My Way

"I've lived a life that's full. I've traveled each and every highway. But, more much more than this, I did it my way. "

They are quite possibly Frank Sinatra's most famous lyrics, and part of my dad's morbid request for his future headstone inscription— the words of "My Way" always seemed a little arrogant to me. Not everyone gets it to do it their way Mr. Sinatra. And although my dad seems to think he has it his way in our household, he never can have full control living with four women and a female dog.

But as I get older I think I've come to understand what ol' blue eyes was really bragging about. Through recent personal developments (i.e. the spare time between writing cover letters and checking Facebook), I've come to realize how incredibly important, and not always selfish, it is to do things your way.

Doing things your way doesn't necessarily mean being selfish—it means owning who you are in the truest sense and being completely honest and genuine in your actions. And anyone, not just those with a celebrity lifestyle like Frank Sinatra, is capable of that.

"What is a man? What has he got? If not himself, than he has naught."

Because, really, what are you if not yourself? Being who you truly are and living accordingly not only requires you to do the things you truly know are right for you, but it also requires you to own up to your mistakes.

"There are times, I'm sure you knew, when I bit off more than I could chew. But through it all, when there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out. I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way."

Imagine if we could cut through the b.s. that infliltrates our daily activities and did what our true selves really desired? I've always been a believer that everyone's true self has good intentions, which makes this concept even more enticing.

It seems the public is enticed by this idea as well since it has been reflected in everything from shows like Jersey Shore, which has exposed us to the honest, sometimes vile, activities of actual 20-(and for The Situation 30-) somethings, to technology like Facebook, which has helped to tear down the walls between us and our "friends,"

Although I don't think Jersey Shore reflects the truest selves of its cast, and I realize these mediums leave room for inauthenticity just like anything else, I do think they have helped lay the foundation for, and show a collective public desire for, transparency and honesty.

It's as if we are asking for, and are starting to create, a world where honesty is cherished over secrecy. Where the examination of actions is no longer saved for the confessional booth or for deathbeds, but in our lives every single day. Where we can admit to our mistakes and insecurities to help others dealing with the same issues. Where we can all agree that the truth does indeed set you free.

Although I am not certain that 100% honesty is always the best policy or zero privacy is a good thing, I do think being honest with yourself opens the doors for you to connect with others, which in turn helps to spread a sense of community, friendship, and love.

Oprah's initials serendipitously help to spell out the name of her new network OWN—a word and idea she embraces as part of her life's mission. On the network's show Master Class both Oprah and the featured guest Diane Sawyer praised the importance of being their true selves and surrounding themselves with people that continually bring out who they are in the truest sense.

Diane, who has helped expose and resolve the plights of many through her investigative journalism, and Oprah who has been exceedingly generous with her sharing of self and her assets, both attribute their success for helping others to this very quality of authenticity.

Who knew doing it your way could actually help so many others?

Despite my previous assumptions, I now know why my dad aspires to have this written on his headstone, and I hope one day I too will look back and say: "Yes, it was my way."

Look how they shine for you

It dictates our work schedules, creeps through our relationships, and even shows up in the same ol' turkey and cheese sandwich we pack for lunch.

It is Routine.

Most times we don't even realize it's there. But as soon as we do, sameness and all who it describes better run and hide.

Routine is a word we hate. I have always thought it to be synonymous with complacent and boring— words I would never want to describe me.

Routine = settling. Or so I thought.

When routine starts to turn me into a robot, I rebel. Everything around me starts to feel like a barrier between who I am and who I want to be — my job, my living circumstances, my bank account, and even my loved ones. Unfortunately, I often overlook the most dangerous barrier—me.

I'm learning to recognize the fine line between settling and being appreciative for what you have. It seems the same drive that helps me move forward can also detour me from recognizing what I need to bring with me into the future.

When I was younger I used to look outside the large window in my living room and stare at the stars—Kelly Clarkson "Break Away" style. Sometimes in the summer I would even venture outside to the swing by my pond, blaring burned cds from my discman (the preipodic age) and stare up .

