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SOAP BOX: Slaying former expectations and dealing with the present

features editor

Published: Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Updated: Tuesday, November 13, 2012 12:11


I am in the midst of a glorious vacation visiting a best friend in Phoenix. Though I was forewarned of the evils that come with the 14-hour drive from Logan to Phoenix and back, I gladly took on the challenge and the drastic gas costs because driving has always been a therapeutic experience for me. I’m always for some good therapy.

   

On the trip, as I mixed up my entertainment by rocking out to Adele, listening to audiobooks and enjoying the silence, I came upon several personal aha moments.

   

Turns out, I’m a personal elitist. I have always been a grammar natzi (“We were, not we was.”) I’ve also often weighed my own self-worth on the notable accomplishments I’ve achieved and the shockingly small size of my waistline. Junior high and high school for many are the years of sociality, kissy-face and cliques. For me, these years consisted of perfectionism, AP classes, and moving out to New York to become a star, or whatever.

   

After moving out at such a young age, I couldn’t stop the momentum. I had to prove I could accomplish more than was necessary. I had to work at a New York City magazine, join every smart-young person organization available, all the while working however many other jobs it took to pay rent.

   

In this past year since returning and actually staying in Utah, I have become extremely hard on myself. More so than usual, which is quite terrifying. I’m not a freelance writer, intern, nanny, model and superhuman goddess like I’m supposed to be. I work at the Statesman, am mildly involved in extracurriculars and I’m a waitress at Beehive Grill. On top of this, absolutely none of my pants fit anymore.

   

Have I become average? I thought as I sucked down an energy drink to keep my eyes open through the drab stretches of Northern Arizona. I don’t know who would judge my meteorcity, but I am starting to realize even if it’s true, it’s probably OK. In fact, it might be somewhat pleasant.

   

My overzealous 16-year-old self probably would have scoffed at my 22-year-old reality. “Psh, look at what you’ve become. Do I see you in the pages of Vogue? Are you an editor for a big-time magazine? Look at that pudge! How have you let yourself go like this?”

   

Well, 16 year-old self — listen up — you need to chill.

   

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