Boxing Day 2013

The time has come again, dear friends. You know what I’m talking about – the magical day each year I fill your inboxes with my Boxing Day missive, my own fine blend of formulaic self-deprecation, wordiness, and trite fortune cookie wisdom. So get excited. (How could you not after that riveting opener?)

From what all the internets tell me, 2013 has been a year of change both in personal and public arenas. And as usual, some were crushing setbacks and others epic victories. Where there were Rob Fords, there were Pope Francises. Where there was gratuitous twerking and open letters, there was Oscar tripping and endearingly graceful recoveries. While wearable tech seems to be going ahead despite Inspector Gadget’s warranted side-eyes, NASA’s now on Instagram, which is undeniably awesome. Taco Bell debuted a Doritos shell, but something something, more words, the cronut. (Intentionally judgment-free for individual ranking.) And despite crushing setbacks on gun control and affordable health care adoption (aka logic and rational choice theory), things like human genome sequencing, disease, and poverty eradication, and the repeal of the Defense of Marriage Act are so expansively hopeful that I am filled with optimism. (A muscle only recently rediscovered after 3-years of atrophy in London.)  

On the personal side, I see that change has been afoot in many of your lives as well. A few years back BlingBook served up all my juicy engagement status updates and now babestagram has really come through to fill in the blanks on what y’all have been up to all these years I’ve been away. I mock in jest. All of your rings and weddings and children are beautiful. Well, except yours. (You know who you are.)

As avid Boxing Day apostles, you know change has been the name of my game for the last several years as well. Outside of this email, the Boat Show, and the Seahawks playoff choke, I’m not sure there’s a more reliable yearly chronograph than my annual Packing Tape Ritual. (You know, the ceremonial dance enacted whilst frantically picking at the tape’s taunting end, attempting to start a whole strip but succeeding only in peeling off toothpick-sized silvers.) And while I have an incredibly compelling reason to move home to the Pacific Northwest, I can’t pretend to ignore my borrowed Gilbertian sentiments that make this move more emotional than usual: traveling abroad is my great true love. Not only has it always been worth any cost or sacrifice, but I am loyal and constant in my passion for travel as I have not always been in my other passions. I can only assume I feel about travel the way a happy new mother feels about her impossible, colicky, restless newborn – I just don’t care what it puts me through. Because I adore it. Because it’s mine. It can barf all over me if it wants to – I just don’t care.

So while earlier this month I tenderly coerced the packing tape (read: performed Packing Tape Ritual), said farewell to my 6^th flat in as many years, and folded up my life abroad so that my kid could one day become president I could embark on this new journey, I had to do so with the firm belief that this is not the end of an adventure, but rather a jumping-off point for an incredible new one. Funny thing is, the sharp learning curve of living abroad wasn’t all that much different from the sharp learning curve of pregnancy. Take these four simple observations and apply them to both scenarios:

1. No one cares about the crazy things you’re experiencing other than you. (And maybe your partner, but the more likely case is that he’s just humoring you. Much like hearing about the scattered details of the wild dream you had last night, he doesn’t care.)
2. You’re inundated with a new set of norms, rules, and lexicon, and you quickly decide which you’ll religiously abide by and which you’ll blatantly ignore.
3. Like it or not, you’ll pick up local vernacular. For example, today I conducted a conversation that included the following phrases: “I’m a bit peckish,” “No dramas, arvo is fine” and “the rectal thermometer is more important than the hands-free pumping bra at this point."
4. There’s a secret nudge-nudge, wink-wink club of those in your boat. You all hang out together even though you swore you’d never be the [ex-pat/parent] that only hangs out with other [ex-pats/parents].

Really, it’s the combination of these two things – pregnancy and living/traveling abroad – that provided me with so much hilarity over the past eight months. Not so much in the garden-variety surprise flatulence vertical, but in the various manifestations of “indisputable” prescription and admonition I received along the way. Each society has its own unique set of rules that they share with fervor at the site of the bump, usually around the same time they burst all personal bubble illusions and give into the bump’s magnetic pull.

Take pregnancy eating dos and don’ts: In the US, alcohol is officially off-limits throughout pregnancy, while in the UK doctors advise women to “try to limit consumption to one pint of beer or one glass of wine a day.” Just try. In Singapore, I was nearly spontaneously Heimliched by a concerned street vendor after putting a piece of pineapple in my mouth, but was encouraged to eat ramen with chicken collagen and alkaline-soaked noodles to “reduce heatiness.” I could not find anyone who would serve me cold water in Tokyo, but I happily ate all of the sushi after the chef assured me that sushi made babies smart and strong and is the staple of every prenatal diet. My French colleagues scoffed at the idea of avoiding brie or other soft cheeses but doled out stern warnings not to consume any raw vegetables during gestation. They couldn’t bear to even describe the inevitable consequences.  

