Shorten the Path

I have made a decision.  It was not an easy one at all.  But, I am no longer going to pursue the ResLife career path.  It was never my end game, anyway, and I have decided to just focus on that.  And what is that, you ask?  First, let me tell you about my initial plan…

The plan was to go to grad school and get a Masters in Student Affairs/Higher Ed with a focus in Residence Life.  From there, I was going to get a gig as an RD, and get a masters in History.  After all that, I wanted to apply to the Film Studies PhD program at Harvard.  The end goal was to be a film studies/history professor at a small to midsize, liberal arts college, not unlike Keene State College, while serving as a liaison between Academcs and Student Affairs.

A lot of work, a lot of school, a lot of years.  

Since I’ve been removed from ResLife, I realized that this is not how I want to go about things.  That I can still be a professor and be involved in the “other end of campus” without having been more than an RA and involved in some student organizations.  I still want the opportunity to be a mentor and teacher, but I would rather go at it academically than in the Residence Halls.  It is easier to connect with people who share your passion than not. 

I am also taking my age into consideration.  When I was a fulltime student in the thick of it, I was able to relate to them, albeit the “what the fuck are you thinking?!” thought danced through my head on a regular basis.  But there was always a little bit of a distance, and the older I get, the more that distance will grow.  Also, I m 34 years old.  I don’t want to be 45 before I set foot in a classroom. 

So, I did what any normal person these days would do – I posted on Facebook.  I asked for suggestions of what I should do.  And Crystal asked me a question that gets asked a lot – what are you passionate about?  The first thing that came to mind was film and writing.  That was my wake-up call.  That the end goal I’d been planning should be the focus, and I need to shorten the path to it – not meander around in circles to get there.

I want to be a Film Historian.  I want to study, watch, analyze and write about films.  I want to teach Film History, and a course on the use of history in films.  It is what I have wanted since Freshman year of college, I just got distracted a little.

I will be forever grateful for everything I got out of ResLife.  I am a more confident, well-put together person because of my time as an RA.  The people I have met over the years will always be in my life, one way or another.  I would not have had the experience I had in college if it were not for being an RA.  I will continue to be supportive of and loyal to Residence Life and the Student Affairs programs that exist, because they are so important to the college experience, and changed my life.  But my role now is just that – one of support. 

I have found the next step, and I am certain of it at this moment.  I am looking at grad schools for film studies, and instead of being stressed about it, I am excited.  That’s gotta be a good sign, right?

Lost in the Woods

Today, I went for a walk in the woods near my house.  I was inspired by this guy I’ve been seeing the last few weeks, as he takes a daily walk, and is committed to self-improvement.  I grabbed my camera, my newly found iPod and my water, and I was off.

I once wrote about a moment when I felt the peace of God for a writing class (posted it here).  I had another one of those moments as I stood over a little log bridge.  The sun was peeping through the trees as a light breeze kicked up and leaves freed themselves from their branches to float to a resting spot on the ground.  I felt calm and secure.  But still uncertain about my life.

As I walked up and back down a big hill, I noticed something.  My eyes rarely left the path.  I never look too far ahead, for fear that I’ll trip on something right in front of me and fall.  I do the same with my life.  I only look ahead in small doses – where will I be this time next month?  In the next six months?  Next year is pushing it, but it crosses my mind.  But if I try to plan out too far ahead, inevitably I will get tripped up by something, and the plan changes.  So, I keep my head down and my eye on the path before me.

For the past three years, the plan has been a career in student affairs, reslife.  But now, seeing posts that friends and acquaintances who are still RAs or starting their professional careers in grad school, I can see just how much better suited they are for it.  That just because I love reslife doesn’t mean that it loves me, or that it is what I am meant to do.  And if not ResLife, what?  I have no clue.  So, I am back at square one.  Not sure if I want to move to NOLA, not sure if I want to follow the career path I had set out for myself, not sure if there is anything out there that I would be good at.  Suggestions welcome, because the path has changed, and I am seriously lost in the woods.

Portfolio Piece #12: Summer Breeze Makes me Feel God

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Summer Breeze Makes me Feel God.

Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year

It was one of those perfect sunny days.  A gentle breeze, blue sky, big fluffy white clouds everywhere.  I was walking across the field at Camp Sentinel, a Baptist camp in Tuftonboro, NH.  This was my second or third year attending Sentinel, so I must have been around 12 years old. 

