It was one of those moments that was full of what I would like to dub the Sad Clown Phenomenon. I had had an amazing day, going out for lunch, a trip to the museum, and now a $2 dollar comedy with my girlfriend and had all the reason in the world to be loving life. And yet I was very, very sad. That's because, in my sheer stupidity, I had left my beloved J-school hoodie somewhere in the mall and was convinced that I would never see it again.
I managed to forget about it and enjoy the movie, but was still sad enough to refuse candy from my girlfriend, a sure sign that the Sad Clown Phenomenon hadn't totally relinquished its grip. After the movie, however, I started to slip back into it until my girlfriend, a true optimist in her perseverance and determination, told me I should look in the mall's lost and found.
I, being full of Sad Clown, still despaired. Of course it wouldn't be there, no one would have turned in my sweater, it was probably being eaten by a pack of Ottawa's infamous hungry groundhogs by now.
Long story short, it was there and I had my sweater back and wore it, draw strings pulled tight for added security, all the way home in the summer heat.
And today I am forever indebted to Lost and Found boxes everywhere.
They are themselves a great thing, a chance to reclaim lost objects of significance and trivial appeal alike. But they are much more than that. They are a symbol of hope, a last bastion of promise and optimism that relief will come; that you will find what is important to you.
It is also an assurance that humans are indeed inherently good creatures. Lost and Founds are a sign that people will do the right thing and want, deep in their hearts and minds, for people to be happy even if they don't know that person and will get nothing, not even a thank you or a look of joy, in return for their good deed.
So I am grateful for the Lost and Found. I am grateful that they are always there, like a network of kindness and hope and human decency and selflessness, when you need it most. And I am grateful that it helped remind me that these things exist in the world and rose me up and out of the pessimism I had given into and back to seeing life like a glass half full.
Showing posts with label J-school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label J-school. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
#73- Hoodies
My computer chair is no longer suitable for sitting on any more.
The hoodies on said chair have taken it over and appear to have formed some sort of symbiotic relationship with the chair that does not allow me to pry them off. I am currently conducting research into the possible benefits of this phenomenon.
Okay, this isn't actually the reason, but it is true that my hoodies are piled so high on my chair that it makes it difficult to sit comfortably on it.
If you know me, you know that I love wearing hoodies, the immensely comfortable and fashionably questionable sweaters. I wear them almost every time I go to run errands or went to school. Once the harsh Ottawa winter hits they are pretty much my best friend (sorry everyone else, avoiding frostbite is a top priority for me). So I don't see much point in hanging them up in my closet when I'm just going to use them again (again, sorry mom, that sentence must pain you). I guess I love hoodies so much I have unconsciously build a little nest of them around me.
But what is there not to love? Other than the aforementioned warm and snuggly feeling hoodies give you, they also provide a chance, like any clothing, to be original or show your true style and character. They come in all colours, sizes and styles.
Also, since I wear them so often, my hoodies have taken on a major role in my nostalgia department. I look at my maroon and navy blue striped hoodie and remember my 19th birthday, the day I got it as a gift from my girlfriend. I zip up my faded, beat up, brown sweater I wear to the gym and remember all the workouts with friends or peacefully alone. Or I pull my J-school hoodie over my head and flashbacks of the last four years explode in my mind.
So I am grateful for hoodies. I am grateful for their warmth and comfort. I am grateful that they allow me to express myself and let me remember my past and carry the good times around with me. And I am grateful they let me proudly wear this past right there on my chest. And because of all this, I don't mind sharing my chair with my hoodies one bit.
The hoodies on said chair have taken it over and appear to have formed some sort of symbiotic relationship with the chair that does not allow me to pry them off. I am currently conducting research into the possible benefits of this phenomenon.
Okay, this isn't actually the reason, but it is true that my hoodies are piled so high on my chair that it makes it difficult to sit comfortably on it.
If you know me, you know that I love wearing hoodies, the immensely comfortable and fashionably questionable sweaters. I wear them almost every time I go to run errands or went to school. Once the harsh Ottawa winter hits they are pretty much my best friend (sorry everyone else, avoiding frostbite is a top priority for me). So I don't see much point in hanging them up in my closet when I'm just going to use them again (again, sorry mom, that sentence must pain you). I guess I love hoodies so much I have unconsciously build a little nest of them around me.
But what is there not to love? Other than the aforementioned warm and snuggly feeling hoodies give you, they also provide a chance, like any clothing, to be original or show your true style and character. They come in all colours, sizes and styles.
