Stories Behind Senior Spring

I look at my last post from January and laugh. To tell the story of the past few months is to tell an epic odyssey, inevitably full of ups, downs, and all the hot mess-dom in between. I've tried to write this post going on ten times, but it felt wrong each time. There's a whole lot of stories behind senior spring. I can't tell all of them, but let's start from the beginning. The do-rey-mi. You know!

January was marked by a languid rut -- the lethal combination of missing inspiration and abundant disappointment. It was like Monday every day. And really, what kind of dumb joke is that?

February was about getting back in the game. Life sent a muse or two my way in the form of best friend, AL, a handful of local lovers, a snowy weekend getaway with K, and a lovely visit from friends and the steadfast parentals.

February was a spark of passion where and when it was most needed.

March was a sober blackout. A heap of contradictions, if you will.

Excusemewhat. March was marked by five ridiculous days off-the-grid in Mexico for Spring Break. With more karaoke-fueled laughter and Enrique Iglesias than thought possible.

It was marked with intense work (+celebration) of orchestrating a 900 person summit. It was marked by finding a passion project that hits all the way home.

But also...it was marked by heartbreak at my own hands, with the ache of giving advice that I myself couldn't take. That's the good, the bad, and the ugly -- it's real and honest and really honest.

April feels like good vibes here on the horizon. Spring is here to stay, and that's a notion we can get behind. By way of April, we're finding that fresh air is like crack...only not crack. We're relearning that friendship isn't static.

April means hiking, coffee prom, a weekend of pretending to be a tourist with the ever-wonderful, M, the last day of classes, and the curious case of a 22nd birthday.

These days, I'm feeling on the wild side on inspired -- the way I do only when the world is spinning almost faster than I can keep up. Remember how we would spin around in circles as kids ad nauseum? Most people hate that feeling, finding such spinning exhausting.

But me...Me, I love that feeling. I live for the feeling of the world spinning me to dizzy euphoria. I live for the wild breathlessness and uncontrollable laughter that ensues. I live for that feeling of being young, wild, and probably too free for my own good.

So now, come what May. Life today comes full of this unbounded freedom  I have 15 days more of Georgetown. And that's a good place to be -- both filled with savoring the moment and anticipating whatever come's next.

Let's Do This Holiday Thing

The way I see it, there are two kinds of people: holiday lovers and holiday haters. We'll call it an inevitable ecosystem.

Holiday lovers are the ones who start freaking out (I mean F.R.E.A.K.I.N.G. out) as soon as humanly possible with holiday anticipation. Think starting right after Thanksgiving. Or Halloween. Or Easter, really.

Holiday haters see the big man in the red suit and are like, "BYE FELICIA!" See also: dislike of Christmas carols, disgruntled single people, fear of overeager mall shoppers, and kids who were forced to eat fruitcake.

Whichever camp of holiday enthusiasm you fall into, denial at this point is futile.This holiday thing is in full swing. We're finally sitting on the doorstep of the Eve. I mean, THE Eve.

Let's be lovers, not haters, and welcome the holiday craziness with open arms. I mean, we might as well go all in. There's no way we're making it out alive--unless it's covered in tinsel, sugar cookies, and the remnants of an injudicious gift wrap explosion (or two...)

There's no way we're avoiding Grandma/Grandpa asking why we're not a) president, b) married, c) rich/famous, or d) all of the above.

The key is to nod and smile. Then, bribery with spiked eggnog. Nothing to lose; everything to gain?

(I think that's what Santa must have said when he applied for the position of Claus.)

To avoid this season getting all up in our grill, can we just call time out?

It's the move! Our fate in Christmas shopping is sealed at this point anyway: it's aaaaaall the giftcards or bust.

So we can step away from the hoards of mall parents, gingerbread houses, and reruns of Elf. Sheer madness can wait.

Gimme the goin' on in your life. It'll be good practice for Grandma/Grandpa and all miscellaneous relatives. Ready or not, here's my winter best in pictures, jingled and janky as per usual:

•  Holiday Gala. It's what happens when hot mess meets the holidays. You want to see organized chaos? Try 800 college kids, cocktail attire, and an open bar. There are no words -- only ridiculous dance moves.

•  The Head & The Heart concert was like a riot of music in the heart. Holy moly holy moly. (Does anyone actually know what "moly" means?)  I'm a sucker for acoustic-y music of any sort. That would explain my impulse guitar buy, now wouldn't it?

•  As a senior in college, it's easy to stick within your group of friends. Old school homies are great. But there's a certain freeing joy in meeting someone new. You see and can be seen as having a past but not defined by it. Birthday dinners and goofy pictures are bonus points.

•  Here's a secret: I've never had a white Christmas. And while snowmen and Rudolph and sleigh rides sound great, I should confess that the beach makes one quick to forget, ha!

