Atmospheric Pressure

When I was 12 years old, I broke the radial bone in my left forearm. Pedaling my friend’s bike back to her garage, I wanted to ride it up her steep driveway. About half-way up the climb, I realized I didn’t have the strength to make it. I tried to dismount, but it was too late. I fell, my forearm crushed by the frame. It was just a sliver of a fracture. Because there was no outward show of injury, I got little sympathy for the excruciating pain when I tried to lift anything, even a pencil. But eventually the pain died down, and we all sort of forgot that I was ever even hurt.

“Oh, my bones are aching. It must be about to rain.” 

- Everybody’s grandpa, ever.

               Later I noticed an odd phenomenon: my arm could predict the weather. Sort of.  When a big snowstorm was arriving, or even just rain, my forearm would ache. Fun scientific fact: when a storm comes, there’s a drop in barometric pressure, which causes soft tissue and fluid to expand, especially around joints or old injuries—even ones that are entirely healed.

              I know what you’re thinking—“With a talent like that, why wouldn’t you drop out of school and become the world’s most interesting local weather person?” but here’s the other part: this ache is unpredictable. Sometimes a storm will arrive without any signal from the arm, and sometimes it will hurt with sunny skies the whole day long. But for the most part, it’s an unexpected change in atmospheric pressure that will cause this old pain to return. It’s not a sharp pain, or an agony in discomfort, it’s just… an ache.

Heartache feels similar to me. Immediately after the loss, people empathize with your pain—there’s a tangible, socially-expected, sympathetic response to “He’s gone.” Then enough time passes, and the cut, the wound, the crack-- even if it was only ever a fracture--heals. Eventually the oppressive, excruciating pain stops following you.  You can go about functioning with all your normal faculties. You can even be genuinely happy for your lost lover. And with every passing day, the pain dulls a little more until you feel confident in saying the break is no longer broken.

But every once in a while, there will be a change in atmospheric pressure. You’ll hear a song on the radio, or see his favorite something-or-other, remember an inside joke, or see a picture of him and his new family, or sometimes there’s no trigger at all. But you’ll suddenly feel a dull ache. Like a bruise that you didn’t know was there until someone poked it. I still ache with a sudden change in “weather,” and I don’t know if that experience will ever go away.

           
  But there’s power in memory. This ache means you hurt once. The break itself is evidence of an ambitious trip—maybe you didn’t have the momentum to make it all the way up the driveway, but the attempt isn’t something to belittle. There’s a piece of pride that should revel in the ache, because it’s proof that we're alive. That we're attempting to live.

“It is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.” I vacillate between believing this quote and hating it. Written by Sir Alfred Tennyson, when feeling optimistic, it is the hope we bring to every new relationship. It is the balm that soothes the panic that if we end up muscling through a relationship, and fall, and get broken, we might ache for years into the future. It's the risk we take. And I believe we’re brave—maybe even noble for taking it. Because even after all the pain, and the remnant aches, I can’t say I wouldn’t have loved the people I lost.  

Would you?

Scream and they Come Running

My highest level of productivity usually comes when avoiding something else. For some reason, any time a large assignment is coming up, I have a burning desire to deep-clean my dorm room.

Tonight was one of those nights. I put in a load of laundry, cleared off my desk, and made my bed. I was so inspired by this burst of productivity in procrastination, that I turned to the giant suitcase of winter items in storage. It was finally time. 

Unpacking a suitcase with clothes you haven't seen in a while is like reuniting with a old friends. 

Hello, scarves! I hung up some extra command hooks, and draped the scarves on the wall. Hello, sweaters! I made room for a new pile of sweaters into my drawers. And then, my dear, old black trench coat. Hello trench coat! It's been so long! 

On the collar was a curious white circle. when I looked closer, it was a spider. wrapped in his own smooshed web. 

 It must have suffocated under the pile of clothes in my suitcase all summer. 

I took a picture, for my brother, who has a mild obsession with the disgusting little creatures. I went to zoom in, so he could examine every creepy little fuzzy leg, then ...

It started moving. 

IT STARTED MOVING. 

It was alive.  Like some demon creature emerging from the depths of hell it was crawling out of its web cocoon to eat me.

So I did what any rational and calm person would do:

 I threw the coat in the hallway and shrieked. 

I'm comforted to report many of my dorm mates poked their heads out to come to the rescue of a screaming fellow student. Should there ever be a real emergency, apparently, I have great neighbors. 

To Joe--the man at the end of the hallway--you're truly a hero among men for retrieving the loose and speedy arachnid, and putting him outside. For the rescue. Thank you for saving both the spider's life and my sanity. 

There's no chance, no chance in the underworld that spider came from, I'll be able to sleep tonight. 

It's happened to us all...

It's raining. 

I have no umbrella. which I do not mind. It's just a little wet. 