            At this point in my life, I was fairly secure in my faith.  I felt like I was somehow lacking because my Biblical studies left much to be desired, but being a Minister’s daughter, it was just understood that I believe in God.  Every year at Sentinel, there was a different “Head Minister” who would determine the focus of the week.  They all blended in with me, I couldn’t tell you any of their names or what they looked like, except for this particular week, I recall he was a larger man with white hair.  I suspect many of the Ministers we had were retired.

            This particular week was all about accepting Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savoir.  Something I assumed I already had done, since I went to church every week and prayed all the time.  I thought maybe I had missed something, and that once again my Christianity was up for debate because I hadn’t actually made this claim out loud.  But still, I pushed it aside to the corner of my brain while I focused on all the cute Christian boys the camp had to offer.

            A few days into the week, one of my cabin-mates got sick.  She was stuck in the Nurse’s cabin for at least a day.  At lunch that day, our counselor asked us if someone could bring her lunch to her.  I volunteered.  It was the right thing to do, and it made me look good.  It was also a gorgeous day, so it would mean some time out in the sun by myself.

            As I crossed the field over to the Nurse’s cabin, a slight breeze picked up and stopped me dead in my tracks.  I closed my eyes and breathed it in.  A strange feeling came over me – absolute calm.  For the first time since I had been born, everything in my body quieted down.  I opened my eyes and took everything in: the clear blue sky, the clouds, the green trees, the giant boulder in the middle of the field where we all met for morning activities, simply known as “the rock”.  In that instant, it came to me, I finally got it.  My faith suddenly turned from an assumed knowledge to a real understanding.  Without hesitation, without question or doubt, my mouth opened up, and the words “I accept Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savoir” flowed from within me into the breeze.  It wasn’t a definitive statement; it was a statement of wonder and awe.  My chest bubbled up with joy, a smile crept across my face, and a satisfied sigh escaped from within me.  With a nod to the beautiful day, I went along my way to deliver lunch to my sick cabin mate.

            I have not felt that kind of peace since.  I would like to say my faith has come as easy as the breeze that day, but faith is not that simple.  Even though two years later I was Baptized, even though I taught Sunday school and sang in the church choir, I question my faith every day.  I ask why it can’t be as simple as a summer day at Baptist camp, and I don’t think I will ever understand why.  So I keep that day in my back pocket, and pull it out when I fear that God isn’t listening, take a deep breath, and hope to catch the breeze.

Portfolio Piece #11: Strings

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Strings

Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year.

Most people who know me know that I love music.  I have it constantly playing, whether it’s on my computer, the radio in my car, or on my iPod as I take walks around campus and town.  If I don’t have my tunes, I am lost.  When asked what my favorite music is, I always answer “everything”.  A trite answer? Yes, but an honest one.  I was raised on everything – from the contemporary music of my childhood, back to classical greats such as Bach and Vivaldi.  My music of choice varies dependant on my mood, and the task at hand.  Happy, care-fee mood? Dance music or pop, and sometimes big band.  Feeling sexy?  Some Cibo Matto, or Back to Basics era Aguilera.  Feeling pensive? Jukebox the Ghost.  Stressed to the hilt? Classical.  Preferably Edvard Grieg or any composer from the Baroque period. 

            My love of classical music, especially the pieces that heavily feature stringed instruments such as the violin or cello (my absolute favorite instruments) comes from Mrs. Johsnon and her violin classes.  In fourth grade, we could take violin if we wanted.  In fifth grade, you could take up a band instrument.  Many took violin to tide them over until they could play something more compact like the flute, or cooler like the saxophone.  Myself, I took the violin because when I heard the strings teacher, Mrs. Johnson, play for us in a demonstration, I was transfixed.  The way her body swayed with the music, the way the bow slid across the strings to create such a beautiful melody convinced me – I wanted to play the violin.  I went home that day and excitedly told my parents I wanted to play.

            I was both grateful and a little surprised that they let me take the violin.  For years, I had begged them for ballet lessons, and every year I was told “Not enough money this year – maybe next year”.  I suppose the reason I was allowed to take the violin was because it was offered through the school, and we were given a free violin from a family friend. 