And all of this – all of the rules, the differing opinions, the wide and often conflicting array of ritualistic practices for something as primal and universal as giving birth – illuminated the fact that while each culture assumes they have it right, most of us under each societal umbrella are just following the rules and norms passed down to us, labeled as fact. In other words, we look as weird to them as they look to us. At the core, we all want the same things. Healthy babies. Loving families. Safe streets and schools. Strong economies. We just go about getting them in different ways. And that’s okay.

So as my path once again directs itself to a different continent, albeit one I’m familiar with, I hope to eradicate the fear that often masks itself as dogmatism or indolence and to continue exploring, rather than rejecting, ideas that might seem the most foreign, outlandish and uncomfortable. I challenge you to do the same. That said, I just can’t get behind wearable technology... yet.

It’s with deep gratitude and expansive hope that I wish you and yours an adventurous, change-filled, and fearless 2014.

Boxing in 2012: Aussie Edition

Ding ding! Round 8. Boxing Day just ended here in Oz and, much like the anticlimactic terror of Y2K or its attention-poaching Mayan BFF the Apocalypse, (p.s. worst apocalypse ever), I can officially confirm that life after B-Day 2012 is continuing as usual. Knowing that the sun is en route to illuminate this esteemed day in your hemisphere, I’ve tailored this year’s musings menu to pair perfectly with breakfast so pour your coffee and prove it (i.e. Instagram this alongside your mismatched mug, mason-jarred winter flora, and recycled timber table). #YoullBeDoneReadingAroundLunchtime 

Similar to how I assume you anticipate this annual installment, the entire (online) world waited with bated breath and suspended status updates for December 21 and the strangely captivating, yet recurrently trite and pedestrian rhetoric it delivers, ahem, delivered. 99% were sure nothing would happen and prepared to gloat-book the evening away. 1% were confused, yet cautiously optimistic about finally bootstrapping their way into the 1% of something. #icanhazfreedom!!!1! Correction: the entire world aside from Australians who didn’t give a bugger, technically speaking. To be fair, Australia’s Prime Minister did record an official End Of World warning video solemnly swearing that "whether the final blow comes from flesh-eating zombies, demonic hell-beasts or from the total triumph of K-pop, if you know one thing about me it is this: I will always fight for you to the very end." So that was reassuring. 

Without a doubt, Australia’s no dramas or no wuckers mentality is one of their most endearing qualities. Two years ago I left the stiff upper-lipped-land of Londoners who can’t say great without sounding sarcastic, who apologize (and sincerely feel bad) for not smoking when someone asks for a light, and whose most offensive outburst is “with all due respect” – for the sunny climes and equally sunny constitutions of a populace who can’t utter three syllables without sounding like they zip-a-dee-doo-dah’ed right off the set of Disney’s Song Of The South. 

Practical Learning Pop-Out #1 – Fun With Slanguish: Let’s say your friend Laura got into a heated argument with a red-haired woman at Barry’s Christmas party yesterday afternoon. To recount that story to an Australian, you’d say: “Ah mate, Loz and that ranga sheila had a barney at Bazza’s Chrissy party yesterday arvo.” The more you know.

And that’s just the beginning. If someone throws a tantrum, they may have chucked a wobbly, cracked the shits or split the dummy. Slides are slippery dips. If they aren’t calling swimsuits togs, swimmers, bathers, or cossies, they’re gloriously referring to them as budgy smugglers and not missing the chance to point out that they’re all about honesty here. (Point being the optimal word.) War movies are warries, ambulances are ambos, mosquitoes are mozzies, and cigarettes are lung lollys. Clearly, Aussie slang-slinging knows no bounds. But frivolity for frivolity sake goes far beyond slanguage. They have a story they tell tourists about an angry mythical creature called a Drop Bear whose depth of deception rivals the intricate web Seattleites weave* about our terrible, horrible, all-together disgusting weather always. 

