9,700 days.

14 different jobs.

9 different physical addresses.

6 different phone numbers.

8 different e-mail addresses.

3 “serious” boyfriends.

3 sexual partners.

2 broken hearts.

4 different bank accounts.

0 arrests.

4 physical journals.

4 different blogs.

1,473 tweets.

134 twitter followers.

379 facebook friends.

209 facebook status updates.

211 wordpress posts.

I’ve kissed too many to remember a number.

I’ve laughed with too many friends to remember a number.

I’ve made too many mistakes to count.

What does it mean, when you add up these numbers that make up your life? Anything? Do those numbers say that I’m normal, abnormal, slutty, prudish, social,, sentimental, flaky, ambitious…?

Do they mean anything at all?

And whether they mean something, or don’t mean something — why am I still counting?

Saying that and meaning that is the most empowering feelings I’ve had because for years now — since my first year in college, so seven years — I haven’t known what I wanted to do with my life. But now? I know what I want to do with my life. It’s attainable, it’s practical, and it’s something I love.

Since my “coming out” as a politico, I’ve been happier. I’ve had more confidence in talking about my opinions, been more diligent about reading the news and articles, and a hell of a lot more diligent when it comes to trying to find a new job.

So in thinking about what to do with my life, I might as well embrace that side of me 100%.

This fall, I’m applying to some Master’s of Public Administration programs in Seattle. I’ll start the following fall. Two years of study, then one year abroad, either teaching English or enrolled in some kind of diplomatic program. Back to the US, and back to a job either in government or in government relations.

I want to work in government on a local scale, so I’ll focus my studies on urban and state governments. Local governments make more of a difference than people realize — it’ll be awesome to have a hand in the way my community is run, and to see the way my actions and my work affects people in their day-to-day lives.

Of course, there is a bit of worry that comes with this decision. With a life dedicated to public service, I’m opening myself up to the public: to criticism and the examination of my actions under a microscope.

Just look at the way women in politics – especially conservative women – are spoken about in the political arena. Conservative women are by and large one of the largest targets of misogyny — if men in the media disagree with us, it doesn’t always come down to rational, explained criticism — it comes to words like “cunt” and “slut.” It comes down to being reduced to being nothing more than an object, a girl, with silly opinions. It comes down to making a list of “Republicans you’d like to hate-fuck.” And the worst part? No one really calls those comments out.

I’ve never felt weak as a girl — I’m lucky about that. But when I have been talked down to in my professional life, it’s been because of my gender and it’s been in the political realm by old men with differing views.

“You silly little girl,” one man told me while I stood on his doorstep, explaining my support for my first boss, a Republican state senator in 2008. This man went so far as to step outside of his home, and bonk me on the head with the palmcard I’d just handed him.

It was the most infuriating moment of the 2008 campaign, and one of the most infuriating moments of my professional life. “You silly little girl” — as if I were a child, repeating the opinions of people around me. As if my opinions couldn’t have been valid, as if there were no way I could be correct in my own rite. Fuck that guy.

So yes, there are reservations with my decision. But I’m resilient enough that I can move past the inevitable misogyny. There are more benefits for me than hesitations, which is why I’m so excited about this decision.

Seriously, you guys, I’m so excited. I haven’t felt this excited about something since I decided I was going to Chile – and that obviously worked out for me.

For the past few years, I’ve felt lost. Feeling lost makes you feel powerless, as if you don’t have the capacity to even make a decision in your life. I saw others around me, and even if they hadn’t accomplished a whole lot, it seemed as though they were so much further along in their lives. Why? They had that crucial first step figured out — what do you want to do?

And knowing the answer to that question? That’s empowering. More empowering than I realized.

So, TL;DR: I’m applying to the UW and Seattle U MPA programs in the fall. Between now and then, I’m going to take a few classes I missed out on in undergrad at a local community college. I’ll start grad school in the fall of 2013, finish in two years, spend a year in Korea or somewhere that I can save money, and then find a job in local or state government.

Fuckin’ woot, man.

I’m just happier when I’m working in politics.

If I’d known that statement would one day cross my lips when I was working on my first campaign, four years ago, I’d have laughed. I’d have thought I was being ironic, or sarcastic, or flat-out lying.

But no. It’s true. I’m happier when I’m working in politics. Every time I’ve left politics, I’ve said “Sayonara!” with the vision of green pastures and sunny days while skipping through the fields of super awesome private sector land.

With the exception of going to Chile, that has never been the case.