            The violin I had was too big, but I learned how to grow into it.  At first I practiced every night, imagining that I was playing for a big crowd in some ornate theatre.  The music swelled from my instrument, my bow gracefully danced over the strings.  The notes were clear and so beautiful, they would bring tears to my listeners eyes.  In reality, the “music” I made from my violin surely must have brought tears to people’s eyes – tears of pain.  It was not an instrument that came easily to me, mostly because I quickly grew lazy and did not practice as much as I should have.  Besides, I had decided I wanted to play the flute instead – my sister and my dad played the flute.  I wanted in on that.  But my dad convinced me to stick with the violin, telling me that there are a million flute/woodwind players, but only a few stick with the strings.  So, I toughed it out.

            I stuck with the violin, and Mrs. Johnson, all through high school.  I was never very good at it, mainly because by the time I reached high school, I was more focused on singing.  Instead of the private violin lessons Mrs. Johnson suggested, I opted for voice lessons.  I sang day and night, my violin slowly falling into disrepair from being neglected.  But for some reason, even though it brought me so much frustration, I loved playing.  The sound of a violin still evokes a sense of peace and joy, especially when I listen to pieces I had once fumbled my way through way back when.  I can remember how badass I felt when I was able to master the complicated runs of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, and how I broke into tears when I heard my peers play the same piece of music in a way I knew I would never be able to.

           I still think about taking up the violin again every now and then.  I know I will never be a maestro, but I loved to play, and that is all that matters.  I wonder if it would be different to play just for me, and not for my patient teacher and an audience of my not so patient peers.  Sometimes I catch myself listening to pieces I once attempted holding an imaginary violin in my left hand, my fingers positioning themselves to form the notes.  All I need is an instrument and a bow.  

Portfolio Piece #10: Etna

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Etna

Written for Theory and Practice: Memoir, Written Senior Year

            Etna, NH was in the country.  There were no blocks, no sidewalks, barely any traffic.  But it wasn’t completely barren of civilization.  We had a church, a branch of the Hanover Town Library, a Post Office, and a General Store.  I think I always wanted to live in suburbia, because growing up in Etna was so different from what I saw on TV – neighborhood kids who played together, block parties, neighborhood barbeques.  We had none of this.  I mean, there were some kids our own age, but none that ever stuck around long enough to really get to know.  I had a friend named Trent Nutting who lived next door, but his family moved away when we were in early elementary school.  A couple of kids from my school lived within walking distance, but I wasn’t really that close with any of them. 

            The houses that lined our road were a mystery to me.  I thought I didn’t know anyone who lived in them.  Looking back, I knew more people than I realized from church, I just had a hard time placing people out of context. 

            Back in the 80s, there was a big Halloween scare because it got all over the news that candy and other Halloween goodies were being tampered with – razors in apples, poison in candy.  The hospital started offering to X-Ray candy bags.  I thought it was ridiculous – just because the houses were mysteries to me didn’t mean the people in them were.  I assumed my dad knew everyone in Etna, because he was the minister of the church, and he wouldn’t take me Trick-or-Treating at houses that were inclined to kill me. 

            Mom didn’t really interact much with people, from what I recall.  But Dad was a social butterfly.  His dad was, too.  It’s where he got it from.  A quick stop at the Post Office would quickly turn into 20 minutes of us waiting impatiently in the car, rolling our eyes and watching the clock.  Even now, when we stop at the general store after Sunday lunch out to get the newspaper, Mom has to remind him “don’t stay and talk for 20 minutes, just get the paper”, and we sit and roll our eyes and watch the clock.  He’s gotten better, but the man does like to talk.

            The thing I never quite got was that not all of the people Dad would gab with were church-goers, or affiliated with my school.  And since church and school made up my whole world, I didn’t realize there were other people out there worth talking to.  I didn’t get that feeling of community pride, because we weren’t an organized community.  But Dad got it.  He understood the importance of knowing who lived on your road, and who hid out in the woods.  Other than knowing that the best place to buy a bike was from the guy down the road who fixed up old ones and sold them cheap (who will forever be simply known as “The Bike Guy”), if they weren’t a member of our church, I didn’t know them.  My world was very small, but I guess everyone’s is.  Even Dad’s doesn’t really stretch much beyond the Upper Valley. 

            When you get older, you realize that while your world may be small, it can still be rich and meaningful.  When you’re just a kid, you wish it was bigger, with block parties and sidewalks.  