•  From my fam bam and friends to yours: Merry _____ !  Whatever _____ may be. Just sayin', I invented the blank space way before Taylor Swift.

Okay , okay. We're about thisssss much ho-ho-ho away from it being the holidays. You can do it! Deep breaths, and just remember....

Nod and smile. Bribery optional.

My Second Family

Chère Lexi,Nous sommes très heureux de t’accueillir à Nantes.

(Dear Lexi, we're very happy to meet you in Nantes.) 

Late August. I popped open my Gmail to find a note from a woman named Nathalie, who introduced herself as my host mom and told me about the family I would soon join.  Today, it's my pleasure to introduce them to you.

Nathalie, my host mother. 

You are truly a Renaissance woman, if there ever was one. And I rarely go a day without wondering how you do it all. It's the sheer amount of things you do but also the effortlessness with which you do it that renders me in a constant state of awe known as "WHOA DUDE."  You have made me question the American notions of feminism, proving singlehandedly that a woman who maintains the household is far from secondary. In our maison, it's apparent that you are far, far from inferior. You stand at the helm of the home and the family but have mastered the art of being une femme d'affaires (business women) too. Working alongside my host dad and chef of the restaurant, you manage a full-time business operation with a dual presence of skill and grace. You carry yourself with sureness, easily commanding the attention of a room should you choose to do so.

Though I find myself at a loss to truly describe it in speech or on paper, your marriage is one of the most successful I've ever seen. Is this janky to note? Maybe, but it's important. The relationship between my host dad and you both at home and at work is one of impressive equality, even while the roles may differ.

You are an impeccable chef, even if it's my host dad who is the chef of the family. I marvel at how you maintain such a level of fitness, though it seems that life is your main form of exercise. You've raised five children and have hosted 10 exchange students alongside my host dad. Even while I see implicitly the pride you take in your children, you've made it seem like raising a big family is an easy feat. I know it couldn't have been. At home, you cook, do the laundry, sew, organize, email,  faire le ménage (clean the house), and keep things running in order without second thought. And you appear impeccably dressed and beautifully put-together through it all. Much like my own mother, you are a superwoman of sorts.

Pascal, my host dad.

You are the Master Chef, quite literally. After competing on the TV show "Master Chef" last year, you finally decided to quit your old job and pursue your lifelong dream to be a chef. You opened a restaurant bearing the family name in downtown Nantes. You cook with immense respect for the French tradition, while adding your own creative flair to give each dish its personality. As an entrepreneur, you are like my own dad. You work at the restaurant every day of the week when it's open and for every meal at that. I see you only in the mornings; while I wish I saw you more sometimes, I have so much admiration for how you appreciate your craft.

When you are home, we almost always talk about food. With the communication barrier stronger here than with my host mom, food is our natural common ground. I tell you what I know about Napa Valley, and you explain how you make the best dang roasted potatoes on the planet. (Hint: it's all in the butter).  You explain Daylight Savings in French to me the best you can and cut me some slack when I totally mess up with kissing at mass on Sunday. On your day off, you tend to the garden  in the rain, even though it soaks you to the bone. After all, is it not that same rain that gives the plants life?

I've seen plenty of instances of love, but you cherish your wife in a way unlike any I've seen. You treat her with a tenderness that makes me impossibly weak in the knees. It is not in grand, sweeping declarations of petty love but rather, the little things you do. The way you lightly brush your lips in a kiss across her forehead at breakfast. And the way you sweetly reach for her hand on the walk to church. The way you'll cook for her like she's the most important restaurant critic there ever was. The way you simply look at her with inexplicable appreciation. As if her presence is better than all the presents you could ever receive.

She, your family, and your food are everything to you. Forgive me, if you've caught me staring at such unconditional love.

Cyriaque, my host brother.

(Almost) 15. Spunky as all heck. Deserving of his own post before this post  turns into a novel.

Melissa, my sort-of host sister

Amazingly capable of firing back sass at host brother. Hot dang, there's a lot to say on this one. Also deserving of her own post.

So to my deuxième famille, thanks for having me. Like any family, we are not perfect.

But we do a pretty darn good job of making it work. Without second thought.

-lexi

Introducing the Characters: Mom

Mom

Mother dearest. Puts up with both smiling and sass. Beach walks. Local girl travel. Type A, plan on it. Legally. Yoga convert. Deal hound. Accomplished cook. Will beat you in scrabble. Hands down.

Mother dearest, Mommy, Mumma, Mom, oh my. She’s been my loving fan since Day 1 and has dealt with everything from epic meltdowns to crazy dancing after massed iced coffee consumption. On top of having a full-time job, Mom maintains a spiffy household, basically making her superwoman. When she’s not saving the world (or me), she’s planning our next excursion or entertaining my obsession with the “forward” button on Gmail.