My first job outside of politics was at Macy’s. The Junior’s department – land of go-backs, of messy fitting rooms, of tampons abandoned in stalls. Of theft, and petty customers, and pushy management. Temporary, I thought. Something for the winter, I dreamed. Then it simply became “something.”

When I finally got out, I worked as a slimy, greasy, morally corrupt payday loan shark. I was told to lie to customers, to encourage them to take out lots more money than they could pay back, and sell my soul for the $12/hour wage. I did. I don’t feel bad about getting fired, I feel bad that I stayed as long as I did.

So it was back to politics. First doing some of the communications for a US Senate campaign, then as a Legislative Assistant, and then as Field Director for a statewide caucus organization.

The slew of new jobs made me move to Olympia, so I wasn’t happy.  At first, I blamed that depression on politics. After all, as the sworn evil in my life, they must be responsible for making me sad, right? As time in our grey, rainy capitol wore on, it became clear that those jobs were the bright spots in my life. The sad aspect of life came from the small fact that my life was falling down around me as I sat in my comfortable chair in my comfortable job.

The best part was that I wasn’t slamming credit cards down the throats of teenagers. I wasn’t cramming payday loans down the throats of people who would never be able to pay them back. Sure, I wasn’t solving world hunger or anything, but I was at peace with my work, because I believed in 60% of what I was selling. That’s a lot, compared to my percentage of belief of overpriced sweaters and predatory loans.

Poli job ended, and I moved to Chile. I liked teaching, but I liked what teaching allowed me to do even more. But all around, I was never miserable with teaching, the way I was with other jobs with those other companies.

I came back. I moved to Seattle. I didn’t get my old field director gig back because the old field director gig didn’t really exist anymore – it was a different position based in Olympia.

Good, I’d said. It’ll give me the chance to get a good job in the private sector.

And I did. Marketing Manager at a new tech company. It’s a great gig.

For someone else.

You see, I spend my time Googling what’s happening in Olympia. Checking out the races, seeing who’s winning, and how I can help. I spend so much time doing it that I find myself completely uninterested in the field I’m working in.

I’m not happy, and this time, I can’t blame it on my life outside of work because that’s mostly good. I’m not happy with my job. I’m under-qualified and uninterested. I’m probably running at about 60% capacity because I’m not nearly as engaged as I was when I was being paid to brainstorm campaign ideas, discuss strategy and talk politics with co-workers and friends and constituents.

So my resume’s out there, in the hands of every political contact I could think of. And now I’m sending it out to political contacts that I don’t have.

Because apparently, I’m not happy unless I’m campaigning or teaching abroad – and teaching abroad will have to wait.

Three years. Korea.

PS. This is our new bunny, Bartholomew.

algarrobo, chile.

I’m fleetingly passionate.

Thinking thinking thinking. Not doing doing doing.

I spent hours last week researching things. Taking some classes. Korea. Hairsytles. Home decorating and shopping sprees (thanks, Pinterest, for that last one.)

I became engrossed in ideas, planning and plotting a future for myself that extends beyond this comfortable little cubicle of mine. That future was made up of the most wonderful things: beautiful words and stories, people I love, places newly discovered, and style. Lots and lots of style.

And now, here I am, back at work. Researching up-coming TV. The coming of a fifth season of Mad Men makes me crave a warm, soft couch, fuzzy blankets, huge sweats, and marathons, all while wearing the reddest of red lipsticks — which I also spent time researching today.

It’s an annoying habit of mine. Research for hours to fulfill the curiosity and spontaneous excitement at the opportunity. Then completely burn out all of your interest when once you’re met with barriers made of practicality.

Two and a half years ago, I was pretty much comfortable with calling myself a writer. I wrote every single day; stories, blog posts, vignettes and made-up scenes that haunted my brain. And the ideas, I thought, were just going to keep on coming! After all, I was embarking on a 10-month trip to the ends of the earth: Chile.

Well, in Chile, I wrote a whopping 22 blog posts for the 298 days that I was there. Roughly,  that’s one post every two weeks — and I wasn’t really writing a whole lot outside of that.

I thought that experience, that seeing something, that going somewhere…I thought all that would give me something to write about. That it would be the thing I need to give me ideas to actually put finger to key to write something worth writing.

So maybe after the experience, I’d have something?

As of now, nope. Nopo. Nothing. Nada. Zero. Cero.

All I can do now is say “there’s nothing” in two languages. (No hay nada.)

