In church this morning (I know…my blogs have never started with these words…bear with me, please), the pastor gave a sermon on imperfection, greed, and dishonesty; on the impossible world we live in and how difficult it can be to do the right thing and how sometimes doing the wrong thing isn’t always such a bad thing (apparently Jesus did it, too). Now I don’t go to church often, and I’m currently in a stage where I’m deciding whether church is the right place for me right now, but today it was like the sermon had been hand-crafted for me and where I’ve been these last few weeks.
Since I turned 25, I’ve been on a bit of a spiritual journey. Something about hitting that number made me realize I needed to have more to my life than stories about foggy Saturday nights spent with too much wine and I’m-not-sure-what-his-name-was-but-he-made-me-laugh.
So for the last few years I’ve attempted (strong emphasis to be placed on the word attempt) to begin making healthy-life-choices, like “I really shouldn’t smoke that cigarette, even though I’ve had enough booze to sink a ship” or, “I should totally get the garden salad WITH the cheeseburger ”. "Does running away from the police count as exercise?" Or, “No, I really need to pass on the birthday cake. I’ve had three donuts for breakfast already.” Somehow, I feel these choices redeem the thousands of bad ones I’ve made since I turned 18. I get the salad dressing on the side, don’t I!?
In line with such healthy living, I’ve had this sneaking suspicion that I should find a spiritual community, too (which is not to say that when my girls and I have had enough to drink that we aren’t about as spiritual as it gets), but I'm talking about a community that can help me continue to make these healthy choices. And I can’t lie that I have another reason for seeking a church community: maybe I’ll find a nice young, independently wealthy church-going man who likes children, folk art, and wine and who wants to let me volunteer professionally and sit on committees and boards for the rest of my life and spend all of our winters in Africa (Jesus made wine out of water, people, have some faith).
I’ve been church-hopping for a few years now and I've struggled to find just the right congregation for me—somewhere that feels comfortable, and safe. Somewhere that supports my diverse lifestyle, and the lifestyles of my loved ones (read: a lot of my friends are really, really gay and I really, really love them and really, really lack the tolerance I need to be around people who are intolerant), and a church that focuses on peace-making and justice. And that's not to say that I haven't found churches that I like. I’ll find a place that seems nice enough, but beyond a powerful sermon or two, I find there’s really no one like me there—someone who believes the same things I believe and who even begins to understand what I do for a living (which I can totally understand, because I can barely explain it myself).
Partially, I wonder if this lack of church success is because I can’t seem to decide what I actually believe these days. And despite everything I’ve seen, and everything I’ve done, I feel like I’ve just begun to scratch the surface of what exists out there for me. So church has been low on the totem pole. And it doesn’t help when there are crazies out there burning religious texts in the name of “God”. I know they’re only about 40 people deep, but 40 people deep too many, I think.
These last few weeks have been challenging and exhausting and at times, painful. I’ve been working impossible hours and facing pretty impossible to-do lists for just one person. I truly love my job, but there are weeks when there are never enough hours and certainly not enough hands to actually get what we need done.
A pretty horrible tragedy happened last week, too. One of my dearest friends and colleagues L. lost a close friend, C., suddenly and tragically, at the hands of a domestic dispute. Though I didn’t know C. well, I had met her a few times through L. and I can’t help but feel devastated by the loss, not to mention the loss for this woman’s children, family and friends. Domestic disputes should never lead to the death of two parents—regardless of who was responsible. It’s eerie to hear the news and know the people that they’re talking about. One would think that I'd become immune to the tragedy of everyday life, when you deal with it as much as we in Baltimore City do, but it never stops hurting. Or stinging. Or biting. It forces you to pause and take a deep breath, even when you haven’t allotted that pause and deep breath into your schedule for the day.
Death is never something we’re truly prepared for, and even when we know it’s coming, it stings hard and shuts down life temporarily (and sometimes a bit longer than temporarily). I know because I’ve grieved for friends and grandparents, students and mentors. I’ve felt the sting. The sinking stomach. The numbness. I started writing this blog about this time last year because my grandmother was dying. I used this space, and you, my readers, as a way to cope with what didn’t make sense. And in the process, I rediscovered a voice I’d lost over the last few years of academic writing and grant writing and all the writing that had nothing to do with me.