Portfolio Piece #9: Ready for my Close-Up

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Ready for my Close-up

Written for Autobiography Workshop, Written Junior Year

At the tender young age of 31, I was sitting in my French class, fall semester of my sophomore year at Keene State College.  I was bored, as usual.  I had taken French grades 4-8, and had a refresher when I was in my early 20s, but still took Elementary French I.  Now, before you start thinking Oh, you only took it because you wanted an easy ‘A’, let me explain my reasons for taking such an easy class:

1. I needed it for my major.

2. I like French

3. Need I remind you I.Am.Old. It had been years since I last took French.

Lucky for me, I had a nice (and attractive) French professor who didn’t seem to care that I was never, ever paying attention.  Indeed, I would nod off in that class on a regular basis.  Not only because the subject matter was boring (despite how cute Monsieur Adorkable was I was still bored) but because it was at two o’clock in the afternoon, which is normally reserved for naptime.

So, anyway, I was sitting in my easy ‘A’, boring French class, when I decided to look out the window instead of at the Professor for a change.  It was late in the semester, and the weather was starting to fall right out of autumn and into the void that is New England winter.  My view looked like it had been filmed in black and white.  The twisted branches of the visible trees were bare, and there was nary a squirrel in sight.  It had started to snow.  That kind of small, sideways snow that it is no way the end to a romantic comedy, but a mood setter in a suspense, or as I thought of it, the signal that something dramatic and life-altering was about to take place.  I looked down at the doodles on my notebook (I didn’t even try to hide the fact that I had stopped taking notes a month ago) and when I looked back up, the snow had stopped as suddenly as it had started.  My heart dropped.  If it was going to be grey and gloomy, at least give us something pretty to look at! It’s just like It’s a Wonderful Life, when you know George got his life back.  The snow was the signal.  As this thought sledded through my mind as quickly as the snow had come and gone, I realized that my entire life was about the movies.  Not just that I enjoy movies, or am just a movie buff, but in my mind, my life is a movie. 

Portfolio Piece #8: Word Search

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Word Search

A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.

I am running around the library, looking for words.  All of the books have been sucked dry, leaving a trail of blank white pages.   I had been working on my senior thesis for months, and as soon as I began writing the conclusion, language escaped me.  I knew there were some books here that could help me get it back, but I couldn’t find them.  I begin to frantically pull books off the shelves, searching for one that still has written language on the pages. 

            My heart skips with excitement when I spy a book open on the floor, ink on the pages.   I race over to it, and pick it up.  Immediately, I slam it shut in frustration.  The printing is just an illustration, and there are no captions or story to go with it. 

  Standing in the middle of the stacks, I want to scream, but I can’t.  I grasp my hair in frustrated fists and scrunch my face in agony.  “Where did all the words go?”  I whisper to the empty books.  Even the labels are gone. 

            I see a figure pacing the stacks, like a panther prowling for a meal.  I poke my head through the open space on the shelf.  “Hey!  You!”  I hiss to the dark figure.  They stop, but do not turn around.  “Are you taking the words away?”  Slowly, the figure turns around, an indigo mask covering their face, their hair covered by the hood of the black cape that was flowing down their back.  An indigo-gloved finger rises up to the painted mouth.  “Ssshhhh…”  And with that, the dark figure turns and prowls away, their black cape flowing behind them. 

            I pull back into my aisle, and flop onto the floor, defeated.  I close my eyes, and lie on my back, arms outstretched, breathing deeply in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying to ease my anxiety. 

A loud “thump” brings me out of my self-pity, and I sit up.  The masked figure is standing at the end of the aisle, a large book at their feet.  They hold out a hand, a gesture of benevolence.  In the blink of my eyes, the figure is gone. 

I crawl on my hands and knees to the book, kneeling in front of it, as though beginning some sort of ritual sacrifice.  I slowly open the cover, and see them: words.  I don’t know if they are what I am looking for, but it is a start.  I close my eyes and place my hands on the book.  Suddenly, the words are in my head and the book is empty.  Tears of gratitude fall down my face.  I rise up and head to the back of the library, for along with words, the book instructed me on where to find the rest.  I sucked the books dry, and returned to my computer, where I was able to turn the words into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs, and complete my senior thesis.  

Portfolio Piece #7: Birthday

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Birthday

A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.

