The Wisdom of "You've Got Mail"

I'll admit it: I'm a sap. I really truly enjoy watching some "chick flicks." Namely those that are actually done in good taste and have a plot, but especially You've Got Mail. I really think that Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks give so much hope for those of us who are still looking for love, but I mostly like it because of all of the wise and entertaining lines that are dispersed throughout the film.

"I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils, if only I knew your name and address." Lines like these make you truly appreciate the simple things in life. Obviously you can't just go to a floral shop and ask them to send your loved one a bouquet of sharpened pencils (or even if you can, they'd probably look at you very inquisitively and judgmentally). However the entire message centered around this simple line from an e-mail is to look around. Pay attention to the little memories that come your way when some seemingly insignificant sensory experience jogs that corner of your brain where a memory resides. Learn to be observant in the world around you, and you will eventually become very wise.

"Don't they know you're supposed to have a last name? It's like they're an entire generation of cocktail waitresses!" I think I read a little more into this line than most people ever would (or even the writer meant), but I really like the way it points out that people from the younger generations (like myself) can be so shallow! If people my age were more willing to put some thought into what they do and say, they would be a lot better off.

"The Godfather is the I Ching." Okay, so this may not make a lot of sense, but I, too, have recently discovered the wisdom of Don Coreleone and the lessons he can teach. Every single question in life can somehow be answered by the Godfather. For instance, when Kathleen in You've Got Mail has troubles with her shop, Joe tells her to "Go to the mattresses." Sometimes you need to fight for what you believe in, and although it won't always work in your favor, if you go to the mattresses, you will always win in one way or another.

The other seemingly inconsequential thing that I get from You've Got Mail is the need for us to support our local businesses so the conglomerates don't take over the world. Sure, I like to shop at Wal-Mart as much as the next guy, but I still think we all need to support the small businesses because that's what makes the backbone of our country and our way of life! If you'll notice in the frame below, the three Fox's are cha tting over coffee about the success over there store, and in the grandfather's newspaper is a picture of A dolf Hitler. It's very subtle, but it's there nonetheless. What do you get out of this?

In a completely different tone, have you ever noticed that when Annabelle is throwing rings at the ring toss, the one she throws is pink and the one that makes it on the milk bottle is green??? It's true! Check it out!!! Amy showed me this one.

Do you have any favorite "wisdom" movies? If so, I'd love to hear about them!

The Art of Random

One of the best things that I've learned in college has had nothing to do with academics. In fact, it doesn't really even have anything to do with college at all! It's the art of being utterly random, which, in fact, is truly an art. Some of the best times in life happen when you can allow yourself a little spontaneity, and this week, I've truly allowed myself to do just that!

Spring break, for most people, is a time for relaxing on white sandy beaches and dancing at clubs until all hours of the morning. Spring break for me, however, is rarely that adventuresome. I tend to stick around home, earn a little extra cash, and then travel with my family or friends at different times in the year. This year was no different, but I decided not to work as hard and actually take it as a break (so I don't burn myself completely out).

Some friends and I decided to head to a hotel in exotic Ogden, Utah for the night last night! That's right! Ogden! We got two rooms (a guy and a girl room), and partied the night away. Now when I say party, I mean we played iPod Idol and Truth (like truth or dare without the dare), watched YouTube videos, had a fashion show/runway in the middle of the hallway, and every other tidbit of wholesome mischief we could find. It was one of the greatest times I've had in a long time! Best of all, I only went with three people I know...the rest I met there. It was SO much fun, and I highly recommend to all of you that you try something truly random when you're feeling a little blue. It helps!