It’s not for a lack of ideas. There are those. They’re just lacking focus. Like everything in my life.

~~~~

Last week, I was talking to my GTT (Google Talk Therapist) about my new job. I like it, my new job. I like that my job is to think about words and people, images and messages. These are things that I love, even if the industry is one that bores me a bit. I’m learning a lot. But, coming from a background in politics, where things move a mile a minute, and that press release needs to go out yesterday, I feel like I have a lot of downtime because  I tend to get things done with that same mentality.

Anyway, here’s what GTT said:

 GTT: you know what you need?

me: whats that

GTT: a grand dream

me: what mean you

GTT: you know. you need some big deal goal to work toward

  to give your life some shape

me: agreed. i just have no idea what it should be

  my focus has always been the people around me, rather than the things that i do

GTT: start daydreaming!

I sold out. BUT! Before you judge me for being all diet-y (wait, are you doing that??), remember my 30 before 30 list?

I sorta do. A whole big list of things that I wanted to do before the big 3-0 hits in a little under 4 years. I crossed some off recently, and we’ll get to those when we get to those, but in the meantime, I want to talk about number 15:

Feel completely comfortable naked

OK. So that’s why I’m “dieting” and have been for two weeks now.

The problem is, I’ve never been one to take things like “dieting” all that seriously.

“I don’t believe in diets, man. Life is short, food is good, and grabbing a beer with friends is way more fun than hitting the gym.” -Jami, circa 2 weeks ago

Well, you all know that it’s true.

Secretly, though, I may have agonized a bit over things like, you know, my weight. I was always thin, up until I started hitting puberty at the ripe old age of 8. Then my hips started to curve outward, my slender legs started to fill out, and my breasts — ha, no, not really, not my breasts. Flat, those stayed, while my lower half began to curve and bulge in ways I had no reason to understand.

I went through high school and college with an expanding ass and thickening thighs with enough self-esteem to get me by and enough humor to laugh off the comments of my critical family.

Interestingly enough, though, it was when I started gaining confidence that I began to see weight loss in a more realistic light. These past few years my mid-20s have had me splitting at the seams with happiness, strength, and so much self-love that I’ve begun to think that maybe I’m a little narcissistic.

Well, until I looked at myself in the mirror next to my friends.

I’m lucky enough to have made some pretty awesome friends these past few years. Three girls from three different places. They do different things, have different passions, and all live their lives totally differently.

What do they have in common? They’re all thin little pieces of beauty. Standing next to them feels like being the penguin trying to be one of the flamingos.

They’re encouraging, wonderful, and they all love me dearly. “You’re not fat,” they’ve all laughed at me in one way or another. “Look at your ass!” they cry. “You’ve got rockin’ tits!” they point out. (At 26, it would appear that I finally grew some boobs.)

And they’re right, of course. I’m not fat. I carry most of my weight in my hips, ass , and legs, and even at my heaviest, I still fit into a 13 in Juniors. Not that big really.

But I want to be totally comfortable naked. In fact, that’s on my 30 before 30 list.

So what would that take? Slimming down, dipping below that high-school-low — that mark I haven’t seen since high school.

Toning up. I took lots of yoga classes while I lived in Chile last year — I want to take more of those. And beyond that, I really want to start running. Ever since I was a kid, I watched my dad walk out the door, no matter what the Northwest weather is doing, and run step after step on his thick, strong legs that I so ungraciously inherited. I want to follow after him, and I want to run beside him.

So WEIGHT WATCHERS, huh? Yup. I’ve done it before, lost 15 pounds by following it half-heartedly for a few months. So what happens if I really follow it, and start doing my yoga and my running?

I get over this weight hump, I’m hot, and I don’t agonize internally about having to be seen in shorts or a swimsuit.

Here’s why I love Weight Watchers: I’ve been doing it for two weeks now. I don’t starve. In fact, as long as I’m conscious about it, I still have plenty of points for hanging out with my friends and grabbing that beer — very important, given that I live in a completely beer-centric corner of the US and I love it so dearly.

“I don’t believe in diets, man. Life is short, food is good, and grabbing a beer with friends is way more fun than hitting the gym.”

It’s all still true.

Woot.

Yesterday, I sat across from Jeremy while we ordered breakfast from our favorite north-of-Seattle joint. On his white shirt were the words “Cerveceria Kuntsmann: Valdivia, Chile.” I was puzzled for the briefest moment: Chile? Where’d that come from?

Oh, right. From me. I was the one who spent ten short months in that long, thin country at the end of the world, visited that brewery, and spent ten minutes mulling over which shirt to buy him.

Outside today, the characteristic nothwest rain pounds away the very un-characteristic 10 inches of snow that fell this week. I lay curled under my favorite comforter in my best friend’s mom’s spare room in Bothell, Washington, switching between listening to Gotye and reading. And in this comfortable little corner, the reality of those ten months seems like something more akin to a dream I had.