But to be fair, how can one not be disgust-inducingly happy in Australia? Booming economy, fair wages, beautiful people, animals that do this and this, and lo, the confirmed source of the fountain of youth – adult summer vacation. See, with Chrissy and the summer hols (note to self: band name gold) lumped together, even the largest of corporations close their offices for ridiculous amounts of time. And by ridiculous I mean genius. Arguably the state of Victoria’s most important office is closed from December 19th to January 14th. Remember your first summer that wasn’t filled and filled alone with Otter Pops and budgy smugglers, sometimes synonymously? That fateful July when you felt your energetic innocence flattened like piecrust by the corporate rolling pin you were desperately trying to logroll? Yeah, that feeling never matriculates here. These people aren’t afraid of sharks. Or spiders. Or killer jellyfish. Or apocalypses. Know why? They have white (sandy beach) Christmases to dream of and wake up to – the best of both worlds involving Eskys of stubbies, pressies, and yes, budgy smugglers. Instantly an entire nation unanimously becomes 12-years-old again and it’s June 21st, baby. 

If Australia’s no dramas-mentality is rivaled by another endear-inducing quality, it is their unbridled delight in community. Simply think about who (and how many of them) you met the most while traveling. Without violining up a Ken Burns opus for you right here, let’s cut to the lively bit of one consultant’s comparative findings: “US culture has evolved to be one that is very individualistic in nature, with emphasis on free will and the self-made man achieving economic success through the American dream. Australia, in line with its community-oriented heritage, is a culture that emphasizes common good, or the popular expression ‘fair go for all.’” This community spirit is alive, well, and utterly bewildering. You must first know that the official (read: my) collective noun for Australians rotates between heap, pack, and tan. So then, it is naturally perplexing to a freedom of Americans when a tan of Australians sniff out the most crowded place – a city, a beach, a lawn, a bar, a youth hostel in Whistler – and all–go–to–there. In a country of 22 million that is roughly the geographical size of the United States, 14 million budgy-smuggle into 5 cities and seemingly love it, if only because it’s where everyone else is. It’s all about the shared experience here. Everyone, even the Prime Minister, rides in the front seat of taxis, magnanimously perched atop their “we’re all in this together” soapbox.

While outwardly similar in language, heritage, and ridiculous good looks, Australians and Americans actually have fundamentally different attitudes and shockingly opposed cultural philosophies. Yet it’s precisely these differences that make our cultures so admire one another. In a classic case of opposites attracting, of opposable thumbs in craftacular splendor, the love-fest between Americans and Australians borders obsessive. It is rare to find a native who has crossed over to the be- fri- or -st -end side of the hemispherical heart who won’t immediately gush about their journey, the beauty they observed, and the kindness experienced, regardless of the direction they’re traveling. Sure, I still catch myself manifesting my destiny to empty patches of beach, un-blanketed lawns, or backrooms of bars in hopes of avoiding heaps of happy beautiful people, but I also adore it here. A place where my projections of normalcy are upside down. Australia perfectly Tetris'ed its way into This (ex) American Life, differences and oppositions filling in my own gaps much in the same way that the people I’m closest to do. 

But as the music gets faster and world events drop with more weight and complexity, things get much more complicated and much less comfortable. For example, if inherent differences fulfill and complete us, why can’t I handle checking Facebook during the course of an election or the unraveling of an unfathomably abhorrent tragedy? If collectively we make one another stronger, why is listening to those who oppose us a lost art? And when did compromise become the new c-word? Rather than evolving, growing, c-wording, it’s as if we are devolving and, in our thunderous deterioration, overprescribing deadlocked opponents with a toxic dose of Montague-Capulet fate tablets. I 100% agree with the logic and optimism behind this interaction, but I am impatient with the change process and admittedly become a part of the problem by chucking a wobbly, or worse, choosing apathy. 

Luckily, in one of life’s most macabre plot twists implicitly understood by a group of Mayan horologists, change is one of the few things we can always count on. I find this truth radically reassuring. Especially when my life’s various speeds and contortions begin to feel like a Monopoly marathon – thimbling my way around hotels, public transportation, taxes, bank errors, home-ownership, second prizes in beauty contests, all the while trying to avoid incarceration. However, all I need to do is read a few of my previous yearly missives to regain hope that change comes with more speed and less pain than my fear of the unknown lets me believe. Compromise doesn’t have to wipe out convictions. Change doesn’t have to be apocalyptic.