INTERVENTION!!!, or, in the mind of obsessive-compulsive Nathan

I'm writing this post as a quasi "self-intervention." Now don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm not addicted to anything too harmful – just clipping my fingernails and toenails. Does that sound a little off to you? Well, here's the story:

So I have an abnormally fervent obsession with fingernails and toenails. In fact, sometimes I even judge people according to the cleanliness of the nail and the quality of the manicure. I especially judge myself on the same specifications. One of my biggest pet peeves (if not my all-time biggest) is the length, cleanliness, and shape of my fingernails and toenails. They always have to be perfect. ALWAYS. If one my fingernails has too much of a point, out come the clippers until it is perfect. What's worse is, after I've fixed the nail in question, I realize that I have made it shorter than all the rest, so I think to myself, "Well, I guess they all have to be cut." I then proceed to manicure all of my nails to the same length and rounded shape. In addition to these clippings, if I notice any of my nails to be a little dirty and I can't seem to get the dirt out, I clip them. If that doesn't work, I proceed to pick at the skin that was formerly underneath the fingernail – sometimes until I'm bleeding. I know...too much information. But wait...there's more.

My toenails are an entirely different story. I've always heard that if you cut your toenails straight across, you have less of a chance of an ingrown toenail, which can become extremely painful. My semi-illogical brain, however, needs to have that same rounded shape on the toenails that I must have on the fingernails. This brings an all new dilemma in that I have to keep them unusually short to compensate for the risk of those horrible ingrown nails.

All of this combined means that I often cut my fingernails and toenails three or four times per week. That is extremely excessive, I know, but I have to appease that obsessive mind that controls these horrible urges! So right now, I am writing to force myself to keep from trimming my nails. And, so far, it's been working! I guess if I write about it, that might just let a little of the pressure out of my system for a minute. Maybe I'll be able to go four days this time without trimming! How about you? Do you have any obsessions like mine, or am I just some weird anomaly?

The World As You Know It Is About To End!

Okay, middle and upper-classes—are you ready for a permanent change in your lifestyle? In a new article from FoxNews, environmentalists are cited as saying that "Fluffy toilet paper [is] worse for the environment than Hummers!" So, each time you are wiping your precious behind, you are KILLING a "rare old-growth forest" in Canada. How can you have that on your conscience???

It's true! By using that extra-fluffy Charmin TP when cleaning off your behind, you are single-handedly destroying the environment at a rate that is usually reserved for gas-guzzling SUV's. The environmentalists say that we use it for less than three seconds, so why does it need to be so luxurious? I, however, counterpoint that that three seconds can give or take away comfort for the rest of the day. Have you ever missed a spot? It's miserable...believe me. They also say that "future generations are going to look at the way we make toilet paper as one of the greatest excesses of our age." Honestly, if my children's children judge me because of the feeling I like to have on my behind, I think they need to find something better to do.

How do the tree huggers want you to combat your war against our precious forests? It's simple. Just use toilet paper used from recycled materials. It's not nearly as plushy (in fact it may feel worse than crumpled-up newspaper shoved up your behind), and it's a little more expensive (I believe around $72 a roll), but you'll be saving the precious environment. I don't know about you, but if I use the wrong toilet paper (like the toilet paper in a public restroom), it can ruin my day! So I've got a few suggestions of my own:

1. Buy a Beday – it's more ecologically sound because you're not knocking trees down to clean yourself off (forget about the water shortage; they're tree huggers, not water huggers). Plus those Europeans always want us Americans to be more cultured. This can be our version of Europeanization.
2. Don't Wipe – hey...what's a little chafage and odor? You may have no friends and a giant wedgie, but you'll have a clear conscience knowing that you gave the world a few seconds more of oxygen from that tree that was already knocked down to provide you toilet paper.
3. Just use the dang toilet paper! – Conserve your energy by buying energy-efficient lightbulbs, utilizing public transportation, driving efficient cars, and recycling the materials that you do use, and just use the three-ply TP!

So, soccer moms, go out and buy a hummer, because you are far better off doing that than feeling that extra comfort during your morning constitutional. The environmentalists say so! Me? I'm going to stick with using my multi-ply toilet tissue; I figure that the environment isn't quite a good enough reason to walk around all day like I've used bark from the trees in my backyard to clean between my cheeks. Oh, and environmentalists...find something else to moan about next time. I hold toilet paper near and dear to my...heart...

