Given that the general demographic of serious baseball fans is 45+ year-old men, I consider myself an outlier. I’ve been fascinated with the sport since I was a young teenager, but I didn’t really get into Major League Baseball until I was quite a bit older. In fact, I didn’t even go to my first game until last year when I was nineteen! Better late than never to discover a passion, eh? As a nearly lifelong New England resident, I’m a Red Sox fan of course, and not even my New York origins will make me stray from that. Don’t test me, Yankees. Rivalry runs deep.

I kid, I kid. I would never fight anyone over their preferred team. It’s friendly competition to me, all in good fun. Those who are more in the loop may know that Spring Training started recently down in Florida for the Red Sox (Arizona for some teams). Plenty of people don’t care, plenty of people do. I for one, have been following the pre-season rather closely, and got the opportunity to go to a game on March 11th vs. the Orioles. It’s going to be an interesting split-squad game at JetBlue Park down in Fort Myers. Coincidentally, I happened to already be heading to the western Florida coast with my boyfriend and his family during that week, and managed to snag some pretty solid tickets at resale prices. I’ve never been to a Spring Training game before, and as much as I love good ol’ Fenway, I’m beyond excited for the new experience.

Despite this all still being relatively new to me, I certainly know (and care) more about the sport itself, the Sox players, and the season’s standings, than the average American. I’m not going to bore you all with my opinions on this year’s roster, or the new manager, or anything the layman might not understand. Nonetheless, I do just feel the need to do some baseball rambling, and that’s really why I’m writing this post today.

I think baseball is a fascinating sport. It can be fast-paced, slow-paced, convoluted, simple. It contradicts itself frequently at a moments notice due to the complexity of the rules and the unpredictability of playing styles and strategies. So much goes into the formation of a successful baseball team that not a lot of people realize. It’s all about marketing these days, but I wish I could have grown up in the prime of baseball. Babe Ruth, Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski… I would have loved to live in eras such as theirs and watched history being made. Hell, I was even too young to truly appreciate when we broke our historic 86-year “curse” in 2004 by winning the World Series. I suppose I need to be glad baseball’s even still around. It wouldn’t shock me if in another century or so, physical sports become totally or nearly obsolete.

I don’t like to think about it.

As much as I love watching the games on TV or listening to my good pals on WEEI, it can’t be argued that nothing beats being there at the park and experiencing it yourself. The yells and cheers of the crowd, the vendors marching up and down through the stands, tossing beers twenty feet across the bleachers. Take Me Out to the Ballgame, Sweet Caroline around these parts. There’s absolutely nothing like a good trip to the ballpark. My boyfriend doesn’t quite understand, but that’s his loss. Someday I’ll drag him to a game with me, and someday he’ll realize he likes it.

Overall, I just really like baseball. Winter without it sucks, and I’m super excited that the pre-season has finally begun. It gives me something to obsess passionately about, and something to do in my spare time. Everyone has a passion or two, and baseball is just one of the many things that adds meaning to my life. What adds meaning to yours?

Since about Wednesday afternoon, I’ve been feeling under the weather. I thought it was the flu, turns out it was strep. Either way, it’s been a recipe for misery. I attempted two or three times over the course of this sickness to blog, write, do anything productive… but I failed. I do not hold myself to that. You should see me. It’s pretty pathetic.

I do still feel quite ill today. I missed the last couple days of classes, much to my dismay, but I’m confident it won’t be too hard to catch up on what I missed. I do wish my throat would stop attempting to destroy me from the inside, but I doubt I’ll get my way quite yet. Patience is a virtue, but god, I’m so tired.

Luckily, my boyfriend Pen is an angel and was taking care of me all weekend. He even drove out to see me last night even though he had class in the morning. I’m lucky to have him in my life right now, and I hope to do the same for him should he get sick in the future. I don’t mean to get sappy, he just deserves credit for how helpful he was. My best friend Nico was there with us as well, and it seems like he may have inherited the infection from me. Luckily it doesn’t seem like Pen got anything. Yet. Fingers crossed. Hey, I warned them.

No need to back away! I assure you I’m no longer contagious. God, can you imagine how awful this world would be if illnesses could be transmitted over the internet? If technology ever comes that far, please count me out of it.

This entry is essentially just a lump of my thoughts, as well as my excuses for why I’ve been so behind in my posts. I haven’t forgotten about this place. Not this time. Given my track record of abandoning my blogs, I’m frankly surprised, but I think that by not forcing myself to write every day, I’ve been able to keep myself interested. I’ll write here at my own pace, and that’s what I need to do to make things happen.