And a year later, I’m still using this space to process the things that don’t make sense and to celebrate the things that work and to share the things that don’t work. And this public stage is refreshingly raw and revealing. There are times where I hesitate to write what I’m thinking because I wonder how it will be received, or who might read it, but I generally push forward and think, “if not now, when?” And what is it that causes the hesitation? What kind of super human expectations do we have on ourselves if we can’t be true to ourselves? If we can’t be honest with our friends and families about our stories?
I’ve written a lot about expectations in the past—expectations that sometimes feel unfair and that confuse me and that overwhelm me. Expectations that cause me to wake up at four in the morning and pace and write emails (and sometimes online shoe shop or bake muffins). Expectations that we women weren’t told about when we were whispered stories by our mothers about someday being Wonderwoman. The things they didn’t tell us when they taught us to idolize the suffragists and to become good feminists—to raise the bar for ourselves and to destroy the glass ceiling. I mean, I almost hesitate to compare our lives now, as modern women, to the lives of women one hundred years ago, or even fifty years ago, but I can’t help but wonder if the expectations now are almost too high.
The things we women are expected to want to do—don’t you want to pump your breast milk with your automated breast pump in your $600 tailored suit in between meetings? Don’t you want to be expected to want children but to also want a career, too? Don’t you want to have the burden of figuring out how to fit it all in—the growing up, the going to graduate school, the finding of someone who isn’t a total freak and/or apeshit NUTS that you actually want to share a life with (and then the follow-up dating that needs to happen), the marriage (the planning), the birthing of babies, and then the subsequent raising of said babies, while not giving up on the education you spent $200,000 on (okay, you, your parents, that bitch Sallie Mae, and the federal government)? Don’t you want to have a conference call on your iPhone while you’re waiting in the carpool line? And we're supposed to do this in high heels, something gracefully feminine, without ever looking tired, and without ever falling victim to the all-day-yoga-pants and arch-supportive-shoe. Or without going into debt. Or without getting too fat.
These last few weeks I’ve been running around at breakneck speed, zooming in and out of meetings, eating lunches out of plastic wrappers, working fourteen, fifteen hour days and planning every minute of my day, down to the exactly three times I’ve allowed myself to pee. My dog has been so mad at me that she pooped in the house twice last week (and I admit, I’m jealous that I too can’t take out my anger by pooping in the middle of someone’s floor) and she keeps giving me this look that screams, “go ahead and leave again. I’ll just be here at the house. Doing absolutely nothing while you’re gone. All day.” My Blackberry has become my best friend. My confidant. And my accomplice to this messy lifestyle. She never leaves my side, even when she's been silenced. Sometimes her little red blinking light is like my very own personal lighthouse.
And a part of me feels so accomplished when I survive these weeks. This is, in part, what they wanted, I think. This is what those women, for so many years, fought tooth and nail, so that I could run around with a Blackberry, saying the things I’m supposed to say in meetings, looking the look, with that ease that says, “oh hey, yeah, I made these muffins from scatch at three a.m. when I couldn’t sleep.” I’ve conquered not only one domain—but TWO. I can work AND bake. Hand me a breast pump. I’m a modern superwoman.
But theres the part of me that hates it too, and hates what it does to me. The me who doesn't ever want to be like the women in Sex and the City or the women in a bad Bravo reality series. The me that hates that we're expected to pull all this off; to be smart and feminine, sexy and maternal, nurturing and understanding, successful and yet, still simple, and low-maintenance.
But then when we're forced to pause, when the cycle gets disrupted, we're allowed a finite window of time in which we can really evaluate our lives. We can challenge our own truths and be critical of ourselves: Am I doing the things that make me happy? Am I doing the things that fulfull me? That enrich me? That propel me forward?
This morning we talked about a parable in Luke that deals with a shrewd manager and a greedy landowner. The sermon went deep into the story, theorizing all the ways it could be interpreted, but more importantly, discussing the many, many ways in which our world is imperfect. That we’re guided towards choosing wealth and greed because we’re supposed to advance ourselves and grow our bank accounts and 401Ks and become someone. But that Jesus tells us that we need to get in the habit of making choices for the good, even when what’s good doesn’t seem clear. This, of course, led us to a discussion about how to even know, or understand, what good and bad means anymore. The many, many ways in which we’re expected to make smart choices when there actually aren’t always smart choices to be had among the handful of choices we’re usually being asked to decide between. We make the best choices we can, with the best of intentions, and hope that we’ve done the right thing. And ideally, the take-home message for someone like me is that the expectations I’ve put on myself for anything above and beyond just doing the right thing shouldn’t consume me anymore.