There are occasional reminders that it did actually happen. My skin is still a touch browner than Jeremy’s. My favorite Chilean sends me quick messages to complain about the draining heat in the south of the world. Spanish words sometimes leave my mouth out of instinct. In those little notes, I remember that world that I left a month ago.

And that’s the thing — it really has been only a month since I left.

In that month, I’ve acquired a job, a car, and put a deposit down on a fantastic apartment in North Seattle. I’ve spent time with my family, my friends, my boyfriend, my dog, and my dad’s new cat. Nothing seems new, or different. Everything is just the same as it ever was.

I can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. On the one hand, it’s comforting. And on the other, it’s monotonous and draining. I spend hours researching more ways to get away.

It felt as though I was actually doing something of note for myself while I was in Chile. Something distinct, something to set me apart from the pack of 20-somethings that are just like me. Here? Shelling out marketing materials for a start-up company that I don’t entirely understand? Sure, I’m making my living and getting by and allowing myself to spend time with people I love — and that’s the most important part of any life, the people you spend it with.

But I worry. I worry about living my life without any passion. I see friends around me doing things they actually love to do, and it makes me … jealous? Something akin to that. In any case, I feel like I could be doing more. I feel wasted.

While I had Chile, to look forward to, to live with, I had passion. I had something I could cling to and say “You see this? This is mine, and I love it and I don’t have to let it go.”

This isn’t to discredit everything I have here. I’m incredibly grateful to everything I have here. I just feel a bit empty.

Now that I no longer have Chile, what do I look forward to? What’s next? What dreams do I have left?

Chile was a reality, but it was a reality that I made out of a dream that I had once. So I’ll cling to my South American dream, and hope that I can find another one soon.

Because I just might go crazy if I don’t.

I have not, in my adult life, lived in the same city as a boy I’ve been seeing.

What? That can’t be right.

Right. Let’s examine this statement a bit more.

Let’s define “adult life” as life beyond high school. Let’s define “lived in” as being in a city with no immediate intention of leaving for extended periods of time. For the purposes of this study, “same city” actually means “same area code.” And let’s define “boy I’ve been seeing” as just that — any boy that I have seen, in any type of romantic setting.

That means in eight years — around six of which were spent in relationships — and over the course of a few different boys, I’ve never, ever lived in the same city as one of them.

It was an easy win in “Never Have I Ever” because almost no one can leave a finger standing and a drink untouched.

Welp, cross that one off the constantly decreasing “possible ‘Never Have I Evers.’”

I’m living in 425/206 area. My boyfriend is also living in the 425/206 area. I have no intention of leaving. Not school, not a job, not a raging desire to leave for the sake of leaving.

And it’s occurring to me that I have no idea how this kind of relationship works.

How often should we see each other? Is it okay to hang out at home doing nothing, when instead I could be hanging out with him? What do you do when it stops feeling like a special treat to be able to see him?

I hope I’m cut out for this.

Also, things are good so far. So don’t worry. More updates to come.

I drove through it in my new car, my beloved dog on my lap, as I went to pick up my take-out drunken noodles from my favorite local Thai place. I felt like I should have felt something.

I didn’t.

Since I’ve been home now, I feel like I’m not feeling anything right. In the past week I’ve gotten a job, I’ve gotten a car, and I’ve found a place to crash for my first month in Seattle. Rather than feeling happy that everything has fallen into place so nicely, I’m suspicious, and panicky, and quietly worried.

“It’s happening too fast.”

“It’s not supposed to be this easy.”

“Something has to go wrong.”

“They’ve made a terrible mistake in hiring me. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

…are all things that I’ve been repeating this past week.

I’m not normally this pessimistic, so I don’t know what’s going on there.

I feel like I should still be adjusting here after 10 months abroad. While I was there, my friends and I would speculate the different ways that we would be culture-shocked. So far, the only things that have been true are that I keep forgetting that I can flush the toilet paper and I tend to say inappropriate things really loudly because I forget that the people around me speak English and can understand me.

Instead, I sometimes forget that I was even living in Santiago. Are there really these people that exist, that I spent so much time getting to know?

While I’ve felt completely and utterly happy when all of my friends are gathered, such as at our New Year’s Eve party, outside of that I felt something missing. Something not quite right, that rubs me raw and drives me crazy. I can’t pinpoint it.

I just know that I’m feeling it all wrong.

