said friend. Instead, we simply throw our heads back and laugh while continuing to confidently sip our cocktail, not giving a care in the world that perhaps the reason no good-looking men are approaching us is because it is assumed we are ‘together.’ Because we are single women. And we simply do not care.

14.  We can do what we want. Every. SINGLE. Day.

Enough said.