I laughed inside because I’ve spent so much time convincing myself that there is no place for me at church, and here I am, at church, feeling like the sermon was written for me. Feeling like the sermon was written for C. and for all the women around me who are expected to accomplish the impossible, everyday. For all of us who keep ourselves awake at night, worried that someone will punish us for having made the best choice out of the choices we were given, even though it might have been the wrong choice. That someone will pull the tablecloth out from under us and surprise us with a mandated "stay-at-home-and-bake" day and secretly give our jobs away.
Which causes me to pause. And think.
Showing posts with label great expectations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label great expectations. Show all posts
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Crazy
Sometimes I think that I’ve gone crazy.
There was a time in college when a dear friend of mine did just that. She was having some kind of mental break and living in a land that made no sense to the rest of us. Among her delusions was the idea that she had indeed discovered the center of the universe. On our college campus. In the woods. She would spend hours talking to us about the things she’d discovered, almost yelling at us that it was right in front of our eyes and we didn’t see it; we didn’t understand it. I remember feeling lots of feelings about the whole situation, but mostly having this frightening idea that we might all be wrong. That perhaps she had discovered something out there in those woods and we’re the crazy ones for not listening to her more thoughtfully. I mean, aren’t some of the greatest thinkers of our time totally ape-shit nuts? Maybe all the people out there having psychotic breaks were onto something—perhaps they’re the ones that are right and we’re the ones that are wrong.
When they get back to a “normal” place (where is that place, anyway?), I always wonder do they feel different? Is it like meeting your spirit animal while you’re high on hallucinogenics? Or like traveling to the after-life during a surgery and coming back to life? Are you changed? Do you have some deeper insight into the world? Or are you so stoned on anti-psychotics that you can’t be allowed to feel changed?
Sometimes when I meet someone really crazy, I realize that experience in college never left me; I never shook that feeling and I try (if possible) to listen with a slightly more careful ear. Who knows, they might be saying something very truthful in their babble. Although here in Baltimore, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between real crazy and crack crazy.
And on those days (like today) where I, too, feel crazy, I wonder how close I am to being really crazy. Sometimes I wonder if I teeter a little too close to the edge. I know sometimes when words fly out of my mouth uncontrollably and I think to myself, “WHO SAID THAT? ME? NO!” Or when a string of irrational thoughts enter my head (usually involving men) and I think, “I don’t have thoughts like this! Out, out damned spot!” But they happen, regardless. Without warning or warrant.
I wish someone would have told me how schizophrenic my twenties would be. Each year I wind down closer to the end of this disastrous decade, wiser, stronger, and with better stories to tell, but feeling undoubtedly more crazy. I guess it wouldn’t have mattered if someone had told me—and they probably did and I just blew them off like everyone else—because that is part of the beauty of your twenties. YOU DON’T GIVE A FLYING FART. When someone tells you something at age 19, you think, “Yeah right, man! You don’t know anything! I’M SPECIAL! I’M DIFFERENT!” The truth, at age 27, and despite being quite “special” and “different”, I’m not that special at all. And I’m not that different. Sadly, I’m a bit like everyone else.
But the real crazy thing is this wacky numbers game that people like to play in their twenties. By age 25, I’d like to have…x, y, and z. And if z never comes around, I’ll go with a or b. And if a & b end in a bloody disaster, we’ll switch over to j, k, & l. By 23, I should accomplish: insert accomplishments here. And of course it seems natural that most of these “things” have to do with getting married and buying houses and graduating from college. Or if you’re from a small southern town like I am, having babies, too. Or if you started that in high school, having your third baby. Or maybe your fourth.
And the thing that leaves me curious (crazy) about it is that in 2010, women now have healthy babies in their 40s. More people are getting married in their mid-thirties than ever (and those marriages aren’t ending in divorce…). The average homeowner is 37.8 (I’m going to start measuring my age in decimals, too). Hell, most people are still financially supported by their parents until 26 these days. So why, pray tell, do I still feel this enormous pressure to accomplish such acts in the next three years? Why do I still feel like there is a looming psychotic break in my future as I get closer and closer to thirty, despite the fact that I can’t wait to turn 30 and be done with this miserable decade?