I’m terrified of failing. I feel like there’s so much at stake, but there’s not.

I’m excited to move to Seattle. I desperately don’t want to leave my family here.

I’m completely at odds with myself.

Someone tell me how I should be feeling.

and instead of saying all of your goodbyes
let them know you realize that life goes fast
it’s hard to make the good things last
and you realize that the sun doesn’t go down
it’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning ’round.

flaming lips, do you realize?

It’s funny how quickly days fly by when jam-packed with school, with grades, with pools, and dinners, and birthdays, and trying desperately to claw at each minute we have left here.

14 days. 6 in Santiago. 8 in the south: Valdivia, Puerto Montt, Puerto Varas, Chiloe.

Am I happy to be going home?

Depends on the hour that you ask me.

The point is — I’m done with teaching. Now it’s loose ends, it’s packing, it’s savoring what’s left.

It’s looking forward to hugs and kisses and reunions with people I’ve missed desperately. And it’s finding that perfect place in Seattle, it’s picking up where I left off, and it’s planning for the next big adventure…even if I do have to wait 4 years to do as much.

And mostly, it’s remembering that this isn’t the end, not if I don’t want it to be. The sun doesn’t ever go down — it’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning around.

And it’s trying to sleep every now and again.

I wake up kind of early. The Grandma Gross rolls my mom and I made the night before would have risen by now, so I’d preheat the oven. The catch, of course, is that I always forget — what temperature do I preheat it to? I knock on my parents’ door, waking them up, to ask.

350. I set it, then turn the TV in the living room to channel 8, NBC. I always estimate the timing of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade incorrectly — it starts later. In the meantime, I watch the coverage in my pajamas, keeping my nose alert for the smell of the sticky buns warming in the oven. They’re the best part of the morning. A family recipe, bread dough rolled thin and smeared with tons of butter, brown sugar, walnuts, and raisins. Soon, I’ll have to take the tin foil off so that the tops get brown and crispy.

When they’re finally ready, the parade is starting. I quickly pluck a few rolls onto my plate, spooning the caramelly syrup from the bottom of the pan over them. I pour myself a glass of ice-cold milk, then settle onto the couch to watch the parade.

Soon my mom will be up, to start with the cooking. I’ll be called into help, but mostly she’ll do it herself so that I can return to the parade. Then the family will start arriving: aunts, uncle, grandmas and grandpas and cousins and their family dogs.

We’ll gather together, and we’ll be thankful.

…

But not this year. Not even this year without me.

This year, I’m working a full day teaching English in South America, preparing for finals, and shopping at the Chinese Mall, and tanning on my friend’s rooftop.

This year, my parents are celebrating in different places altogether. This year, my mom wouldn’t have been there to remind me of the correct temperature, or to start cooking. The turkey wouldn’t be in the oven. In fact, it’s doubtful that oven will ever see a Thanksgiving turkey again.

I could be sad about all of this. Well, I am sad about this. In fact, I’m fending off tears in the teacher’s lounge as I type this.

…

Instead of waking up to my Grandma-Gross-roll-anticipating stomach, this morning I woke up to my usual 6:45 alarm. I put my phone’s music player on shuffle while I took my morning shower, and as I turned the water off, sad at the thoughts that I’ve been trying to avoid since August, I was assaulted with lyrics from a teenage favorite:

One thing I’ve got to say before sales dive
Stay positive and love your life

I smiled.

Things won’t be the same. That fucking sucks, and I’m angry about it, and I’m sad about it, and I want it to undo itself. But there are still so many good things about my life, including that I have the opportunity to live and work abroad. I have a boyfriend and great friends who all love me. My family, as much as I might hate the reality they’re in now, is awesome.

There’s plenty to be thankful for. And this Thanksgiving, I’ll remember it.

Even if it’s not to the taste of perfectly cooked turkey and Grandma Gross rolls.

…EDIT

Given the info that I’ve learned in the two hours since writing this, I felt compelled to add a bit more.

I found out during my last class that one of my students took his own life last night.

I didn’t believe it at first…surely, the student who was constantly smiling, giggling his little laugh, and was incredibly good at English couldn’t have been in a suicidal place.

I was wrong.

It just goes to show that we can never know if someone is depressed. I should have already known that — I was pretty damn good at hiding it myself back in March-June of 2010.

But I realize that I’ve been sort of blessed in that I have an incredible outlook. Even though I can be cynical and ridiculous about a lot of things, I have an eternal optimism that has been shaped by the positive people, the positive music, the happiness that I’m lucky enough to have in my life.

Stay positive. Love your life. It’ll never be perfect, and as Tall Brewnette wrote on my facebook today, “heartbreak comes in many forms…but nothing changes when you’re comfortable.”

And most importantly, share that positivity. You never know who needs it most.