I find it interesting that in juxtaposition with my friend Derek, who forces himself to write an essay a day, I find that that only seems to stifle my progress. I have daily goals, but they’re more like guidelines rather than requirements. Back when I was younger, my last attempt being in junior year of high school, I kept trying to blog every day, just about my daily life. The issue was that sometimes, there was just simply nothing worth writing about. That’s fine, and I know that now. The inspiration is coming to me more now than ever before. I need not push myself any further towards the top, lest I topple off the edge.

Unfortunately, I do not think I have it in me to write much more today. My throat is killing me, I’m extremely fatigued, and my mind’s still just a little too out of it to form a more cognizant post. Nonetheless, I thank you for reading. I’m glad I managed to write anything at all.

February 14th, as everybody knows, is Valentine’s Day. The general consensus on the celebration of this holiday is that if you’re taken, you make sure to shower your significant other in as much affection as you can. If you’re single… well, you’re fucked I guess. I never particularly harbored too much venom over all these years single on Valentine’s, but it’s hard to deny even the faintest nips of bitterness, even when it’s not at the forefront of your mind. It can be a difficult holiday to deal with due to the unpredictability of where you’ll be at that time. Single on Valentine’s is a “bad status” to have, and sometimes it can just feel like shit.

For the first time in my twenty years of existence, I don’t actually have that problem.

This year, I am lucky enough to be in a relationship with the most handsome, funny, intelligent, creative and charming guy I know. Admittedly we’re still at that point where what we have is still new and blossoming, but I can already tell that it’s unlike anything I’ve ever had before. He makes my heart feel… light. God, I feel lame saying this stuff where everyone can see. I hesitated to write this post for that exact reason, but something happened that made me realize that I had to write it. People should know how serious I am about this. I want people to know.

I’ve been burned before, and I’ve dealt my fair share of flame. As I’ve reiterated numerous times, my personal relationships are immensely meaningful to me, and as such, looking back on my failed attempts can be a little disheartening. It’s hard to simply ignore the past, but I can learn from it and keep it where it is; behind me. Of course I’m scared of what the future holds. Like aforementioned, the world is a wild and unpredictable place, but I can’t shake that intuition that this boy of mine is special. And he is. Oh man, he is.

For the sake of his own anonymity, I’m not going to name him in this post, but I’ve known him on some level for quite a few years now. He’d always been a vague presence in my life, a distant acquaintance that I’d hear bits and pieces about. For a long time, he didn’t even live in the area, but even when he returned, we never really talked. We only saw each other once a year, if that, and hardly exchanged more than a few words. We were acquaintances by association. Friends of friends.

I never thought much of it, until I did.

Last New Year’s Eve, at the dawn of 2017, I started to realize that there was more to him than meets the eye. I looked at him that night when I wasn’t supposed to be looking, and I panicked when I looked too hard. I saw a beauty inside him that night, one I’d never bothered to get close enough to him to see. I saw more of his personality– intelligence, ideals, humor; but back then, I was still hopelessly wrapped up in the illusion of having a certain someone I never could, and by the time I realized how stupid I’d been to be pining for all that time… It felt like it had to be too late. How was I supposed to follow up with someone I’d essentially blown off?

A year later, apparently. When I was ready. This time, the spark he ignited in me didn’t scare me.

In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t blown so much time on this now-irrelevant crush of mine as I did. Had I known then that one curly-haired boy at a party would be making me happy like this, I don’t think I could have resisted. I suppose it’s hard to justify a year spent alone when you know you could have had something better. But this post shouldn’t be about the past. It should be about the future. Our future.

Hindsight, as I learned the hard way, is certainly 20/20. The future is blind, but I’m ready to face it with him by my side. I’m not scared this time. I’m simply ready. The other day, sitting comfortably next to him where everything feels okay, he said to me, “I’m really excited. Just, for life.”

I don’t think I really knew that feeling until I met him, but I couldn’t agree more. I made allusions to a chromatic life in a recent post of mine, and he’s the most vibrant shade of all. To be able to walk along this rainbow with him is the best birthday present I could have gotten, and if I’m truly as lucky as they say the Irish are, there will be a glimmering pot of gold at the end.