Perhaps it’s the woo of the wedding porn and the mommy blogs. Sometimes I get so involved in other people’s children and pregnancies that I dream of finding myself totally knocked up. Like straight-up single white female pregnant from a bad after-school special. Only to realize what an insane (crazy) idea that is and that really while my roommate is very supportive of my dog, I’m not sure she’d be thrilled with a screaming infant. Or, better yet, me as an emotional, psychotic wench for 9 months without a husband or boyfriend to berate with my endless request for pickles and krispy kreme donuts. Plus I can barely pay my bills as it is—a baby? Really? INTRAWEBS! You’ve betrayed me!
And the weddings are also great fun. I love weddings. I mean the industry makes me kind of nauseated but the good porn—the Etsy and all the great hipster wedding blogs and the DIY weddings. It’s enough to make a girl want to post an ad on Craigslist for a husband. And I’ve been to so many weddings at this point (and been in them, too), that I feel I’ve become a bit of an expert. I think, when I get married, I’ll have x, y, and z. Which is really like going to the mall when you’re on your last $45 the week before pay day and trying on Christian Louboutins. You can’t exactly buy the shoes without the money (hell, without the trust fund). Nor can you plan the wedding when you haven’t had a successful relationship in years. So maybe I’ll just go into the wedding planning business. Or maybe I will post that ad on craigslist.
And the race for careers and degrees is also b-a-n-a-n-a-s. I’ve been working on a master’s degree for years now, chipping away slowly, three credits at a time, so that I can what? Advance my career? I even switched programs because I was in a program where people read the book Who Moved My Cheese? and found it inspirational. I had to withdraw. Now I'm in a program that I like, sometimes, but I question pretty much every week how these people graduated from college. Sometimes high school.
But I get degree envy. I turn mad green and begin a self-depricating parade of all the things I could have done different. I look at the uber-focused friends of mine with law degrees and PhDs and think, if I hadn’t spent age 22-27 goofing off and “following my heart”, I, too, could have one of those shiny degrees to hang on a wall. And big fancy letters behind my name. Although the goofing off from 22-27 has been pretty rad, and I’m not sure my heart would have allowed anything but what happened to have happened. Even within my profession, I’ve got an awesome resume and great references and incredible experience—but sometimes it feels like I’ve accomplished nothing at all because I haven’t gotten that degree. I don’t have that shiny thing on the wall and the only thing that comes after my name is usually: Lindsay Johnson, Asshole.
These “things”, these numbers, these expectations are enough to make you crazy in your twenties. And even with great role models who consistently tell you, "Don't follow a path! Or check off boxes on a list! Live your life!", you still feel crazy. Like the center of the universe is in the woods kind of crazy.
Not to mention the fact that you’re a raving lunatic as you try to figure out who you really are in the world—without the crutch of high school, college, and family. You’re usually so broke you can barely afford to do anything but sit at home and think about how broke you are. But this time at home, eating ramen & saltines, gives you plenty of time to discover the real you. And to start thinking about all the things you want to accomplish before you’re 30. And to discover the show "wife swap" (which can really make you crazy).
And when you get past 27, unmarried, without kids and without letters behind your name, the list of things you thought you'd have accomplished by 30 can start to make you crazy. And despite your best logic, and the fact that most days you truly are content with your life and lack of "accomplishments", it can start to make you feel really crazy. Like cat-lady crazy. And even though you went to a liberated former-women's college and feel that it was pounded into your head that you, as a woman, would never be judged on your merit in society by your ability to cook a roast, iron a shirt, and birth a baby, there's this nagging hormonal thing that seems to happen regardless of all that bookishness and nerdery. Sometimes you just wanna make a roast and birth a baby, damnit. And maybe read a book while you wait?
So, tick-tock, goes the clock. But I refuse to let it make me crazy. Or maybe it's already made me crazy. And despite how badly I'd love for my womb to be filled with the spawn of someone wildly inappropriate (and probably twice my age), I'll continue to mother the one beast I'm proud to put in my list of "twenty-something accomplishments". And I'll try to keep my wedding plans at bay (because nothing's crazier than a single girl with a binder full of wedding ideas). And I'll keep going to class, taking another 3-6 credits every semester until the letters are at the end of my name. And I'll try to talk myself out of being crazy about getting older. But that does involve talking to myself...