I'm in a maxi skirt and my giant raincoat, and trying to go to the bathroom. Somewhere in the shuffle on putting my backpack and water bottle down, and trying to lift my giant skirt, I hear a terrible, gut-wrenching...

 "PLOP"

"Oh no oh no oh no!" 

I fished the phone out of the toilet bowl in horror, while a girl washing her hands called through the stall, "...is everything alright?"

Rice. I need uncooked rice to absorb the water in the circuitry. this is not my first phone-in-water rodeo. 

To be clear, this is not a fact I'm proud of. 

The following sequence of events are all real, and happened with exponentially-growing panic:

• I rush to the small and overpriced corner store.The nearest grocery store is a 30 minute walk, and it's raining. it's as good as we're gonna get
•  ask the lady at the front desk, "Do you sell rice?"
• she looks at me like I'm speaking a different language, and responds with a blank stare. "Great. I'll check the back" I say
• scan the shelves: noodles, coconut flakes, rice flour. Useless. 
• finally see rice--but it's Garlic and Spanish Rice boxes. Gah! ...no other options here...
• quickly purchase a box--the garlic one. 
• rip top of box open, realize the flavoring is in a separate pouch. hooray!
•  shove phone in. 
• clearly there's not enough rice to submerge the stupid, toilet-drenched device. 
• run back to the shelf 
• purchase box #2 (this time, Spanish Rice)
• rip open top, pour box #2 into box #1
• spill rice all over the counter

At this point--everyone in the store is looking over, watching this crazy lady throwing rice around the check-out counter. But I'm too passionate about my purpose to be distracted or shamed by strangers who don't know my plight. But the box thing isn't working. I ask the front desk lady if she has a plastic bag of some sort. "trash bag...? anything?"

• she says, bored, "banana bag?" 
• excellent idea. 
• I rip a fruit bag off the stand 
• go to pour the rice in
• there's a hole. you've got to be kidding me
• Because it's raining, there's plastic bags out front to hold wet umbrellas
• I grab one of those. pour all the box's contents down the skinny plastic tube
• It's long and narrow, and I am having trouble moving my phone around in order to completely cover it with rice. 

The woman at the check-out counter watches me struggle, and finally says, "what are you trying to do...?" 

"My phone...is wet..." I say, looking up at her, deflated. 

• She holds up a finger: one second. 
• Comes back with an empty protein bar box. 
• Takes the contents of my umbrella bag and expertly places a layer of rice, the the phone, then sprinkles the rest of the rice on top. she must be my fairy godmother. 
• then she turned away, bored again, to help the next customer in line to check out. 

So now I have an open-faced box of Spanish rice-covered phone, and need to transport it without getting it wet. I cover it with the fruit bag--putting the hole on the bottom of the box. then stack the two rice boxes on top--hoping they'll catch most of the rain. I make it home phone in hand--

Time will tell if my efforts were for naught. 

Now I'm eating a cookie. 

Down the Harvard Rabbit Hole

Welcome to September.

Welcome to the beginning of the school year. Do you remember as a youth that feeling of elation shopping for new pens and composition notebooks with your mother? The palpable, electric undercurrent of a brand new year. Here it is again.

As if somehow a stack of brand-new highlighters, new sticky notes, a new planner holds the key to your happiness. As a reflection of your entire future capabilities: "This year, I'm going to be organized... This year, I'm going to read all the things..."

The stack of beautiful, new, blank pages holds a million possibilities.  A recharge of a feeling that
you can do or be whatever you want to be. (Don't worry, the feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness won't come until later) For now, just enjoy the September feeling of infinite potential.

Now please join me, as we start into a new school year at Harvard. The first thing the Dean says is, "Don't worry. This is not a joke. This is not a dream...." audience exhales "...You are supposed to be here. We did not make a mistake. Welcome to Cambridge."
In other words, Wonderland.

You've now stepped down the rabbit hole into an autumnal, scholastic, magical world. Where, "depending on where you want to get to, if you don't know where you want to go, it doesn't matter which road you take" because down any one of them is enchantment.

Not only are many professors at the top of their field, but many of the concepts they're teaching are ones they discovered or invented. This is not an ivory tower--it's an ivory planning zone. The intellect here is only useful as far as it can contribute to the universe. Professors research intellectually but moreover, practically. "How do we use this knowledge to help..."

If there's magic in the world, it's here:
It's in communities like this; conversations and discourse and learning to help better humanity.

I feel so unbelievably lucky to have stumbled down into this particular magical rabbit hole.

School actually looks like this 

But school Feels like THIS

The Dentist Monologue

My inner monologue when going to the dentist:

You're a grown up. You can handle this. it's not actually painful. Stop whimpering. the doctor hasn't done anything yet.

How am I supposed to handle real life pain if I can't handle a novacaine shot? Like if I ever had to get a surgery. Or have a child?