I overslept again today. Not in the same classic sense as yesterday, where I slept through my alarm and missed my class like your typical college student. No, today I woke up around 8 AM to realize that I’d slept for a solid twelve hours. I’d gotten into bed to relax around 7:45 only to doze… slowly… off… and wake up the next morning feeling different. Honestly, I wish I could say this didn’t happen often. Maybe not quite to the extent it did today, but when I don’t have reason to be up early, the urge to sleep and stay sleeping takes over no matter what.

Fatigue has been a problem I’ve faced for years now, beginning realistically when I’d just started high school. I’ve struggled daily with managing to balance the amount of pitiful restless sleep I get vs. how tired I’ll feel all day, no matter what. Four hours? Tired. Twelve? Exhausted. Six to eight? Perfect, but am I still sleepy by seven? Naturally. There’s an amalgam of issues at work when it comes to my sleeping problems. Anxiety keeping me awake, depression putting me to sleep, constantly waking up and having to fall back asleep even when I manage. Drinking coffee both helps and hurts my efforts, but to sum up, I’d essentially given up on trying to achieve a sleep schedule like a normal human being.

Until today.

Yesterday, I slept through one class and the other was cancelled. As a direct result, I was left with a full day to do whatever I wished. I had mentioned wanting something productive or profound to come out of it. No such thing did. What did come out of it was that one blog post and some dishes getting done. Other than that, all I have to show for having an entire day at my disposal is a finished season of Shameless and a whooooole lot less … weed.

And therein, I realized, lies the problem.

I’ve smoked weed on the regular (mostly daily, if I’m home) for about six months now. Before that, I limited my use to the occasional smoke when hanging out with friends or attending a party. A few friends of mine managed to get me into the more daily habit, and for quite a while, especially after coming home from my extremely stressful job, smoking marijuana was working for me. It wasn’t ever a perfect solution, but it would help. But yesterday, after crafting my blog entry and getting out of bed, I remember thinking to myself, “Seems like a wake-and-bake kind of day.”

I think I baked the day away, and I don’t want it to happen again.

For a while, I was fine with occasional lazy stoner days like that. They were a necessary lapse of mindless relaxation in a far too stressful world, but I’m starting to come into my own. I need to focus on my life and education. I doubt I’ll stop the occasional recreational smoke, but I don’t feel like I need to rely on weed as a safety blanket anymore. I never considered myself addicted. Rather, I was dependent. I no longer feel as though I need to depend on it.

I am a firm believer that even just lazing around and watching T.V. all day can still be meaningful, or even productive, as long as it makes you happy. Yesterday, none of it felt that way. I feel as though the weed may have dulled my senses in a way, because I wasn’t unhappy. I just wasn’t feeling much at all, and I don’t want that right now. Not when the feelings to be had are so beautiful and vibrant. I sacrificed my rainbow of emotions for a greyscale couch and television screen. In the past, everything was greyscale, so why did it matter?

Now, I don’t want to miss out on the chromatic life I can live. Even if I’d spent yesterday doing the same sort of things, I’m not sure I would have felt so empty were I sober. I figure it’s about time for a break. This doesn’t make me hate marijuana, nor its healing qualities. To be honest with you, I wish my mom would smoke more for her rheumatoid arthritis. I just value the emotional impact of so-called “meaningless” activity, and if weed’s diminishing the value, I simply don’t need the weed.

There’s a lot I could say on the concept of “nothing.” A girl whose name was nothing helped shape me into who I am today, for better or for worse. But today, I want to remind the world that days where you do nothing are not necessarily wasted. If you relaxed, if you were happy, then what was the harm?

Almost everyone I know my age values “productivity” above all else. If one does not do something that they consider productive in a day, that day can leave a foul taste in their mouth and feel useless. Worthless. Wasted. Those days add up, and pile slowly into the characteristic “lazy dreamer” attitude millennials are known to have. In no time at all, we feel awful because we’re so unproductive. “Why even try?” “I’m fucked.” “The world is against me.”

“I’m a useless, worthless, waste.”

So maybe I feel like I wasted yesterday, but I need to remind myself; I learned from this. Based on my strange experience I decided what my next step towards a better future was going to be. Being so unproductive yesterday only led to this revelation today. Everything, in its own right, has a purpose. You just have to seek it out.

When my alarm went off at 5:30 today, I turned it off. This is not unusual. Like clockwork, every day, I set two extra alarms for fifteen minutes and a half hour before I really need to get up. 5:45 and 6:00 alarms would quickly come, and only then would I truly escape the dangerously addictive activity known as sleep.

