Boxing Day 2010: The Promise Of The Future

I’m delighted you’ve taken a momentary rest from all that boxing to indulge in a bit of my, ahem, deep, sophisticated, and scholarly analysis (read: self-important mumbo-jumbo) in this, my 6th Annual Boxing Day Blast. If this is your inaugural edition, I recommend you either A: Get out while you still can – there have been enough disappointing inaugurations of late and that little trash can is just a click away, or B: Tuck in, spread some Marmite on your toast and enjoy – I promise this’ll be much more delicious than yeast extract. In fact, with five years of Boxing Day blogging under my belt, I recommend you keep calm and carry on with the expectation that you’ll be both a- and be-mused by the following. (C what I did there?)

Six years later and I’m still staying up way too late on Christmas typing up these emails. I’ve effectively replaced letters to Old Saint Nick with letters by Old Saint Mac, Nick’s lesser-known tech-savvy relative who is guided by Router the Red-Nosed Power Source. (Cookies and Apples were involved in both occasions.) So for those used to this annual tirade, I’m sure you’ve been expecting this email to grace your inbox with varied levels of anticipation and/or dread, just as I.

Funny things, these expectations. Before we are even born we have a set of them waiting for us – inconspicuously painted on the walls of our nursery and strategically placed in our cradles. In a so-called classless society, the bootstraps by which we’re meant to pull ourselves up sure don’t fall far from the feet that formed them. “Sure, they’re your bootstraps… we’ll just be inside monitoring each step, just in case. Oh, and don’t forget who bought you those boots.” In fairness, we can let our parents off the shoestring for this one as expectations attack from all angles – culture, society, religion, MTV… even our birth month carries presumptions. (Pisces are meant to be unobtrusive and weak-willed. Whoops.)

I, along with thousands of others, recently had my expectations jolted by an airport that wasn’t prepared for bad weather. (You’d think London and Paris have tropical climates with their inability to handle this oh-so-exotic “snow” that only falls, oh, every year.) Weary travelers, myself included, simply didn’t know how to react when our expectations were not met. Furthermore, the concept that something as mundane, prosaic, and tired as the weather could take out the unbridled beast known as “The Holidays” was as inconceivable as iocane powder.

Awaking in my childhood bed (five days after expected), the obligatory state of jet-lagitude hung over me, mimicking the overcast skies and live-streaming Seattle through fog-tinted glasses. It was in this cloudy state that I began thinking: Are there massive expectations I’m not meeting? Sure, I’m not exactly ticking the boxes of normalcy, but if I really am defined by a set of hopey-changey expectations, just how’s that workin’ out for me? Expectations define us. They define our past: Where did you grow up? What was your major? Who did you fall in love with? Yet expectations also define our future: When will you get married? Where will you buy a house? How many children will you have? Yet what about the present? Where does that leave today? And more importantly – when did we stop living life in the i-n-g and begin living in the e-d?

It’s no mystery that nostalgia and hope stand equally in the way of authentic experience. Longing for the future is as anti-life as dwelling in the past. So I guess what I'm stewing on about is that we should challenge ourselves to evolve beyond expectations if we desire to be i-n-g instead of e-d. We must continue traveling, accomplishing, achieving, and living rather than becoming content with being traveled, accomplished, achieved, and, well, we all know what the past tense of living is.

Sitting around a table with my closest high school friends (speaking of not living in the past), I realized that each of these inspiring, loving, stunning women are continuously challenging expectations in their own lives and this is leading to their resounding success. Lots of i-n-g happening around that table. All of them are not only working but also providing – so stick that in your expectation-pipe and smoke it.

The overarching theme of 2010 then became as clear as Seattle’s snow-capped peaks flashing their flossed fangs in some cosmic plea for dental health: We must not be defined by expectations. If we lack the iron and fizz to take control of our own lives, if we insist on guiding our lives by expectations, then the powers that be will repay our indecisiveness by having a grin (or five) at our expense. Should we fail to pilot our own plane, we can’t be surprised at what inappropriate port we find ourselves docked. The dull and prosaic will be granted adventures that will dice their central nervous systems like an onion; romantic dreamers will end up in Nebraska. Or so says Tom Robbins.