And hell, maybe I am actually crazy, and you guys have just been sparing me from the truth all these years. But HEY! At least I'm self-aware, right? And I have this blog. And a dog that smiles when she sleeps (which is crazy).
And those are accomplishments, right? X, Y, and Z, I'd say.
There was a time in college when a dear friend of mine did just that. She was having some kind of mental break and living in a land that made no sense to the rest of us. Among her delusions was the idea that she had indeed discovered the center of the universe. On our college campus. In the woods. She would spend hours talking to us about the things she’d discovered, almost yelling at us that it was right in front of our eyes and we didn’t see it; we didn’t understand it. I remember feeling lots of feelings about the whole situation, but mostly having this frightening idea that we might all be wrong. That perhaps she had discovered something out there in those woods and we’re the crazy ones for not listening to her more thoughtfully. I mean, aren’t some of the greatest thinkers of our time totally ape-shit nuts? Maybe all the people out there having psychotic breaks were onto something—perhaps they’re the ones that are right and we’re the ones that are wrong.
When they get back to a “normal” place (where is that place, anyway?), I always wonder do they feel different? Is it like meeting your spirit animal while you’re high on hallucinogenics? Or like traveling to the after-life during a surgery and coming back to life? Are you changed? Do you have some deeper insight into the world? Or are you so stoned on anti-psychotics that you can’t be allowed to feel changed?
Sometimes when I meet someone really crazy, I realize that experience in college never left me; I never shook that feeling and I try (if possible) to listen with a slightly more careful ear. Who knows, they might be saying something very truthful in their babble. Although here in Baltimore, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between real crazy and crack crazy.
And on those days (like today) where I, too, feel crazy, I wonder how close I am to being really crazy. Sometimes I wonder if I teeter a little too close to the edge. I know sometimes when words fly out of my mouth uncontrollably and I think to myself, “WHO SAID THAT? ME? NO!” Or when a string of irrational thoughts enter my head (usually involving men) and I think, “I don’t have thoughts like this! Out, out damned spot!” But they happen, regardless. Without warning or warrant.
I wish someone would have told me how schizophrenic my twenties would be. Each year I wind down closer to the end of this disastrous decade, wiser, stronger, and with better stories to tell, but feeling undoubtedly more crazy. I guess it wouldn’t have mattered if someone had told me—and they probably did and I just blew them off like everyone else—because that is part of the beauty of your twenties. YOU DON’T GIVE A FLYING FART. When someone tells you something at age 19, you think, “Yeah right, man! You don’t know anything! I’M SPECIAL! I’M DIFFERENT!” The truth, at age 27, and despite being quite “special” and “different”, I’m not that special at all. And I’m not that different. Sadly, I’m a bit like everyone else.
But the real crazy thing is this wacky numbers game that people like to play in their twenties. By age 25, I’d like to have…x, y, and z. And if z never comes around, I’ll go with a or b. And if a & b end in a bloody disaster, we’ll switch over to j, k, & l. By 23, I should accomplish: insert accomplishments here. And of course it seems natural that most of these “things” have to do with getting married and buying houses and graduating from college. Or if you’re from a small southern town like I am, having babies, too. Or if you started that in high school, having your third baby. Or maybe your fourth.
And the thing that leaves me curious (crazy) about it is that in 2010, women now have healthy babies in their 40s. More people are getting married in their mid-thirties than ever (and those marriages aren’t ending in divorce…). The average homeowner is 37.8 (I’m going to start measuring my age in decimals, too). Hell, most people are still financially supported by their parents until 26 these days. So why, pray tell, do I still feel this enormous pressure to accomplish such acts in the next three years? Why do I still feel like there is a looming psychotic break in my future as I get closer and closer to thirty, despite the fact that I can’t wait to turn 30 and be done with this miserable decade?