I'm Sick

I have a confession. You know those boys that sit under their covers with a flashlight and a National Geographic magazine at night? Well, what I've done is WAY more weird. Last night, I spent almost an hour looking at photos of airliners. That's right...airliners. I think I must be sick. Ever since I was little, I've been obsessed with airplanes of every kind, and last night proved that I still am. I can point out the differences between a Boeing 737, 757, 767, and 777 (the 747s are a given), MD-80s and MD90s, as well as most of the Airbus models. I've spent hours drawing pictures of jets—trying to get the pictures right with my limited artistic abilities means it takes even longer. I like to go to the airport two hours before my flights not so that I can be on time, but so that I can walk around the airport, take pictures, and quiz myself on the different models of airplanes. And you know the little toy stores at the airport that sell model airliners? I have to talk myself out of buying the overpriced junk every time I walk by. I've seriously considered redecorating my room to an airplane motif (as an almost-21-year-old), and I think I just might. Oh, and I hope you don't have to drive by me as I'm going South on I-215, because my head is almost definitely going to be turned to the right, trying to spot the neat planes on the tarmac. Another confession—I've contemplated becoming a flight attendant after I graduate from college (and before I go to grad school) just so that I can spend a little extra time on an airplane. I'd be a pilot, but that costs WAY too much money (although if any of you reading this want to offer me a flight school scholarship and the use of a plane, I'd be more than willing to accept).
Oh, and every day I have to check the USA Today Sky Blog, the Delta Airlines Blog, and the Southwest Airlines Blog—just so that I can be up-to-date on their happenings. I've also been known to spend hours of my time reading Wikipedia to learn more about the different models of aircraft and exploring different airports around the globe. I can tell you which airport has the most on-time arrivals (SLC), I can tell you which airport is the largest airport in the world with only one runway (SAN), and in case you didn't notice, I can tell you most of the airport codes in the US (SFO, LAX, PDX, GEG, ABQ, JFK, LGA, IGA, SNA, PHX, etc). By the way, anyone that can tell me what GEG stands for without looking online gets a prize...although the prize may just be my praise, but we'll see.

I also spend way too much time online filling out surveys and looking for deals, just so that I can add Skymiles to my account. In fact, I applied for the Southwest Airlines Visa just because it would give me enough Rapid Rewards Points for a free round trip. I won't ever use the card, and I know that it's probably not the best idea to just apply for a credit card, but it was worth it. I just used those points to get a round trip to New York City! Oh, and I'm not going with anyone...just meeting some people for part of the time. Am I looking forward to my trip? Oh yes, but I'm mostly looking forward to spending four hours on a plane, and I'm really looking forward to my two hour layover at BWI. I remember every trip I've ever taken on an airplane, and I even have the boarding passes from some of my first flights! I've also been known to design fake boarding passes on the computer for my family, and we had a "flight" for family home evening where we watched a movie and I made the safety announcements.

So what do you say? Am I sick? Do I need some kind of shot or pill? If you give me one, I probably won't take it...I like this disease.

Mish Story...Part 3 of 3

Kent Allen – a family friend, a family therapist, and the first in an extensive string of angels placed in my life – re-arranged his entire schedule to meet with me the very afternoon I returned home. As we were talking, he pointed out a truly amazing scripture: “And if men come unto me I will show them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.” 

“Nathan,” he assured me, “You have come unto him. You showed the Lord that you were willing, ready, and worthy to serve Him, and now He has shown you a weakness. He will make it strong for you.”

This hit me harder than any scripture had before in my life, and I saw the first glimmer of hope I’d seen in several long days, because I knew it to be true. In the months to follow, I met with Kent numerous times. He and my family doctor diagnosed me with a chronic form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and Kent guided me through the burdensome ordeal of balancing the chemicals in my body and, a much more arduous task; starting my life anew. I had a plan for the next two years of my life that would no longer come to fruition. Though it would be exasperating at times, and the anxiety never really went away, I needed to move on with my life. I had to come up with an entirely different plan and take it all day-by-day.