Also, since I wear them so often, my hoodies have taken on a major role in my nostalgia department. I look at my maroon and navy blue striped hoodie and remember my 19th birthday, the day I got it as a gift from my girlfriend. I zip up my faded, beat up, brown sweater I wear to the gym and remember all the workouts with friends or peacefully alone. Or I pull my J-school hoodie over my head and flashbacks of the last four years explode in my mind.
So I am grateful for hoodies. I am grateful for their warmth and comfort. I am grateful that they allow me to express myself and let me remember my past and carry the good times around with me. And I am grateful they let me proudly wear this past right there on my chest. And because of all this, I don't mind sharing my chair with my hoodies one bit.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
#69- J School
I guess if I'm talking about J-school I should probably start off with a nice, solid lede, one that's punchy, but concise, informative, but engaging, one that's... oh, I guess I already dropped the ball on that one. Oh well.
But seriously, I just finished my undergraduate career eight days ago and J-school is already transforming from the thing I cursed every morning, noon and night while secretly loving it to a word dripping with nostalgia and covered in memories.
As I write this I look around my room at artifacts of my J-school career and it feels like I should be a character in a movie; the old man who wonders into his attic trying to find his cane only to suffer flashbacks of his life when he sees old pictures and such. Heartwarming? Sure. Corny? Definitely.
But I can't help it. I can see the pub crawl shirt in my closet out of the corner of my eye, the very same one that has the names of some of the greatest people I have ever had the honor of calling friends on it (although in barely legible scrawl that can obviously only be attributed to the poor lighting in the pubs).
And there in front of me on my desk is my recorder and microphone, the very same ones that I swore at when they wouldn't work properly and I lost half an interview about the pie industry in Ottawa. But also the same ones that hung by my side during the toughest production days that left me utterly exhausted, but indescribably exhilarated.
And what's that on my desk, an assignment from my political reporting class? Plenty of red ink on it, but a decent mark and, even more importantly, encouraging words from my professor (although even less readable to my eyes than the pub crawl autographs). I can't help but smile and remember the lessons I learned from all my teachers and not just about journalism, but about life too.
Yep, as I look around my room I know two things for sure: I really need to spend a day cleaning it up and I'm really going to miss J-school with all its crazy deadlines, early morning classes, mind numbing post-morts, awesome friends, history-witnessing moments and quiet nights doing what I love most, writing. And I would do it all again, the very same, if I had to.
So I'm grateful for J-school. I'm grateful mostly for the people I have met in it, from my girlfriend, to friends who have shaped my last four years, professors who have molded my brain and sources who have challenged, changed and reaffirmed my perspective on the world. I'm grateful and I'll never forget it, but it's time to move on. Peace out J-school.
-30-
But seriously, I just finished my undergraduate career eight days ago and J-school is already transforming from the thing I cursed every morning, noon and night while secretly loving it to a word dripping with nostalgia and covered in memories.
As I write this I look around my room at artifacts of my J-school career and it feels like I should be a character in a movie; the old man who wonders into his attic trying to find his cane only to suffer flashbacks of his life when he sees old pictures and such. Heartwarming? Sure. Corny? Definitely.
But I can't help it. I can see the pub crawl shirt in my closet out of the corner of my eye, the very same one that has the names of some of the greatest people I have ever had the honor of calling friends on it (although in barely legible scrawl that can obviously only be attributed to the poor lighting in the pubs).
And there in front of me on my desk is my recorder and microphone, the very same ones that I swore at when they wouldn't work properly and I lost half an interview about the pie industry in Ottawa. But also the same ones that hung by my side during the toughest production days that left me utterly exhausted, but indescribably exhilarated.
And what's that on my desk, an assignment from my political reporting class? Plenty of red ink on it, but a decent mark and, even more importantly, encouraging words from my professor (although even less readable to my eyes than the pub crawl autographs). I can't help but smile and remember the lessons I learned from all my teachers and not just about journalism, but about life too.
Yep, as I look around my room I know two things for sure: I really need to spend a day cleaning it up and I'm really going to miss J-school with all its crazy deadlines, early morning classes, mind numbing post-morts, awesome friends, history-witnessing moments and quiet nights doing what I love most, writing. And I would do it all again, the very same, if I had to.
So I'm grateful for J-school. I'm grateful mostly for the people I have met in it, from my girlfriend, to friends who have shaped my last four years, professors who have molded my brain and sources who have challenged, changed and reaffirmed my perspective on the world. I'm grateful and I'll never forget it, but it's time to move on. Peace out J-school.
-30-
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