D**n Auto-Correct! Yes, that’s exactly not quite what I meant…at all.

Have you ever text your BFF to relay your heartbreak after finding out (through your unmentionable, borderline crazy, stalker-like, super-sleuthing skills) that your long-time crush has a girlfriend, only to realize after receiving a quick and unsympathetic “LOL” that you’ve actually sent her a text about your long term “curds having a new guestroom”?

Sure you have.

Ever been talking to one of your best friends, who knows pretty much everything about you; you know the one who knows and understands how your mind works, about something you’re truly passionate about and just as she nods her head and finishes your sentence, you realize that while the completed statement makes perfect sense, and compliments the essence of yourself perfectly, it’s not quite what you meant?

You know you have.

Ever have one of those deep, life-altering conversations with your best-friend, mom, mentor, coworker, (insert other important individual whose opinion you truly value), meant to help figure out your purpose or next big move in life?

Of course you have.

Ever finish the conversation feeling like you’ve got this whole ‘adult’ situation figured out, and that “‘the world is your oyster,” only to later remember the person you actually are and realize that whatever you’ve come up with is never going to happen–not because it isn’t possible, but because you genuinely have no interest in that course of life?

That’s pretty much been the story of my adult life.

I recently had a conversation with my coworker, after which I was completely convinced that my dream life included moving into a cute little apartment on the beach in Puerto Vallarta. I listened with immense enthusiasm as he described how beautiful it was and how affordable it would be to have my cute little dream home. I could almost smell the salt of the ocean air as he explained the simplicity of my future commute. I began to map out my new move in my mind. Should I change bases and commute to Seattle and just crash with my mother? Should I find a cheap little crash pad in San Diego? How would I arrange my schedule? When would my friends be able to visit? When would I move? I had so many things to figure out, but it would all be worth it when I am listening to the ocean from the back porch of my sweet little dream home.

Off to Mexico, right?

Nope.

Why not?

Because, I’ve finally learned to proofread, so to speak.

I’m at an interesting point in this journey ‘they’ call life. I am ever discovering more about myself and the way I want my life to pan out (not that I have complete control over that per se, but that’s neither here nor there). Recently, I have realized that as a young adult it becomes quite easy to fall into the trap of making major life decisions and accepting parts of oneself in the same manner in which we send texts filled with typos. We trust that our loved ones (our real-life auto-correct) know enough about us to fill in the blanks. We choose to live and press send, only to later look back and realize that someone else has filled in his own idea of what our lives should be; and while what’s been changed or input ‘made sense,’ it very well may not have been exactly what we intended for ourselves.

As I meet and get to know so many wonderful people, I am ever inspired and dreaming anew; but, I have learned and am learning that some things are meant to remain an inspiration, rather than a part of my journey. I am quickly learning the importance of self-reflecting and editing before sending that text to my bestie about the super hot guts I met on my flight while making plans to move to Mexico. 

; )

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How Do You Spell Unk? And Other Questions That Need Answers.

I have the memory of the six year old child you once promised to take out for ice cream if she was well behaved while running errands; in other words, I remember things quite vividly, just as they happened. I remember a time in kindergarten when my teacher, Ms. Harrington, had us draw pictures of our families. I, being the young budding artist that I was (only through elementary school though), drew not only my wonderful immediate family, but also some of my extended family. As I was labeling the colorful characters with my magic marker, I realized that I hadn’t yet learned how to spell uncle. Understandably so, right? So, naturally, I took to the only person I knew for sure would be able to help me. I put down my marker, scooted back my plastic blue chair, and marched up right up to my all-knowing teacher and asked, “How do you spell “Unk?”

(Like ‘funk’ without the f. Yeah.)

Obviously puzzled, (but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t surprised-she did spend whole days with five year old children after all) she asked for a bit of clarification,

“You want to spell “Unk?”

Yup.

“What’s an ‘Unk?’

So, in clear five year old logic, I replied, “I was going to put an ‘L’ at the end and make “uncle.”

I’ve always been pretty quick witted. I got that from dear old dad. As I’ve gotten older and had the opportunity to work around so many personalities which are usually accompanied by differing levels of sensitivity, I’ve learned to keep my witty quip and sarcastic thoughts to myself (and my coworkers in the back galley, of course).

A few of my favorite questions from passengers are, “How much longer until we land?” or “What time will we land in (insert city)?” With a glance at my watch and bright, warm smile, I always respond with an explanation of the time zones and my best guess of when we departed and the flight time, or a quick, “let me call the pilots and find out for you.”

My mind on the other hand, thinks, “Why? Like if I say the wrong time are you going to get off the plane?”