So I’ll finish with this…

In 1931, Henry Ford made an 80-year forecast into the future. (Pause for recognition that this puts us at 2011.) The New York Times headline read: “The Promise Of The Future Makes The Present Seem Drab.” But contrary to the eye-grabbing headline, Ford actually took a more introspective approach that “perhaps our most progressive step will be the discovery that we have not made so much progress as the clatter of times would suggest.” Rather than idolize technological, automotive, or industrial expectations of the future, he went on to say: “After all, the only profit of life is life itself, and I believe that the coming eighty years will see us more successful in the real profit of life. The newest thing in the world is the human being. And the greatest changes are to be looked for in him.” Therefore, the only expectation we can hold fast to is change. Expectations included.

In light of antiquated assumptions that attempt to keep us in the e-d, I reflect with a humble heart on the inspiring people who continually keep me i-n-g-ing. Wishing you and yours peace, love, and a hopey-changey 2011.

2009: Does Boxing Make A Difference?

As I can only assume most of you spent the day out boxing in a joyful and exuberant celebration of this all-important holiday, I figured I'd serve up this piping hot email for you to tuck into upon your return. Trust me – it's tasty. 

Yes dear email list, it's time that I once again stuff (or is it dress?) your inbox with my deep analysis (read: annual tirade) of a year in review. If this is your inaugural inclusion on this distinguished list, I suggest you give it a whirl and make a more educated "to open or not to open" decision next year. But now that you’ve managed this far, pour some milk in your tea, grab some nibbly bits and bobs, put your feet up, and indulge in this: Laura's 5th Annual Boxing Day Email.

As many of you know, I'm responsible for planning my 10-Year High School Reunion. (This is a contrived pause for those of you in my graduating class to hit reply and offer up either pity or assistance. Or both.) I've already discussed the fleeting issue of time in Boxing Day emails of yore, so aborting the lecture launch, I'll simply state that I have no clue where the last 10 years have gone. Looking back to the year 2000, it is ultimately farcical to think about where I thought I'd be in 2010.

At 18 years old, the prospect of 28 was unfathomable. But I knew it was old. And this fabled "old" promised answers. Security. Confidence. Establishment. HA! Who's going to break it to my 18-year-old self that at nearly 28, uncertainty is the only certainty in my life? How long will I live in London? What's next career-wise? Should I be thinking about marriage? Kids? How many licks does it take? It all boils down to a small seed of insecurity rooted in a simple question: 10 years later –what difference have I made?

I will confidently venture that I'm not alone in this trend. Our obsession with making an impact and leaving a mark is deeply ingrained. I can try to hide it, but in my heart, there is an incredible sense of fear that my life will never amount to what it could or should.

Then I think of people who have greatly impacted my life, and one in particular who made a stunningly large impression. This person is not famous, nor is he someone I loved. In fact, I’m referring to “this person” in cryptic appellation because I don’t know his name. He was a camp counselor and was preparing to teach us something that, conveniently, I can’t remember (though it was probably how to thread a dream catcher or whittle a flute). In jest, a fellow counselor playfully challenged: “Sounds risky, don’t you think?” He looked back straight-faced and responded: “Risk surrounds everything worth having.” It was small. It was in passing. It was not contrived. He was merely sharing a cheeky response. For me, it was life-changing.

This brings me to my 2009 theme: Sometimes I think we’re looking for that big moment where we’ll have a HUGE impact: our name in lights, our story profiled in notable publications, our life honored for the penultimate greatness that we’ve bestowed upon the previously lacking world… but when we look back on our lives, the most significant moments are likely going be small instances, moments we may never even know deeply affect the life of another human. Maya Angelou was spot on when she said: "The woman who truly intends to live a good life is already living phenomenally since intent is a part of the achievement."

So when we blink a few more times and the 20^th and 30^th reunions are upon us, I’ll dare to venture that the answers we so desperately seek, the Scott’s Tots promises that we just “know” we will fulfill, the stability and security that we are utterly convinced are just a milestone birthday away, are still just as elusive as they are today. The questions will be different, but I’ll double dare that uncertainty will still be our certainty. And for the physical challenge? Live passionately. Take risks. Live with an advanced mentality. Push forward into the foreign. Because perhaps the only way to take responsibility for our influence is to ultimately accept the reality of uncertainty and not be paralyzed by the unknown. After all, risk surrounds everything worth having, right? 