The first step toward moving on was finding employment to keep myself from wallowing my time away. I was in no frame of mind to go job-searching, so my dad called a few friends, and I eventually found myself employed in the marketing department of a great local company. During my first week, I was assigned to travel with a woman named Kimberly Kemp to clients around Northern Utah. I didn’t know her at all, so our car ride was destined to be quiet one—or so I thought. In all reality, the trip led me to another saving angel: Kimberly herself. Kimberly had undergone great trials in the past few years, including some very similar anxiety. The two of us clicked, and we never found ourselves without something to say. She helped me realize that despite my trials, I was still loved and still had the opportunity to become a great man—mission or not. Though I only kept that job for a few short months, until I started school again, the many times Kimberly and I conversed changed my life forever.

People with similar situations seemed to come out of the woodwork. One friend, whom I’d known during my first year of college, brought me great comfort when he told me of his experiences serving a mission. He also experienced anxiety that was was horribly debilitating, and he, too, was sent home to take care of it, but not until after he had been in the mission field for quite some time. He not only knew what I was going through and proved to me that life does go on, but he showed me I could still prosper. This man’s amazing strength and attitude was an example to me as I suffered through the first months of re-building a shattered life.

Despite innumerable thoughtless comments from some people in the community such as “Why are you not on a mission?” or “It’s obviously too easy for missionaries to come home these days,” more people were understanding and supportive. Countless other guardian angels entered my life over the next few months. My wonderfully supportive family helped buoy me up; my great friends, both old and new, gave me the camaraderie I needed; and sweet children in my good friend’s pre-school class gave me a little taste of joy each time I volunteered at the school. The generosity and kindness of these incredible individuals helped me to overcome my own personal tragedy—a tragedy I thought would never end.

People always seem to call missions the best two years of their lives. Though I intended to spend the best two years teaching the people of Oslo, Norway, the growth and knowledge I gained of myself and those around me at home in Ogden, Utah, has superseded anything I could’ve learned on a proselyting mission. Every year, thousands of young men serve two years as missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I served a four-day mission and grew leaps and bounds over the following two years – my best two years. Not unlike the poem by Robert Frost:

I shall be telling this with a sigh 

Somewhere in ages and ages hence: 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The Mish Story...Part 2

My companion, Elder Swan, and I were somewhat less than thrilled when the unwelcome blaring of the alarm clock bellowed at 6:30 AM. Not only were we waking up in the middle of hot, lazy summer at an uncharacteristically early hour, but we also spent the previous night tossing and turning – unused to the uncomfortable beds, the strange noises, and the altogether unfamiliar place. Somehow, we dragged our bodies to the restroom, where the frigid water coming out of those evil shower heads shocked us into waking reality.

That morning, we met our teacher, had a crash-course in Norwegian, and learned a little about teaching, all before breakfast. Each day was pre-planned for us by the MTC, and every last second was accounted for. The hours were packed with classes, meetings, study time, and gym. After eating lunch with my district (the group of missionaries I ate, slept, learned, and lived with), we headed down the hall for a meeting with all of the other missionaries who had entered the MTC the day before. Since our goal was to arrive at every meeting early, we quickly found some available seats. After being asked to scoot-in numerous times to fit all of the missionaries, we were stuck right in the middle of the sweltering, muggy sea of bodies. As the lights dimmed and a training video began, all I could see in every direction were innumerable dark suits accented by the blue glow of the projectors. Each missionary seemed to breathe in sync, and the resulting waves in the grey, drab ocean of people resulted in an overwhelming feeling of nausea. Over time, the nausea led to clammy hands and a racing heart, and in a matter of minutes I was suffering from a full-fledged anxiety attack. Though I had felt a couple “pre-cursers” to this attack in the past year or so, I had thought nothing of them, and none of them could have prepared me for a panic attack as devastating as this.