Now, logical, empathetic Morgan knows that they’re asking, not because they want to know the exact moment the wheels will touch down, rather they’re trying to decide whether or not they should have that second glass of wine, or if they have time to start another movie on the digE InFlight Entertainment Tablet, or if it’s time to start looking for little Hunter’s shoes, or do some galley yoga. ***Just a note: there is never a good time to do yoga in the galley.

After spending nearly all of my life in Sweet Home Alabama I made the decision to jump ship and moved to Seattle to begin the career of a lifetime. A little over a year later, after having to work through my sister’s baby shower (yup, still salty), I made the decision to move to San Diego. Best decision ever, by the way!

I’d like to say my willingness to up and move on a whim and fly by the seat of my pants was due to how confident and strong I am as  a pseudo-successful young adult, but that wouldn’t be entirely truthful. The whole truth is that my moves were the questions I had to ask myself in order to figure out who I was and who I am; my moves begged the questions I did not yet know I had of myself.

Could I leave everything and everyone (except Momma) and start over with new friends, in a new city and be truly happy? Do I really want to leave home or do I just need a break from my southern roots. Am I still who everyone else knows or is there more to me? What else is there outside of what’s been nurtured by the people who are used to me?

Sometimes we ask questions for the sole purpose of simply knowing the answer. Quite often we ask questions, whether to another or through experience and experiments, in order to figure out our next moves and learn about ourselves. More often, these questions tell us more about ourselves than the actual answer.

Laundry Daze

There’s just something about getting to the bottom of the laundry basket and seeing that the last two socks actually match that makes you think,

By George, I’ve got my s#!+ together!’

When I was younger I dreaded doing the laundry. Oh how I loathed having to match up the seams of my jeans before placing them on a hanger, and lord forbid having to fold a fitted sheet (which I still have no clue how to do). Now, I take great care and pride in sorting my clothes into neat little piles and separating my shirts in my drawers based on which occasions I’d be wearing them.

Every week I walk through my apartment ducking around vines of bra straps, pant legs, and pantyhose. My place becomes a jungle of slightly damp clothing, all in an effort to preserve the quality of my wardrobe staples.

It was after midnight and I found myself hunched over my kitchen sink hand washing my bras one by one. Why? Because I’d just gotten home from being away for almost two weeks and I needed clean undergarments in the morning. Sure, I could have tossed them in the washing machine and dried them on high in the morning– I’m sure, I’d have had time before I left the next morning, but it just wouldn’t be right.

I was exhausted. The smell of lavender scented Gain had me in a trance. It took everything in me to hang my jeans and pantyhose at optimal air drying distance from one another, but I made it happen.

Why was I going through all of the trouble? The laundry room was just across the hall. I had just gone to the bank for my usual two rolls of quarters, and I even had matching lavender dryer sheets. Why not just toss them in the dryer and head to bed?

Loyalty.

Respect.

Support. That’s why not.

My neon colored holsters with convertible straps offer all of the comfort and support my young ladies ever need. My jet black medium support control tops with the reinforced toe keep the thundering of my thighs to a dull tremble. My dark wash, medium waist, skinny leg give structure and lift to the ‘southern charm’ I now carry behind me (thanks Mom). How dare I even consider tossing my most supportive articles into the dryer as if they were some old high school Stress Fest tie-dye t-shirts? It just wouldn’t be right.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve been blessed with a life full of new adventures and experiences. I am meeting new people and seeing new places and doing new things; and life is happening. I’m living! I’m experiencing! I’m learning! I’m doing!

And I’m tired.

But amid my laundry daze I am reminded that as exhausted as I sometimes feel, and as late as it may seem, it is imperative that I cherish those who provide me structure and support.

As easy as it would be to care for and treat my closest friends and family as I do everyone else, I have to remember that they aren’t the same. If I want to maintain the quality of my relationships, I must take the time to care for them and nurture them. I can’t allow my relationships to become misshapen enough to lose their support, or allow small snags to become irreparable runs and holes, or allow the beauty of my friendships to shrink and fade, because it’s easier to lump them in with how I treat acquaintances. I find the excuse, ‘That’s how I am with everyone,’ quite irksome, when it’s told to me; I often wish to reply, ‘But, I’m not everyone.’ And I remind myself of that quite often.

I must remember the bras that I was too ‘tired’ (read: lazy) to take good care of and just washed with my old Youth Services soccer t-shirts and dried with my bath mats and running shoes (yes, sadly, I was once that lazy), that are now shoved in the back of the drawer, only to be worn after finally convincing myself that even the slight distortion of my under wire would be far more bearable than letting my young ladies hang free.

Because as nice as it is to be free and hang loose, there will never be a time when I couldn’t use a little (or not so little) support.