With this, I leave you rocking in arms of Stephen Colbert’s sweet, sweet cadence: "I don't like answers. You wanna know why? Too bad." In light of the unknowns that make life a constant challenge, I reflect with a humble heart on the people reading this who have and continue to deeply impact my life simply by living phenomenally.

Wishing you and yours an abundantly risky 2010.

2008: A Proper UK Boxing Day

Happy Boxing Day!

After three years of admittedly inauthentic boxing day updates, I can proudly say that today I officially celebrated my first Boxing Day as a UK resident. And though you may be tempted to hit that little delete button that is oh-so-easily accessible, I'll tempt back by boldly stating that this year's annual tirade will be nothing less than a complete bodice ripper… er, something of the sort. (But it's a long'un, so pour yourself a glass of whatever's closest and get comfortable.)

"So what exactly," you may be asking, "is boxing day?" Well, let me jump back a tick by reiterating what I've mentioned in previous emails: Brits have Christmas fever. I've blamed the lack of Halloween and Thanksgiving... and the duff deal of celebrating Guy Fawkes who essentially foreshadowed the next 400 years of daily life in Ireland. Whoopie! Wait, what?

Anyway – due to the propensity of celebratory withdrawals, these islanders knock out three major holidays in one week: Christmas, Boxing Day, and the New Year. Noblest-of-noble Boxing Day is known as the 'Day of Goodwill,' based on the tradition of giving gifts to the struggling, the less fortunate, the ill-fated among society. Yet in modern days, Boxing Day has become synonymous with Black Friday, which just makes me fall in love with irony all over again, because – let's be honest – "less fortunate" and "retail" are becoming more closely linked than Madge and A-Rod. (Albeit far less poetically inclined.) Long story short, I felt it my civic duty to celebrate like a true local.

Speaking of local, it's always funny getting a spoonful of "normal" in another cultural setting. For example in London, it's normal for pubs to not serve food between 2:49–6:12pm, or to simply not serve food on any given day. Completely normal. "Booze? Always. Food? Eh… just when the spirit moves." It's normal to pay a full pound more if you choose to eat your food in a deli or coffee shop rather than take it away. It's normal to call fries "chips" and chips "crisps," and call lines "queues" and underwear "pants," although that last one gets me in trouble on a near-daily basis. Resumes are called CVs, the word "smart" applies to your appearance rather than your intellect, and a fit bloke is every bird's dream. It's normal to identify yourself by your neighbourhood rather than your occupation, effectively replacing "what do you do?" with "where do you live?" (Which can also be a chat-up line, so buyer beware, the accents are irresistible.)

Yet this demands the question: if I think I'm normal, what does that make everyone else? It was at this point that I realized (as I always do when I'm out of my "normal") that as soon as I start thinking I'm the normal one, as soon as I start believing I do things the "right" way and scoff at others around me; I'm instantly wrong. We're all just looking for our slice of normal, myself included. So why do we fall into "normalcy negativity" so easily? Don't get me wrong, I'm not implying that "normal" is a bad thing – simply that the fear of "abnormal" is. Because fear, more often than not, is miscategorized as hate. To make Joe Biden proud, I'll say it again another way: We often use the word "hate" when what we really mean is fear.

All this thinking really gutted me and I knew I had to get a grip on my knickers, so I plopped down with a glass of full-bodied spicy red and an array of cheese from La Fromagerie and realized why Love Actually IS actually my favorite movie. It opens with the following lines:

"Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion... love actually is all around."

Maybe I'm 60 years late on Beatlemania here in London, but the message is timeless. And here's the kicker, the bodice ripper, the... er, candle flicker(?) of Boxing Day '08: Be audacious enough to love those who don't... and radical enough to love those who you don't.

In light of the fear that leads to the tragedies of our world, I reflect with a humble heart on the incredible people I have been blessed to know and love; all of whom have proven time and again that love actually is all around. Wishing you and yours peace and love (and a trip to London) in 2009. If after reading this you're still longing for something to blame, I leave you with this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vjW1iq4IO2k.

Boxing Day 2007: When I talk about tech

I hope you all had a wonderful boxing day – the annual hullabaloo of zest and glee that we all look forward to each year. Apparently, my router celebrated a bit too much and was not up for the daunting task of "working" yesterday. So here is my annual report (hiccup), router (hic) willing.