Averill,You're a grown up. Those noises are just a stranger drilling a hole into your precious teeth. AH!

ok, stop crying. there isn't actually any pain--your mouth is numb.

ugh. your mouth is numb. Don't accidentally bite your tongue!

you can't. your mouth is wired open right now.

this is the worst. I hate this person shaving away my enamel right now. I hate you! I'm sorry, Doctor, I don't really hate you. you're just doing your job. but if you could hurry up this process that'd be great.

By the time they finally release me, they treat me like some sort of war hero: "You did so great in that chair.. How you feeling?...You made it out amazingly...Way to stick in there."

A) Did I have a choice? Could I have been... bad in the chair somehow? B) I'm sure they don't feel the need to validate all their patients--just the small children, and the pathetic adults like myself. C) Ya! I did stick in there! I only mildly cried, and only twice. I should get a medal.

And then I get home, hide in a corner until the novacaine wears off and I can smile like a human, and promise myself I'll floss every night for the rest of my life so I never have to go back to the 10th circle of hell again.

...you got into Harvard?

"What? like it's hard?"-Elle Woods.

So often--SO so so often, I do really stupid things. It became a catch-phrase with my best friend in DC, whenever I would do one of these really stupid things, he'd say (affectionately), "...and you got into Harvard."

I forgot to screw in the gas tank lid on a rental car for a good few hours before someone brought it to my attention (I didn't even notice. Who knows  how long it would have stayed like that? Days? Weeks?)

"...and you got into Harvard"

Or when I couldn't fill up my water bottle from the drinking spout, and my friend suggested I open the top...

"...and you got into Harvard"

Or when I put in a work order because my door wasn't locking correctly. The repair guy asked to see my key, "well, the key won't do any good, cause it just won't lock when you shut the door." then he turned the deadbolt, and said, "you thought it locked automatically, huh?"
"It's moments like this I have to remind myself I got into this school."
The repair man chuckled, "You people can split an atom, but you can't figure out how to lock your own door."

Sometimes, in my blondest moments, I think, "how on earth did they let some dunce like me into this school?  Harvard Schmarvard."


But sometimes I'll be walking through campus, and get hit with this overwhelming rush of amazement and humility.
I live here. I will be attending this school. By some unbelievable, magnanimous, divine miracle (s), I got into Harvard, I am going to Harvard. With all my quirks, shortcomings, lack-of-knowledge, I have the opportunity to be a part of this incredible legacy, community, and education. I feel so incredibly blessed.

I can't even begin to describe my gratitude. Remarkable, ineffable amounts of gratitude.

Thank you to everyone who supported and encouraged this crazy dream. RP, for listening to the essay 86 times, and to every anxiety attack thereafter. To my mother, who never let me forget my (outlandish) dream, five years ago, to one day go to this school. My father, who at every chance reminds me I'm a fake imposter.

The Ed School Motto: Learn to Change the World.
I promise I will work as hard as I can to do exactly that, and to contribute to the legacy that's here.

Because for all my blonde moments later, I am so humbled, grateful, and thrilled! I am going to Harvard!

My Banana Split

Returning to dorm living has been an adjustment.  My room is at the very end of the hall. The only advantage is that it's right next to a secret stairwell exit to the street. But there are quite a few challenges. For instance, navigating the 47-step long trek down the hall to the bathroom. Not only the obvious frustration of late-night emergencies, but any normal excursion: you have to plan ahead --ie bring the toothbrush on the way to the shower--because it's a long trip down the hall and back if you forget something you need. 

There's also the problem of feeding myself, having nothing but a mini-fridge to my name. So far I've done pretty well on granola bars and leftovers, but admittedly, I'll steal and collect extra food from events and save it for future meals. 

Last night, I stole a muffin and a banana from institute. Gold--that's two meals! This morning, when packing my backpack for the day, I carefully put my water bottle in the main bag (because it frequently falls out of the side pocket) and I put the banana in the side pocket. I ate the muffin on the way out the door for breakfast, and looked forward to the banana for lunch. 

But when I arrived at work, my banana was gone! I imagined it lost somewhere in the underground. Somewhere between the shuffle of two rush-hour subway trains, and the walk through busy city centers, my banana was lying on the ground. Trampled and smooshed beneath the city--a pile of white-yellowish, sad, lonely goop. Or perhaps it'd had been stolen. I hope by someone who was hungry and really needed a banana. Cause I was hungry and really wanted a banana. 

At snack time, one of my little girls is always allergic to the camp snack (gluten), so we get her own snack out of her lunch box every day. She frequently brings bananas. So I told her the saga of my own lost banana this morning, "Somewhere between my house and camp, trampled by the masses of morning-traveling workers, lies a small pool of mushy banana." She gave me a solid, eight-year-old quizzical side-eye. The one that says, "I think you're trying to be funny, but I'm not quite sure how to react." As I kept describing the scene of what I imagined to be the fate of my banana, ("Maybe someone picked it up and put it in a smoothie, or maybe it's in some historic, freedom-trail trash can...") she finally cracked into a smile--borderline giggle territory. 