Back then I thought big things—somehow swinging on that swing, staring at the stars gave me the confidence that I would someday change that big world out there. I wasn't sure how, but I was pretty confident it would happen.

I don't do this much anymore. In fact I have to admit that the fear of abduction, thanks to countless E! specials, has made me scared to step foot outside my house when everyone else is asleep. But this fear of intruders is not the only reason why.

Sometimes when I see a really starry night I get a little sad inside. What was once my favorite pastime has now become a stark reminder of all I haven't accomplished.

It seems there is little room between after work and 11PM to change the world.

But then there are other times when I refuse to believe that those nights I spent staring at the stars got me nowhere, except being able to locate the big dipper almost everywhere I go.

Yup, every once in a while there are extremely clear skies like tonight when I look up and remember who I used to be, who I want to be, and who I really am — a really lucky human being, routines and all.

That's Life

Two songs remind me of my teenage years and neither are from the twenty-first century.

I can remember on numerous occasions when—as my mom put it—"my attitude problem" had hit an all time high. My dad would walk into my room and say "come into the garage I want you to listen to something." I knew what would be waiting for me in this garage—laughter, mockery, the occasional "I really want you to listen to this part"—and yet, I still joined him every time.

And there he would place one of his outdated cassettes in his large "record player" that did not play records, and stream one of these two songs: "That's Life" by Frank Sinatra or "Get Over It" by the Eagles. This was my dad's idea of comforting me when I was sad or angry or full of angsty attitude. And somehow the lyrics demanding me to get over myself were comforting... in the most non-comforting sort of way.

Although I would never admit it then, (hard-headed—another quality I picked up from my father) I always realized he was right. Whatever I was going through was not the end of the world. My dad knew it wasn't, and deep down so did I.

I have to thank him for not letting me give into those feelings of self-pity. Because of him I am able to say "get over yourself" to myself. He taught me that things happen in life whether we like or not—if it is something I can change then stop complaining and do something about it, and if it's something I can't change, then hey, that's life.

Now when I get caught up in situations that seem to consume my life, I hear those songs playing in my head and I laugh. I can't help but think, just get over it.

The other day I was discussing this with my Grandma and she told me that as much as she loves seeing the opportunities I have, she also feels bad for my generation because we seem to have so much more stuff to worry about. As a young woman I worry about which path I should take in my life; as a young woman, she worried about being able to eat.

Our lives have become much more complicated since the time my Grandma grew up, for better and for worse. Sometimes it seems like everything around us is moving so fast and we are not equipped to catch up and that leads to worrying.

But do we really need to worry about all this stuff? Why do we try to do everything so fast when it doesn't make us any happier than if we were to take things slow?

We comfort ourselves with things and to-do lists, and the more we do, the further we get from facing the truth of what life really is—a complete mystery to everyone—and that seems to transcend every time period.

Weirdness that shouldn't be weird

Exhibit A: "Automobile Discoveries"
Gaga is on, mouth is moving, wind is blowing, speed is picking up. Then suddenly, a light turns red and there you are, windows down, within five feet of the car in the other lane, also with its windows down. Weirdness ensues.

Exhibit B: "Treno Discoveries"
As I was trying to concentrate on the Beyonce themed word search in my lap, a woman came and sat next to me, opened her laptop and began typing furiously. I imagined what it would be like to be that busy on a 26 minute morning commute, to not even have some spare time to dabble in crosswords or a morning paper. As this woman typed away I wondered how weird it was that we didn't even make eye contact. I also wondered why she chose to sit next to me rather than her many other potential train ride companions.

Exhibit C: "College Discoveries"
Going to a small school "where everybody knows your name" is nice. Some people always say hi. Some people don't. I often offered my "do I smile do I not smile" smile to most people that walked by. It was the kinda place where you knew everybody but didn't really know everybody. I always liked when people said hi to me. Made me wish I was the kinda person that said hi to everyone without a care in the world too. Why did that seem weird to do?