I had been hiding in my room all day, wondering why my head did not fit anymore.  The clock told me it was time to rest.  I prepare to go to bed, brushing my teeth at a row of sinks.  There is a song I can’t quite name in the distance.  My head rises in slow motion to look in the mirror, but the face looking back is a stranger.  I close my eyes. “One… two… three.”  When I open them again, the face is still not my own.  The eyes, nose and mouth are the same, but it is not me.  A cocktail of confusion and fear enters my body, and I turn to exit the bathroom.  Upon opening the ugly dark wooden door, I am met with another door.  This one is prettier, painted white with a window filled with darkness.  I push the door open, and am face to face with the stranger that had frightened me only moments before.

I ask her what is going on.  “Shhh” is her answer.  She points to her right, her eyes never leaving mine.  “Who are you?” I whisper, afraid to hear the answer.  She simply smiles.  I turn my head and look in the direction of her pointed hand.

Suddenly, I am standing in a field, full of sun, blue sky, and yellow daisies.  My twin stranger is standing on top of a hill, her white dress blowing in the wind.  “Who are you?!” I try to yell, but it comes out as a whisper. 

The sky has turns grey as the stones, an eerie blue tint has fallen on the earth.  I find myself on top of the hill, surrounded by graves. There are no names, but each is adorned with the same date: “June 23, 1978.”  I turn to see my unrecognizable doppelganger standing in front of me, holding a birthday cake with a blue candle, decorated with white frosting, pink trim and black roses.  Her face wears a mask of fear and desperation.  Her blue eyes fill with tears as she blows out the candle.

Slowly she fades away, placing the cake in my hands.  “Wait!” I cry out.  “Where did you come from?  Where are you going?”  A hint of a melancholy smile is formed by her pink lips as one tear slides down her face.

A room of mirrors erects itself around me.  I close my eyes, but this time when I open them, I recognize the face in the mirror.  Bringing the platter to my face, I take a bite of the cake, my face covered in butter cream and chocolate.  Her voice rings out with the song I heard in the bathroom: “Happy Birthday to You”.

Portfolio Piece #6: Gingerbread

Trying a little something new.  Something I’ve wanted to do for a while.  For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted for my Writing Minor Portfolio.  They are all from classes I took Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College.  Most of them are memoir in nature, but a few are slightly different.  These are pieces I love, but know still need work.  If you would like to know more of the stories behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share!  Also, any and all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.

Oh, and also?  These are mine.  Do not steal them.  Thanks.

Gingerbread

A Dream Story, Written for Cooking, Eating and Dreaming, Written Junior Year.

Kayla missed class again.  She said it was due to the snow.  I looked out my window and saw powdered sugar on a gingerbread landscape.  I assured her it’s not that bad, but she had already hung up.  I heaved a sigh of annoyance.  She always missed class at the sight of a snowflake, and doesn’t listen to me anymore.  I feel obsolete.

            Jesslyn and Meghan were making marshmallow snowmen on my lawn, laughing loudly at private jokes they never intend to share, as people wearing gumdrop hats wandered around, smiling and waving at each other.  My window fills with frost, as my heart slips to my feet.  I turn away and see my dear friend sitting at my generic college-supplied desk.  “I love you,” I say to his back.  He turns around, a big warm smile on his face.  “Awww, I love you, too.”  His smile picks up my heart and puts it back in its place.  It is always nice to know that someone cares. 

            I walk up behind him and give wrap my arms around his shoulders in a snuggly hug.  “I am so grateful to have you in my life, “Big Brother”.  You always appreciate me.”  He stands up and takes both my hands in his.  “Come on, let’s go out and join them.”

            We walk hand in hand catching powdered sugar on our tongues.  Whimsical music is tinkling around us as we stroll through this gingerbread world.  I wave to Meghan and Jesslyn, their snowmen falling over as they turn to wave back.  Gumdrop-hatted people call out with enthusiastic greetings to him.  It’s always to him – I get polite nods. 

            “Hey, “Little Sis”, you know I’ll always be here for you.  Right?” “Of course I know that.  The feeling is mutual,” I say to the falling powdered sugar that has distracted me with its sweetness.  When I turn to smile at him, my heart once again falls.  I am alone.  I heaved a side of sadness, though I am not surprised.  Gumdrops and marshmallows are always more exciting. 

I try to call Kayla back, to tell her it’s safe to come to school, but she doesn’t hear me.  She is too busy with other people.  I try to join Meghan and Jesslyn in their snowmen endeavors, but they have wandered off together.  I smile and wave at the gumdrop people, and am ignored.  I shrug and go back inside, taking my perch by the window.  “I knew it,” I whisper to the frosty window.  “I am obsolete.”