Successful child-rearing day. 

When I arrived home, tired and hungry, I went up my secret stairwell to get to my room. 

There, on the steps, right outside my dorm, was my banana! A little older, a little wiser, a little browner than the banana I'd left this morning. Worn by time, heat, and the anxiety of having felt abandoned, my little banana and I had both gained life experience today. It stared back at me from the stair--a glorious reunion. 

Sometimes the things you fear are lost forever, are right back where you started. 

Or you're just an idiot and drop things, essentially right on your own doorstep.

Either way, it was delicious. 

Cookies and a Train to New York

I have to catch a train to New York City at 2:00pm, so I’m trying to squeeze a whole day’s worth of work into the morning, I get to my desk early, and without having eaten breakfast I am greeted by the 40 birthday cookies my boss so generously baked. Their beady little chocolate-chip faces are staring me down, even after I put them in a drawer, whispering, “Averill… Averillllll… come on. You know you want to eat one of us. You haven’t eaten anything all morning! Chemical energy… Come on Averill… ”

I give in and eat one.

Ok--I eat three.

Then it’s 1:30pm. I run out the door, chase down a taxi. “Can you get me to Union Station, as quickly as possible? I’m going to miss my train.”

The driver smiles, takes my request to heart. Two U-turns, several jolting starts and stops later, we arrive in plenty of time. Both grateful but now slightly nauseous, I need some real food.

Wandering around Union Station, nothing seems appetizing, cause I’m still a little car-sick from the Nascar taxi ride. I finally settle on a sushi role. Then think, I’ll probably need more than this… I go on an aimless tour around union station picking up random things that look mildly appealing: a Starbucks blueberry muffin, and (I’m ashamed to admit) a McDonald’s cheeseburger.  (also, when I ask for some water at the McDonalds, the lady gives me an espresso-sized cup full... so a gulp’s worth)

Somewhere along the way during this food safari, I pass by a colorful little stand.

The charming rainbow palate is so lovely, I have to stop and see if the sparkles are really magic. And then of course, they are—because what the stand is selling is magic:

Macaroons. Flat, round, amazing cookies, that are notoriously impossible to bake. So refined, so delicate, so lovely, the display is a spread of all sorts of delectable colors—with flavors I’ve never imagined! A fruit exhibit in a cookie stand. The pear (a pear macaroon!) is calling my name. Much like the cookies earlier, but in a seductive, French accent, I hear, “Avrill, oui, we must be friends! You must try me, je t'aime”

So I buy one.

Ok—I buy three.

I’m at the gate. I successfully condense all of my random food items into the McDonald’s bag—sushi, cheeseburger, muffin, and macaroons. Careful of the precious cookies that I’m saving for mid-train ride. The train is delayed.

Well, now I have time to eat.

After the cheeseburger and the sushi, I am stuffed. No room for the muffin. But now the line is moving, and I panic, because I’m pretty sure I cut the line, but I didn’t mean to, but I can’t go back now. Where’s my ticket? Too many things—not enough hands. I keep the Starbucks bag and muffin with me, and toss the McDonald’s bag into the trash, and shuffle into the line, hoping not to make anyone mad.

I hand her my ticket, head down, trying to move quickly, get out of everyone’s way. At the top of the escalator to the platform, I look at my hand clutching the muffin bag, encouraged by the idea of how delicious my macaroo… THE MACAROONS! I threw them away!

I turn around, push against the traffic, cross under one of those line ropes, and take apart another one, all in pursuit of that trashcan. With single-minded, laser straight focus like I’ve never had before, I go digging through a garbage bin.

I find the McDonald’s bag quickly and once I’ve secured those little cookies in my hand again, I finally regain whatever grace and decorum is left to regain. I pretend like the many curious glances my way do not exist. Though I can’t ignore the man right beside me. So I explain, “I threw away macaroons.” I shrug and smile, as if that explained everything. Realizing it isn’t quite a satisfactory answer, I continue, “I mean, I didn’t mean to throw them away. I didn’t realize I had thrown them away. Have you ever had a macaroon? You can’t just throw it away. It’s a magic cookie.” 

He doesn’t understand. He’s probably never had one.

No matter, I have my macaroons.

I have to go back through the line, hoping the lady checking tickets doesn’t recognize me. From her judgmental stare, she probably saw the whole trash-can adventure.

No matter. I have my macaroons.

Safely on the train, secure from any other distraction, I enjoy the slightly crunchy, slightly melty masterpiece that is the macaroon.

A very happy Averill. 

Totally worth the trouble.