How rare it was to find myself in a moment of virtual darkness last night – especially with all of my various-colored gadgets (complete with delicious-sounding names) that keep me "connected" 24/7.

SIDEBAR: What is with these names? It's like they've fooled us into thinking we need the latest gizmo by appealing to one of our most basic needs. Food Logistics recently published an article titled "How Food Names Affect our Appetite." I'm personally convinced that some marketing genius in the tech industry got a hold of this piece and had a field day. Chocolates and Apples and Blackberries will never sound quite as delicious.

But this reliance on the glories of technology; the "connectedness" we feel through Facebook and Myspace, the work we do from our phones and computers, our virtual "Second Life" (and Dwight's dependence on his Second Life's Second Life) is exactly that: a dependence. So what happens when we don't have it? What happens if we disconnect?

Last night, just as I was sitting down to write my annual boxing day email, my router crashed. Fine – chalk it up as a minor hindrance. So I turned on the TV. Nothing. The snow on the set mirrored the weather outside. To add insult to injury, my cell phone beeped three times – its token SOS cry informing me that: 1) it is running out of juice, and 2) it is VERY upset that I left its charger in Portland. So by 6:45pm, I found myself painfully aware of the fact that I was stuck on the top of this hill – completely disconnected. My family looked around at one another – clicking off the TVs and shutting the laptops that had preoccupied us for the last several hours. And we did something revolutionary: we fully engaged in the authentic companionship of one another, no strings or dings or beeps to interrupt. It was only when we disconnected from technology that we were able to connect with one another.

Now I must fervently add that I am not a tech-hater; I love technology as much as the average Kip. Shoot, it provides me with a lifestyle job I've dreamed of having (insert shameless Yelp plug). But it does come with a price. Time is clearly a commodity, and while the advances of technology essentially provide us the ability to do more things at once, we must question how the quality of our friendships is affected by page comments, how the quality of our driving is influenced by texting, and how the quality of our physical health is sacrificed for convenience. The prevailing advancements in technology demand equal advancements in our own responsibility.

So today the router recovered and boy, do I feel "connected" again. I'm so connected that I get to spend the rest of the day answering a slew of emails and messages questioning why I've "gone dark" for an entire 10 hours. But for now, I'm off to devour a blackberry and apple cobbler with a dollop of i-scream.

Wishing you and yours warm blessings and responsible advancements in 2008. Please do keep in touch. It's easier than ever, right?

Boxing Day 2006: Back By Popular Demand

Back by popular demand, my Boxing Day deep thoughts have again graced your inbox. I can see you now – weeding through the feebly personalized holiday emails you were lucky enough to receive from Pottery Barn and Ticketmaster, you found this: a holiday tradition like Butterscotch Schnapps and Hot Cocoa. As I mentioned last year, Boxing Day is the oft-forgotten day of celebration and glee, and in this spirit, I am including you in my gleeful celebration. Enjoy! (Or just hit delete, I won’t know the difference.)

Last year I tackled the issue of time and how, no matter how hard we attempt to prioritize, we’re just never going to have enough of it. How time is the most amazing gift we can ever give because it is the only gift that you can never get more of. This year's topic is just as cliché.

Recently feeling nostalgic, I took an all-too-stressful stroll through Bellevue Square; a now highly avoided task that constituted a pretty hot date in middle school. Passing unfamiliar storefronts in halls I used to have blindly memorized, the memories came flooding back – like exactly how much Sweet Factory candy I could get for $2 dollars of saved lunch money. I grudgingly trekked past The Boat, which seems to shrink each year, and somewhere between Brookstone and Victoria’s Secret, it started. I began wondering why kids these days had their backpacks to their knees and were wearing their painted-on high-water jeans so tightly that circulation must be a concern. I caught myself scoffing at the abundance of perfectly slicked hair and how kids these days were too immersed in their cell phone conversations and iPod playlists to notice anything outside of their own world. I glanced into Mariposa, a formal dress favorite of mine in the days of yore, and questioned exactly how kids these days expected their bodies to be covered by such little fabric. And then the quintessence of all things that I am not was thrust at me in such harsh reality that I felt like I had fallen off the trendy tree and hit every dated, archaic, obsolete branch on the way down. I walked into Abercrombie & Fitch. I was suddenly surrounded by perky orange salespeople who were flawlessly groomed and plucked – all of whom I instantly recognized to be wearing far too much eye make-up and bronzer, yet I was the one who looked like I was beaten by the unfashionable stick.

