The other side of the road contains miles and miles of farmland.

This was not taken by my house, but is an adequate illustration of what the fields look like, minus the adorable miniature donkeys.

I love where my home is located. Even though the buses run irregularly and I live with my parents and there’s nothing to do after 7pm on a weeknight (besides roller-skating, but that doesn’t really count anyway*), there’s something to be said about driving less than five minutes and being surrounded by endless fields and the occasional old barn.

I’ve been learning a lot about boundaries in the last few years. Learning to set my own, and to break the ones around me. The boundary of how far I can walk in my new teva sandals, (and whether or not it’s worth the blisters to break it), the boundary of where I’m willing to travel by bus, the boundary of how far I’m willing to go to make a relationship work, and how setting boundaries with money affect my daily life.

Last week, I broke a boundary. I flew 679 miles to San Jose, California by myself, to visit my boyfriend. Not only did I fly (!!!) by myself (!!!!!!), but I went to visit my boyfriend (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). I was pretty much knock-kneed and stressed my entire flight. Excited, nervous, afraid we’d crash and I’d end up on an island with Matthew Fox, I tried to ignore the sensation of my feet slowly freezing into bits (a side-effect of wearing flip-flops on the plane, where the air-condititioning is, I don’t know, directly on your feet) and nervously took photographs of my newly-painted turquoise fingernails as the pilot announced we were making our descent.

Of course, the vacation went off without a hitch. The visit was glorious, the sun was amazing, and I’m now completely discombobulated in Oregon, wishing there were more palm trees in my neighborhood’s vegetation.

So, I’m changing my (previously-set) boundary of Oregon. I’m moving my weekly boundaries to include graduate-school planning and trying to make myself work more this summer, instead of working less.

And while I still have yet to break the how-far-can-I-walk-in-these-shoes-before-I-die-of-blisters-boundary, I’m working on breaking the “stay forever in Oregon” and “be safe with my school choices” and “never take any risks” boundary. I’m not skydiving yet, but it’s a step.

And I’m so excited to see where it takes me.

*I say this because I cannot walk upright without falling over, let alone successfully attaching wheels to the balls of my feet and attempting motion, not out of any prejudice against Roller Derbies or the romance of roller disco.

I try to keep these things in mind as I experience life, and most of the time, it helps me remember to be self confident.

Just to add a few points of my own:

Everyone feels just as silly/foolish/confused as you do right now, just over different things.

If you’re going to worry about everyone else’s opinion of you at all times, you’re never going to make decisions for yourself.

A simple smile often makes everything better.

It’s always okay to say, “No,” “No, thank you,” or even, “You know, I’d love to, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”

What are the little things that you guys try to keep in mind?

There was a live Cuban band last night, and she talked my friend Lizzy and I into going! We got to the Mambo Lounge (in downtown Portland) around 9:45, when the lesson started. Gah, you’d think my experiences two years ago of swing dancing would help… but it didn’t! For the first 3 hours of dancing I felt so uncoordinated! It was pretty much terrible, compounded by watching tall, attractive men dip and swing my older sister all around the dance floor!

Lizzy and I were pretty much ready to leave in dispair of ever getting the hang of this crazy salsa dancing, when the clock struck midnight and all of the nice, non-professional latin dudes came to dance.

The band is so loud that any language barrier is only compounded. You’re shouting in your partner’s ear just to tell them that you’re having fun, or that tonight is your first time at the club! I met many nice men, who were all very good dancers and I’m pretty sure I stepped on their feet. I danced with Christian, whose name I at first thought was, “Ignacio”, who responded smoothly, “You can call me Ignacio any time you like!”. He invited me to take lessons with him, claiming that he needed a partner for the beginning salsa lessons offered on Tuesday nights! I had to turn him down, as my sister and I had determined earlier that all of the lessons are offered on nights when I’m working! Sadface. I’d still like to learn, dancing is so much fun!

photo courtesy of onlinesalsa

Oh, but the night wasn’t over. My Prince Charming! He was there. Here, I’ll set the scene:

Me.
Sweating and tired, fumbling for a water-bottle. My hair is half sliding out of my pigtails (Yes, I wore pigtails salsa dancing–they were cute and unique but they also made me feel like I was seven!) and I have mascara running down my cheek. I’m limping slightly after having my achilles heel be stomped on by my OLDER SISTER (who was being spun around like a top by one of the instructors) I descend the staircase in slow motion (tripping slightly on someone’s jacket, a chair, someone else’s shoe, and knocking over somebody’s beer bottle in the process)…

Him.
Plastered with sweat, overweight, at least 40. His shirt was open to his navel exposing his, ahem, ridiculously manly chesthair and his Burt Reynolds mustache called to me from across the room, our eyes met as the toe of my shoe caught on the wooden dance floor and I tripped into his arms. And we danced the night away.