I have a love-hate relationship with mornings, and these kinds of measures are necessary to ensure I pull my lazy ass out of my warm, safe cocoon of a bed and face whatever unknowns the outside world has for me. Back when I was working, getting out the door to head to a place I hated more than anything was a near-impossible feat that I still somehow managed to do. On the days or even weeks when depression reared its ugly head more than usual, I’d get out of bed for moments, only to collapse onto the floor in a whirlwind of tears and self-hatred. Those days are currently behind me. I hope desperately to leave them there, with my misery and uncertainty. Look forward, after all; it’s all you can do.

Today, however, my second and third alarms never came. Maybe I simply neglected to set them, or slept through them, or shut them off without remembering. Either way, out of dead sleep, I was suddenly reminded that I had school today. I needed to get up. My eyes flew open in a panic, not even blurry from sleep, and I slammed my finger on the home button of my poor, beaten-down iPhone on my bedside shelf. 9:00 on the dot. Those three bright white numbers stared at me, and I stared confounded back at them, for a mere moment until my locked phone flickered back to its idle black-screened state.

I’ve slept through my 8 o’clock class, I realized, dragging my hands down my face. Mind thoroughly blown, I do a mental recap of my life to date. Back in high school, when the idea of walking back into that godforsaken building sent such painful, searing dread down my spine that I would rather stay home and wallow in it: I still woke up. Work, later, Dunkin’ Donuts, coming to life at noon every day and heading in for my miserable closing shift at three: I still woke up. Even during my brief stint in banking, when everything seemed to be falling apart just like it did in high school, I drew each pained shaky breath and got out of bed. Even when the crushing sadness was physically too much to bear and I knew, oh how I knew, that I could never make it through the day: I woke up. Maybe I skipped. Maybe I called out. I always woke up.

February 7th, 2018: I unintentionally sleep through my morning obligation for the first time in recorded history. Mark your calendars, folks.

This morning wasn’t even one of those hard ones! As I stated in my last post, I’ve been absolutely happy lately. Why now, of all times, does this accident occur? It holds no weight, in the end. I apologize to my professor, make up the notes, and make sure to show up bright and early on Monday. No harm, no foul. Yet why do I feel so… off?

It’s simple: this never happens.

I can’t help but wonder if it was meant to be, for whatever reason. Why did the universe decide that I needed those few extra hours of sleep? Why was I fated to stay home today instead of go out? Was it to write this post? Will I do something profound in the next few hours, or will this incident simply fade meaninglessly into my past? Well, I do believe the latter is up to me. I was shaken this morning to wake up when I did. It threw a wrench into the works of my carefully balanced, hand-scheduled, bullet-journaled life. Am I glad I don’t have to deal with going to school today? Sure. Am I thankful for this sudden gift of seven extra hours of time I don’t know what to do with? Absolutely. But does this irregularity scare me? A little. I think it does a little.

Time, in fact, was going to be the topic of the next post on this blog, so I find this aberration too relevant to ignore. Me sleeping in today was only inconsequential if I deem it so. If I desire, I can turn this into a profoundly productive day. I have music to listen to. Words to pen. Lives to change. Hearts to reach.

Maybe I am simply a wildly hopeful girl who sometimes drowns in what feels like a hopeless existence, but I think everything can either matter to you… or not. I frequently find myself analyzing seemingly irrelevant moments like these and trying and find meaning in them. Needless to say, that can get me into some trouble when it comes to overthinking. But today, I have the outcome of my over-analysis in my hands. This blog post is the physical manifestation of what I consider some positive spin on what could have been an absolute disaster. Were this the me of even just a few weeks ago, I may have woken up feeling horrible, believing this minuscule indiscretion had already fucked up my college career within my first few weeks. This should be the end of my happy streak. Why am I not in shambles?

It’s because for once in my life, I know that that’s not true.

Maybe Zoloft is a miracle drug, or maybe this all is just a fluke phase of my life, and within a week I’ll be curled up in a ball on my floor again. The future is always as uncertain as a die roll, and for all I know, I’ll even sleep through tomorrow. I sure hope not, but like anything in life, I have no idea. For whatever reason, I’m okay with that ambiguity, and today, I think I am starting to get the hang of simply rolling with the punches.

Life is what we make of it, and some of us struggle to make it into something worth living, but hope is an invaluable resource. Whether or not this all will make my ups and downs easier to weather, I just don’t know. What I do know? Optimism is a gift I’ve nearly never managed to possess, and it’s lingering here at my fingertips. If I can keep looking at life through a clear, bright lens, I’ll look back on my high-def memories and smile… never frown.