We’re old. Ok, I’m being a bit dramatic. We are not nearing our death or sad demise, but we are no longer the target audience. We could no longer be on The Real World. 80% of TV commercials are targeted at kids these days that are 3, 5, 7 years younger than we. Those Hot Older College Guys in Farris Bueler and Adventures in Babysitting now look like the annoying potheads who lived down the hall in our dorms. We can no longer work all of the latest gadgets, nor do we care; we’ll get our little brothers to set them up. Personally, my cell phone is far smarter than I am, and I'm moving on.

And it was then, in my moment of pop-culture pessimism, that I saw my handsome law student boyfriend on a bench ahead waiting for me – dressed in a classic black pea coat, not tinkering with an iPod, or rapid-fire texting someone on some ridiculously thin cell phone, and I realized that we are all in a very good place. We have survived years of impressing our parents and our classmates and we are finally able to put all of our practice to work – to live the lives that we want to lead – not because it’s cool or trendy, but because it is what we like. It’s what feels good. Now we can pick and choose what pop culture we accept and reject: yes to MySpace, no to Ugg boots. Yes to Kelly Clarkson, no to Razor Phones. You do you. 

I am so thankful to have friends like each one of you. Spending time in Kansas (yes, Kansas), I find myself thinking of you all often – he’s doing this, she’s doing that, and I am in constant awe at what remarkable positions my friends have found themselves in. In light of the many world tragedies, I reflect on the incredible people I've been blessed to know and love. Just like Time Magazine, YOU are the cliché topic of this Boxing Day email. And now you're done reading my antics until next year... unless I lose my cell phone again.

Wishing you and yours a fantastic 2007.

MERRY DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS! (Happy Boxing Day!)

MERRY DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS! (Happy Boxing Day!) Traditions must start somewhere – so for those of you lucky enough to have remained on my contact list (and not sent me one of those “unsubscribe” e-mails yet) you receive this: Laura’s first day-after-Christmas letter! I was just reminded by a dear friend that it is also Boxing Day, the oft-forgotten Commonwealth holiday of celebration and glee. Awesome – what better excuse to enjoy the following food for thought. It’s boxing day – READ!

Does it seem like time moves faster each year? I think someone should check on that. Christmas feels less like “Christmas” each year as I hastily become immersed in a culture where my bank account seems to decrease instead of increase as it used to. Now I don’t just “get” 3 weeks off for "break." For those of you still in school, soak it up while you still can. But for those of you encountering the golden handcuffs of corporate benefits, you, like I, have found yourself in this year’s unlucky situation where Christmas Eve, Christmas, and New Years Day fall on weekends, which you barely get off anyway. Byeeeeee Christmas Break. It was nice while it lasted. So quit! (I did.) Backpack Europe. (I arrive in Athens on Jan 5th and will somehow make my way up to Dublin). Do it. With time fleeting, the irrational suddenly becomes extremely conventional, and I'm certainly not complaining. 

I am reminded of the power of Christmas with my niece and three nephews. As I am typing this, I can hear the struggle of kid vs. parent on Christmas Eve; “well, he certainly won’t come if you DON’T go to BED! There is still plenty of time for him to switch you over to the naughty list!” (I love them all so much and being an aunt is sure one powerful method of birth control. Parenting is no joke.) To be honest, what I enjoy the most during this season is time itself. As I mentioned earlier, time seems to be what I desire most these days as it is becoming my rarest commodity. It is by far the best gift I both give and receive. It seems that everyone realizes, if only for one day, that family is important, that high school and college friends should be contacted, and that resolutions must be made. I can’t tell you how many times during the year I think “I should really call ________.” But during Christmas, we almost have an obligation. I mean, it’s Christmas! You have to call! While many cringe, I cherish it. I love hearing from you… even if it’s just one of those silly online birthday calendars that you haven’t bothered to personalize. I can dig it.

So there. That’s it really. Day-after-Christmas/Boxing Day letter number one was relatively painless… except for you non-calendar-personalizers. And I for you I have no mercy. Ok, maybe a little, but only because it’s Christmas.