Exhibit D: "Mi Amica Discoveries"
My friend Kelly boards a bus in Philadelphia as part of her daily work routine. She approaches the aisle and sits by a woman occupying one of the two seats. Kelly smiles. She receives no expression from the woman in return.

Exhibit E: "Bicicletta Discoveries" (and the final exhibit I promise)
Riding through the streets of what I always believed (and in my heart still do) is a town filled with happy people waiting to give you a smile and offer you macaronis, I received a dirty look from a man moving his garbage can from one end of his driveway to the other. I had the feeling bicycling through your hometown was now the equivalent to robbing a bank.

These are all examples of what I like to classify as "weirdness that shouldn't be weird."

What made us this way anyways? Not all Americans, but many, are so removed from one another that even a smile is weird. How did hi become so taboo?

I could probably turn this into an entire thesis if I ever want to attend grad school.

No wonder why many Americans are so unhappy. It's not the economy, it's humans.

Despite the fact that we are at many times, like on the bus or the train, "all up in each other's businesses," a smile seems to close for comfort for many Americans.

Too much distance makes it easier for people to dislike one another, to talk about one another, to hurt one another. We create this distance yet suffer from it at the same time.

Whenever I start to slip into the "I'm Sara and I'm shy" mode and am unsure whether I should say hi to people I don't really know, I try to remind myself we're all the friggin same (that Jersey "friggin" can be really convincing).

Thinking of all this reminded me of something I read the other day by Frances Mayes in her book, Everyday in Tuscany. She shares a story of how she was on a bus all alone and an older woman came on and decided to sit right next to her when she could have sat in any of the other empty seats. She tells this to her Italian neighbor and friend, to which her Italian neighbor and friend replies, "Why not?"

Why not?

Driveway ridin bliss

Unfazed and unaware of the street ahead of him, my ten year old cousin rode along the three connecting driveways in front of his grandmother's house (which also happens to be the same home of his most favorite cousin).

After discovering that his favorite cousin was too a lover of bicycles, he kindly invited her to join him. He seemed happy to have a partner in this driveway joy ride other than himself.

I remember yearning for such a partner in the years following my sisters infamous "accident". It was a regular fall evening, she had been braving the two wheeled machinery for years, and yet somehow, someway, on this regular day, her two front, very shiny teeth wound up shattered by the newly paved black tar beneath her.

From then on I became a solo rider.

Remembering this, I was happy to provide my cousin with some company.

As he raced by me, winding around sprouts of grass and the occasional rock, I wondered how long these three driveways would satisfy him. He was lucky enough to have a Grandma with a longer than average piece of asphalt extending from her house to the road and family members next door that were more than happy enough to share theirs. This would give him a little more time; at least a year or two more than the kids on the other side of town who were burdened by sidewalks and little front yards.

This I remembered was one of the benefits of having no other neighbors growing up besides your own family--not knowing that there are other biker children out there just like you--extreme riding from sidewalk to sidewalk, and gasp, even crossing streets (I would later learn this "benefit" would also contribute to a certain social awkwardness, but that's for another day).

So I went on, much like my cousin, believing only three driveways existed for bicycle tires to tread. I did not discover until age 14.5, that there was a bigger, more dangerous, yet more exciting paths for me to explore. It was at this age when I met friends who were already pros at crossing streets, even the treacherous "White Horse Pike."

14.5 was a good age--high school started which began my "teen angst" years, my ride was updated to the purple powerhouse I have now, I had my first real kiss on a trampoline at some kids house I barely knew by a kid I barely knew, and my parents finally let me ride my bike alone across that treacherous highway that was separating my world from the rest of the world--and I never looked back.

Until the other day with my cousin.

It seemed like the only place he wanted to be was there--pedaling as fast and as far as he could in the parameters given to him. One day he'll learn to maneuver the town's rigid sidewalk system and look out for cars other than the one of his mother driving up to get him after work. But not yet.