Practical Learning Pop-Out #2 – Losing My Wings: I’ve recently become aware of a change that comes with marriage – you dance like no one’s watching. And while that sounds cuter than a button-nosed country star threadbaring similar lyrics to sold-out Supacenters, it is utterly detrimental to the delicate dance of seduction-transferring aka wing-womanry. I’ve lost all my single lady swagger and with it, my wings. I clipped them myself the moment I realized that if I’m at a bar and dancing ensues, I no longer seamlessly contort into a smooth, yet entirely asexual ‘come hither and meet my hot friend’ maneuver as I did in my prime. Oh no, I go for it. I’m a robot. I’m a cyclone. I’m the sax soloist. I. Am. Roger. Rabbit. The one thing I most definitely am not is sexy. With unconditional husbandry love comes freedom like I’ve never tasted. My friends can fire “snap into it” glares all they want, but the hook is coming and I am unstoppable. So that’s new. 

For more on that, join me next year. Until then, you can ponder life’s deepest questions like why British people don’t have an accent when they sing or who decided the freezer wasn’t worthy of a door light. Better yet, tackle my friend Michelle’s timely query of why there isn’t an “I’m sorry” horn in cars to say “whoops” and remind one another we’re all in this together. (They likely have one in post-apocalyptic development here in Australia. Probably dubbed a sozza-hornie or something equally supreme.) 

As I reflect on 2012 and all of its non-world-ending events – on new life and tragic death, on brave compromises and meaningful convictions, on Monopoly monotony and Tetris-tantrums – words can't express how grateful and inspired I am by you, my abundantly talented, kind, hilarious friends. Many of whom I must by default assume have indeed seen my unbridled dance-floor carnage and yet still made it to this, the final sentence. You are the true heroes of Boxing Day.

*by myth, I mean completely true statement. Please let me move back someday. 

Boxing in Oz: 2011

Oh boy, it’s boxing day. Again. Funny how this seems to happen with greater celerity each year. For the veterans, welcome to round seven: with six years under your belt, you’ve likely instinctively topped up your tipple and stocked up on enough snacks to last through the apocalypse or this email – whichever comes first. (Or you’ve hit delete. There are options.) For rookie readers, I’d recommend tightening your gloves and attacking this with the unbridled fervor usually reserved for Beliebers and securing that last homemade cinnamon bun. I’ll do my best to make this both delicious and worth your while. And since you've made it this far...

To my relief, Boxing Day is as ardently celebrated in Australia as in the UK, so my conscious is clear that these yearly updates (read: soap-boxy tirades) are not only celebratory but, for all intents and purposes, required for my Visa approval. Furthermore, for a country that observes holidays with greater frequency than Simon Cowell sports cashmere V-necks, I may start sending bi-annual updates by randomly selecting one of their many auxiliary holidays such as Royal Queensland Show Day, Anzac Day, Foundation Day, Melbourne Cup Day, or my personal favorite, the Queen's Birthday Holiday (note: not her actual birth day – just a better weather day for a celebration. Don’t fret, they observe her actual birthday as well.) so. get. excited.

Yes, I said Australia. After living in London for nearly three years, I recently rode the wake of thousands of Brits before me and relocated to this sunburnt country. (No Mom, I did not have to break the law to do so.) The job that moved me to London in 2008 once again shipped me off to pioneer another international market and there’s not a day I don’t wake up feeling grateful to be on this adventure. In other words, it’s bonzer, mate.

In my best supposition, Australia and the US are effectively like two daughters that fled the family farm. One ran away from home after drinking all of mum’s tea and dad’s money. The other was sent to boarding school after pawning Granny’s brooch, (although she continues to be fully funded and invited to all the family holiday parties). The US is a textbook oldest child. Feeling overly controlled in her younger years, the pendulum swung so far that even the suggestion of similarity to the motherland is, to this day, received with cacophonous vocal gagging that should be applied to black licorice and black licorice alone. The US is stubborn and determined (if only to be stubborn and determined) and will never, ever, ever, nevarrrr be told what to do. In contrast, Australia is the younger, hipper, confident child that doesn’t mind occasional family dependency and playing dress-up in her older sister’s closet. Mum and Dad are still protective of precious Australia, but not nearly to the extent that they lorded over their oldest. Chores, curfew, dating, parties – rules that were a #BIGdeal seem not to matter as much on this second effort, and thus, Australia doesn’t mind when Mum steps in with suggestions. Or, you know, mandated elections.