To be totally honest, I didn’t really get the salsa dancing until this partner (And no, I honestly don’t know his name–we never spoke!) previously I was tripping, bouncing like a penguin (Literally: one partner instructed me to do this!) smacking my partners in the face while dancing… etc. With my new partner (we’ll call him Rudolfo) I had it down. If we weren’t salsa dancing, this would have been the moment the band would have started playing a cover of “Dancing Queen” by ABBA. They were Cuban though, so they played a different song, that involved yelling and raising your arms a lot? Also Rudolfo decided that during This Song, he was going to Dip Me. A lot.

And then dance verrrrry closely for 16 counts.

A very. Long. 16 counts.

It’s one of those moments where you’re pressed against a very wet complete stranger and you wonder, “Am I okay with this?” “Is he hitting on me?” “Should I just go with it?” and you really don’t have time to think because 4,5,6 aaannnnd DIP! and then he put his hands on my waist and I was confused all over again.

I finally settled on a combination of going with it and pushing him away before the 16 (or 24, or 35, whatever he felt like) counts were over, which I’m sure wasn’t confusing to him in the slightest. He contented himself on singing to me (“Besa-me mama! Besa-me mucho!”) along with the song (Don’t worry, I am in Spanish 2! I know what those words mean.) and then dipping me again. And then spinning me. For FIVE MINUTES. And dipping me. AND THEN SPINNING. AND THEN DIPPING AGAIN. AND THEN SPINNING. AND THEN SPINNING, AND THEN DIPPING, AND THEN DANCING TOO CLOSE AND SPINNING ME AGAIN.

Did I mention that of course we were dancing to the song where they introduce all of the players? So the song was like, um, upwards of 25 minutes long?

YEAH.

Finally, FINALLY, the song ended, we clapped and hugged. He said “Thank you” (which were the only words we exchanged the ENTIRE EVENING) and planted a kiss on my cheek. I escaped to our seats, swigged down my bottle of water, and laughed with Lizzy. (“I JUST GOT KISSED. HIS SHIRT WAS OPEN TO HIS BELLY-BUTTON.”) when there was a tap on my shoulder and Rudolfo was back.

Rudolfo. Wasn’t. Done.

I’m pretty sure by the end of our second dance I was a considerably less exciting partner to dance with. Not only had I figured out his rhythm (and also His Game), I was also out of steam and ready for, um, a rest? Or like, some more water? Or like, TO STOP SPINNING EVERY TWO COUNTS. I will say, it was a relief to finally dance with someone who led his partner with clues, so I knew what was going on, and who stayed on the general beat, and it was completely and very fun, even though… dancing too closely… dancing too closely…

I’m lucky that I’m one of those people who can just go with it, and isn’t completely freaked out by being touched/danced with by a complete stranger, but that was a stretch, even for Brittney.

We left the Mambo shortly after my last dance with Rudolfo. I was disappointed that I didn’t get to dance with Antonio Banderas (No, seriously, he looked JUST LIKE HIM, only with lots of gold chains, more hair gel and snakeskin boots!) but all three of us were ready for a break, more water, and a chance to sit where the speakers weren’t making your hair vibrate.

So, salsa dancing review: Super fun! I’ll definetly go again, and next time will be prepared for it to be lame until the clock strikes medianoche.

Here I go!

When I grow up, I want to be Robert Sabuda.
Robert Sabuda is amazing, and while I don’t quite have the brain for his complicated pop-ups, I adore his papercutting talent and the sheer awesomeness of his books. Check out how intricate this is! I just picked up a copy of his Twelve Days of Christmas and am completely ecstatic. I do have a thing for children’s books, but it’s just wonderful. I think part of the reason I adore his work so much is that he often works in unadorned white paper which makes his complicated pieces seem so simple. I… I want to be him so badly, you have no idea.

When I grow up, I want to be Emma Hack. (Thar be nudity!)
Check out her amazing wallpaper body paints! I find them breathtaking, and I am completely in love with the concept of body painting. I just need to invest (yes, the word is invest) in some rocking paint and get on it. And also buy some cool wallpaper. You never have enough cool wallpaper. Heck, if I’m rich enough, I just might paint myself to match the wallpaper and play elaborate games of hide and seek with myself. It’d be cool, I promise.

I just discovered this blog and am uh, totally in love with it. (via fffound, and if you haven’t visited fffound, you should! it’s amazing!) This man’s calligraphy is stunning, and he did this, which is essentially what I’ve been wanting to do ever since I slicked ink onto a piece of paper with a metal nib three years ago, and I’m horrendously jealous that he did it first. I hope that my eventual attempts are half as beautiful as that is. (Do I have any volunteer models? Yes? Yes?) So I guess you could say that I would love to be him when I grow up, too.

Finally, when I grow up, I’d like to be Kimiko (there be nudity here, too).
I REALLY want to be her someday, guys. Look at her work. It’s just beautifully simple and amazing, my favourites are her self portrait series, but her installations are stunning as well.

I’m sure I’ll be all of them as well as someone else, someday, but that’s my current list.

This week I am ferociously battling a cold and wondering if I’ll even live to see the next term. Finals are viscious this year, and I’m afraid I might need a more firey sword than the one I’ve been using the last three years.