City Stagnant

Today I hit the wall of routine. It took considerable effort to notice the world happening around me as I walked my usual path to class, instead of naturally looking down at my shoes and shuffling to songs on my ipod. I walk to the gym. I shop for groceries. I wake up around the same time every morning, and I’ve figured out my weekly television schedule. Pictures are no longer snapped as easily, for my role as a tourist is lost. I’ve stopped writing, stopped observing; stopped worshipping the experience of this city. It’s an obvious realization, but something I never thought would happen. After time, it all grows old. I suppose that wherever one goes, he brings his habits along with him. I shampoo and then condition and then shave. I blow my nose every night before I go to bed, and again in the morning. It’s a typical thing for me to wake up exactly seven minutes before my alarm is scheduled to ring. In one sense, it is these routines that keep me together; they offer comfort and sanity, even a feeling of home when I am in a faraway country. But it is this complacency that stifles the creative mind. Timetables and the seemingly predetermined whereabouts that guide me through the day. We often use activities to mark significance; action moves time along. I only wish I could live my life in a way that would prove to be an exception to this rule.
Of course there are certainly things that never cease to take me by surprise; like the illuminated TK Maxx sign just a few streets over, or the phenomenon of needing to wear sunglasses while holding an open umbrella. Sunshine rain is a beautiful contradiction in life, but nonetheless a reality here in Ireland.
There are plenty of new places to explore, cities everywhere that would most certainly prove to be enlightening destinations. But I have lost my fervor for travel. Ireland isn’t quite home, but I feel I am somewhat of a comfortable resident. I even managed to pick up a part time job here. The idle hours were creeping under my skin and I had to do something about it. I haven’t found the classes here to be all that intellectually stimulating and had to seek education elsewhere. There is a precise formula for lattes, and it’s only a matter of time before I familiarize myself with daily regulars. They do the exact thing I fear: live each day the same way.
I thought I could escape the monotonous lifestyle, but it’s hanging off my balcony, overlooking the city. I wonder how many more times I will push “5” on the lift to my flat, and if there are anymore new people I have yet to get acquainted with. Even planning a day trip to Blarney sounds difficult as it will disrupt my routine; how am I going to manage three days in Barcelona? There’s something so comfortable about not moving, and yet if one isn’t careful, it can lead to ruin. A stunning line in C.S. Lewis’ The Great Divorce has sat in my mind since the day I read it—somewhere around seven or eight years ago: “Stagnation, my dear boy, “Nothing is more soul-destroying than stagnation.” I fear the act of stopping, getting stuck in a rut and simply forgetting to grow. I was once infatuated with this new place, but it seems I will always have an addiction to stress and time management and espresso, causing even Ireland to lose her luster. I do hope to overcome my bout of stagnation here; I just might have to force myself to pursue safe avenues of fresh excitement.
I am not going to take my opportunity here for granted, and I just may attempt to live each day as if it is the feeling of morning. I happen to love the smell of the air pouring in my window as I first wake up. Yet I suppose that if this smell lasted the entire day, it would take away from beauty I greet at dawn. Perhaps that means commitment and routine are necessary in order that I might relish in the occasional freedom. Who knows?
I begin again tomorrow.

White Guy Thigh

I've recently taken an interest in improving my physical fitness, and have been spending time everyday working out in the facility offered for free through my university. It's a pretty impressive set up, with a fingerprint-reading system for entry and loads of machines so that it never feels over populated. However, there is one downfall to working out in a gym located in Europe, and that is the exposure of too many male thighs. I've tried at different points in my life not to be such a critical person, but the phase has never lasted and I've come to terms with the fact that I am, indeed, a judgmental human being. Thus, while I am exercising, I tend to observe most of the people mingling about and I cannot help but notice and cringe every time a man with short shorts and pale legs walks by. Given the fact that I am in Ireland and there is an over abundance of European exchange students, I spend just as much time wincing at their fashion as I do lifting weights. The typical gym apparel seen on the men here is as follows: running shoes, often times sporting either the Puma or Addidas logos, and on occasion do not have laces; visible socks, sometimes folded down neatly (I guess ankle socks haven't made it across the pond yet); shorts that are a length my conservative Christian high school wouldn't have approved of; and a polo shirt. Yes, a polo shirt accompanied with athletic shorts. I don't know how this combination came to be "gym appropriate," or even just casually acceptable, but it is. Sigh. Do they even realize how ridiculous they look? As they gaze into the mirror checking out their muscles and pumping iron, I examine their getup and try hard not to laugh.
When I walk back to my flat after a hard workout, people I pass along the street stare at my legs, not because they are attractive, but I think because they are not used to seeing someone walking around in shorts. Ireland can be pretty cold, even on a sunny day, and the only time I really see girls with exposed legs is on the weekends at the pubs where they flaunt tiny, tight skirts. In fact, when I walk home I think I might be the only girl out and about who is not wearing black tights under a skirt. The girls here dress up, and it's rare to see a female in athletic clothing, especially the kind that isn't tight-fitting. Oh well. I prefer my oversized Iowa sweatshirt and Nike running shoes, probably just as much as all the European guys must prefer their attractive gym wear.