“Find a counselor...a teacher...anyone. You need help.” This was the only rational thought my brain gave me during the hour I suffered through that meeting. I used my last ounce of constraint keeping myself from screaming at the top of my lungs and darting out of the room in the middle of the film. On our way out, I grabbed my companion, who knew something was wrong (how couldn’t he after I spent that much time shaking, sweating, sniffling, and crying next to him), although he seemed a bit disturbed.

“I have to talk to someone,” was the only thing I could sputter out of my mouth. Elder Swan nodded with as all the blood drained out of his startled face. My face was as pale as a sheer, white curtain hanging in a sunny window; the veins in my eyes popped out and shone bright red; and the sweat on my forehead had drenched the hair toward the front of my head. I must have looked like a zombie from an old horror movie. Elder Swan knew I needed some kind of help, so we rushed to the information desk, where the lady attending the desk quickly transformed from a smile to a look of confusion.

“Hi Elders! What can I do for you?” she chirped at my companion and I, trying to hide whatever emotion she was feeling.

“I have to talk to a counselor,” I muttered sullenly.

“Okay, head directly down this hall to the District Presidents’ office.

 The secretary will tell you which one you’ll need to see,” she answered, pointing down the hallway.

As we sat in the District Presidents’ office waiting to meet with President Bird, Elder Swan and I sat in silence. After about twenty minutes, I could tell he was anxious and wanted to get back to class, but I eyed him as he ripped a piece of paper from his planner and jotted a note down. He handed me the crumpled paper, and the note I read was of more help to me than Elder Swan would ever know. I knew I had someone else there for me.

My first meeting with President Bird, though slightly comforting, wasn’t even close to the end of my panic attacks. For the next two days, I was riddled with unquenchable anxiety that hung over my head. The dark, dismal rain cloud followed me around everywhere—the gym, our classes, and even meal times. I wasn’t able to have any fun when the other Elders were telling jokes and having a great time, to concentrate and learn in class, or to get the constant pounding of my heartbeat out of my ears. After numerous meetings with my District President, a psychologist, and a doctor, I tried to think differently, experimented with new combinations of medication, and prayed in my heart and out loud like I never had before. I wanted so badly to serve, but my circumstances were proving to be an enormous obstacle.

At breakfast Saturday morning, my mind was treading in an ocean of thoughts. I was trying desperately to keep myself afloat amid great feelings of inadequacy and worries of what was to come. It was then that I had the most crippling panic attacks I would ever experience. My body shook the table so violently that the other missionaries’ spoons were trembling in their cereal bowls. I felt looks of scorn from every direction, even though everyone was much more worried than judgmental toward me. More thoughts raced though my head; this time, however, the thoughts were much more focused and prominent. Elder Swan and I rushed down the hall toward President Bird’s office. He was just coming in for the day and caught us on our way, and he held his arms out for me to embrace him.

“Elder Alexander, these are getting worse and worse. I think it’s time we send you home to get some help,” he compassionately said to me, patting me on the back. As my parents traveled back to Provo to pick me up, Elder Swan and I trekked back to our residence hall, and I began to re-pack my things that I had so carefully organized just four days before. When my companion snuck out for a restroom break, I completely broke down. I plopped onto the bottom bunk and sobbed into my arms. Between the intermittent plagues of quick gasps for breath, I wailed into the pillow, thinking of all the experiences I was about to miss because of my flawed human body and its imbalanced chemicals. I thought of all of the people who wanted me to succeed at home – people who had supported me all of my life. I thought about my younger brother and whether this would influence his decision to serve a mission in a few years. Most of all, I felt like a failure. I felt like I was letting myself, my savior, and my friends and family down because of a stupid mental disorder. In that small dorm room, I nearly suffocated as my entire world crashed down around me.