For now he'll learn everything he can from the space he has. Years of practice, focus and observations. He'll prepare himself for the day he gets to have a great crossing. And from then on he'll prepare for other great crossings to come.

The Basket Case

As I wound the wire attachments around my bicycle handle, I wondered how sturdy this contraption would be. Instead of going for the $40 metal crate that would connect sturdily with screws, my impulse, my financial status, and my partiality for cuteness, lead me directly to the $22 wicker basket.

I later found out it worked well; it withstood the weight of the finest $8.99 Chilean wine bottle and the emotional stress of waiting outside the liquor store alone and lockless. A few times the strength of the basket was tested, and it faulted by brimming my spinning tires; fortunately it was nothing too loud nor too damaging and the basket soon picked up its weight again.

I know when I got home I should have unwound its tired handles and protected it from the morning dew and forecasted downpour, but instead, for the past week, I have neglected this new wicker basket and the purple companion it clings to each day.

I am sure I will need a new basket one day if I keep treating it like this. But it seems too new to worry about just yet.

You could say I am "putting all my eggs in one basket," which I've recently come to learn, is never a smart decision. But every now and then a basket comes along so captivating, so intriguing, and so lovely that you forget every warning you've ever heard. And before you can even protect them, your eggs have leaped from their refrigerated cardboard cartons and made themselves cozy in this facade of woven wicker.

Soon enough the basket un-weaves itself and your eggs are left oozing and broken by the road.

After losing a few eggs a long the way and learning the worthlessness of becoming a basket case (too many puns too little time) over my losses, I am committed to stopping this problem at the source. Although the idiom implies to use many baskets rather than one, I think it makes more sense to embrace the unpredictableness of using baskets in the first place. No we shouldn't put all our eggs in one basket, but should we really be putting our eggs in a million different ones ? (I assure you this is not referring to matters of reproduction!) Let's be honest, back-up baskets can be just as disappointing.

But at least there's an option, some might warn.

But options doesn't necessarily equate safety or happiness.

I don't know the answer, but for now I will start to take care of the basket I have the best way I can. And if it fails me one day then so be it.

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Mom Knows Best

My mom always likes to say "you snooze, you lose," which is very true. She also likes to say that some people act like "they're s**t don't stink," which is also very true, but terribly crude.

I thought of the first saying today as I pedaled past a few homes with large televisions shining through their front windows. It may be possible that the second saying applies here too, but as a mere bicyclist, it's hard to tell.

I began to think of these people as the "snoozers" (which according to the adage, makes them losers as well). I couldn't help but think what they were missing outside: the slow breeze breaking through the humidity and shaking up the trees; the yellow and pink colors in the sky blending together as the sun begins to retire for the day; the fragrance of fresh cut grass roaming through the air; all things that remind us that we are blessed with senses.

I think it is the Buddhist teaching that says to live in the present, not in the past or the future. Taking notice to our senses in each moment allows us to appreciate the present.  When we don't do this, we are metaphorically snoozing. And when we snooze, we lose out on all the things that are right in front of us for the taking.

But then I realized how judgmental I was being towards these early evening TV watchers.

Maybe these people watching TV inside weren't snoozers or losers. Maybe these people were taking notice to the way their children smile when that little yellow sponge bounces his way across the screen. Maybe a father and son were sharing baseball-talk over creamy dishes of chicken pot pie while they sat and watched the Phillies. Maybe a Grandpa was sitting down on his La-z-boy sofa about to rest his aching back while watching a rerun of Bonanza.

Although being outside seems to activate our senses very easily, it is not impossible to have them activated through the little things we overlook--like eating a meal or even watching TV.

So when I arrived home tonight I made sure to take notice of my lanky fingers working their way across the keys, making a rhythmic collection of sounds as I typed this post. And now I will appreciate resting those fingers until tomorrow, when I discover something new to type about.

The T-shirt my loving and sarcastic sister bought me today