Perhaps it’s the woo of the wedding porn and the mommy blogs. Sometimes I get so involved in other people’s children and pregnancies that I dream of finding myself totally knocked up. Like straight-up single white female pregnant from a bad after-school special. Only to realize what an insane (crazy) idea that is and that really while my roommate is very supportive of my dog, I’m not sure she’d be thrilled with a screaming infant. Or, better yet, me as an emotional, psychotic wench for 9 months without a husband or boyfriend to berate with my endless request for pickles and krispy kreme donuts. Plus I can barely pay my bills as it is—a baby? Really? INTRAWEBS! You’ve betrayed me!
And the weddings are also great fun. I love weddings. I mean the industry makes me kind of nauseated but the good porn—the Etsy and all the great hipster wedding blogs and the DIY weddings. It’s enough to make a girl want to post an ad on Craigslist for a husband. And I’ve been to so many weddings at this point (and been in them, too), that I feel I’ve become a bit of an expert. I think, when I get married, I’ll have x, y, and z. Which is really like going to the mall when you’re on your last $45 the week before pay day and trying on Christian Louboutins. You can’t exactly buy the shoes without the money (hell, without the trust fund). Nor can you plan the wedding when you haven’t had a successful relationship in years. So maybe I’ll just go into the wedding planning business. Or maybe I will post that ad on craigslist.
And the race for careers and degrees is also b-a-n-a-n-a-s. I’ve been working on a master’s degree for years now, chipping away slowly, three credits at a time, so that I can what? Advance my career? I even switched programs because I was in a program where people read the book Who Moved My Cheese? and found it inspirational. I had to withdraw. Now I'm in a program that I like, sometimes, but I question pretty much every week how these people graduated from college. Sometimes high school.
But I get degree envy. I turn mad green and begin a self-depricating parade of all the things I could have done different. I look at the uber-focused friends of mine with law degrees and PhDs and think, if I hadn’t spent age 22-27 goofing off and “following my heart”, I, too, could have one of those shiny degrees to hang on a wall. And big fancy letters behind my name. Although the goofing off from 22-27 has been pretty rad, and I’m not sure my heart would have allowed anything but what happened to have happened. Even within my profession, I’ve got an awesome resume and great references and incredible experience—but sometimes it feels like I’ve accomplished nothing at all because I haven’t gotten that degree. I don’t have that shiny thing on the wall and the only thing that comes after my name is usually: Lindsay Johnson, Asshole.
These “things”, these numbers, these expectations are enough to make you crazy in your twenties. And even with great role models who consistently tell you, "Don't follow a path! Or check off boxes on a list! Live your life!", you still feel crazy. Like the center of the universe is in the woods kind of crazy.
Not to mention the fact that you’re a raving lunatic as you try to figure out who you really are in the world—without the crutch of high school, college, and family. You’re usually so broke you can barely afford to do anything but sit at home and think about how broke you are. But this time at home, eating ramen & saltines, gives you plenty of time to discover the real you. And to start thinking about all the things you want to accomplish before you’re 30. And to discover the show "wife swap" (which can really make you crazy).
And when you get past 27, unmarried, without kids and without letters behind your name, the list of things you thought you'd have accomplished by 30 can start to make you crazy. And despite your best logic, and the fact that most days you truly are content with your life and lack of "accomplishments", it can start to make you feel really crazy. Like cat-lady crazy. And even though you went to a liberated former-women's college and feel that it was pounded into your head that you, as a woman, would never be judged on your merit in society by your ability to cook a roast, iron a shirt, and birth a baby, there's this nagging hormonal thing that seems to happen regardless of all that bookishness and nerdery. Sometimes you just wanna make a roast and birth a baby, damnit. And maybe read a book while you wait?
So, tick-tock, goes the clock. But I refuse to let it make me crazy. Or maybe it's already made me crazy. And despite how badly I'd love for my womb to be filled with the spawn of someone wildly inappropriate (and probably twice my age), I'll continue to mother the one beast I'm proud to put in my list of "twenty-something accomplishments". And I'll try to keep my wedding plans at bay (because nothing's crazier than a single girl with a binder full of wedding ideas). And I'll keep going to class, taking another 3-6 credits every semester until the letters are at the end of my name. And I'll try to talk myself out of being crazy about getting older. But that does involve talking to myself...
And hell, maybe I am actually crazy, and you guys have just been sparing me from the truth all these years. But HEY! At least I'm self-aware, right? And I have this blog. And a dog that smiles when she sleeps (which is crazy).
And those are accomplishments, right? X, Y, and Z, I'd say.
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