And though I spent the next 10 (now deleted) lines blanketing you with additional likenesses, in short, there’s no place like Oz. It’s famously inverted – its seasons back to front, its constellations upside down and unfamiliar. Its creatures seem to have evolved as if they misread the manual – Australia has more things that will kill you than anywhere else. This is a country where even the fluffiest of caterpillars can lay you out. Where seashells will not just slice you but actually go for you. As Bill Bryson recounts, if you are not stung or pronged to death in some unexpected manner, you may be fatally chomped by sharks or crocodiles, be pulled helplessly out to sea by irresistible currents, or left to stagger to an unhappy death in the baking outback. It’s a tough place.

And yet I adore it. It’s comfortable and clean and familiar – apart from the aforementioned trans-element death traps (or Timmy Traps for my relatives still reading) and the additional fun fact that Christmas and winter have nothing to do with one another. The cities are safe and clean. Airports are efficient and romantic as all clothing articles and liquids remain where originally tucked and giddy family members await arrivals directly at the gates. The people are immensely likable – cheerful, extroverted, optimistic, quick-witted, and unfailingly obliging. The sun nearly always shines. There is single-origin coffee on every corner. They say fun “Stryin” things like “good die, might” and “beast eve-ah!” (Try that last sentence aloud.) Australia feels much younger. Newer. Fresher. Inexperienced. Vibrant. Passionate. In stark contrast, the US feels older. Wiser and more insightful, but also more tired, weary, content, and cynical. Going from the US to Australia is like hopping in a Delorean bound for 1950-something. In 13 hours and a confusing dance with the international dateline, you can be on either side of 20/20 hindsight.

This contradiction of opportunity poses a topic of reflection recently addressed by a great mentor, Erwin McManus. Look closely at all that is available when you are young – the vigor and strength, the energy, the passion of youth. Now compare that to the wisdom of time – the insight and understanding, the clarity that comes with age. The jolting reality is that the two rarely interact. Furthermore, they are both exceptionally rare, even within their respective age brackets.

Wisdom is clearly an undervalued resource in today’s society (insert Republican debate joke HERE). And while the carpe diem mentality is a blast, using the spring of passion to pleasurably gobble up everything in sight can be, how to say, apocalyptically detrimental on a global scale. (Note to self: pay credit card bill.) The notion that “if I only knew then what I know now” continually taunts us because we continually make decisions trapped in the now and rarely see them as the quickly approaching then. Unless we make decisions asking: “how does this affect who I’m becoming?” we'll just keep making misguided decisions. So we must live old, young. Somehow we need to live in the present with the vantage of eternity to create a future that is worth stepping into.

But at the same time, we must live young, old. Do you want to see passion? Get a room full of 20-year-old uni students and tell them you’ll provide unlimited resources to change the world. You will see energy unrestrained. Yet it seems the older we get, the more life will beat the passion out of us if we let it. The more we rationalize that our lives can’t follow a heroic narrative but should revolve around safety and security, around comfort and predictability, the more we will lose the passion and wonder of what it means to be human. Scrambling to soak up every last second of my 20s, my urgency centers on the apprehension that this is the last socially acceptable year I can act passionately. Let’s be honest – passion in your 30s earns you the societal label of “rebellious” or “unique” and if you’re still passionate in your 40s they’ll skip the niceties and just call you a heretic. And the unfortunate solution? Passion-numbing apathy. As we “grow up,” it’s tempting to simply become other people. Our thoughts someone else's opinions, our lives a mimicry, our passions a quotation. But think of the passion in a child – the authentic embodiment of excitement, courage, determination, positivity, self-motivation and acceptance. Living passionately is tirelessly being it in the game of tag. We should be rebellious. We should ask why. We should live life with purpose. And we must stop making excuses.

So what would happen if we took the wisdom that normally only comes with age and the passion that normally only stays in youth and refused to let our lives be defined by time? Hold a wisdom-intervention when we're young and a passion-injection when we’re old...

We’re not going to solve this by boxing it out, just as my Oklahoma Thunder boycott won’t bring them back to Seattle. But hopefully this is enough to make us anxious and slightly uncomfortable. To point out how rare and valuable the passionate and the wise among us are. To remind us that we’re date-stamped – that the hourglass has been turned and that every second matters. As yet another another year passes, I am enormously thankful for you – the persistently wise and unapologetically passionate people in my life who ceaselessly inspire and challenge me. I am undeservingly blessed by my friends and family who love me even amidst my unwise and uninspired decisions. Here's hoping Round 7 wasn't one of them.

Here’s to a wise and passionate 2012!

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?