Growing Up. It's Hard to Do.

College degree. Check. Full-time job. Check?

Somehow it happened. I grew up, and it seems like it happened over night. Six months ago I was busy with date parties and shopping. Today, I am busy with planning meetings and keeping my desk clear. Where did the time go? Better question yet.Where did my youth go?

I graduated from college in May. In June I became a nanny. I spent two months supervising play dates and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. July rolled around, and I decided it was time to hit the job search hard. I spent several nights a week combing through online job listings, perfecting my resume, and writing cover letters. I landed a couple of interviews, and thank God, I finally landed a job.

Two weeks ago, I began my first full-time job working as an administrative assistant for a non-profit in North Charleston, South Carolina. I am honored to have been selected for this position, but it still seems like I am dreaming. I swear I am just a kid, but somehow I have opened my eyes, and I have found myself living with my boyfriend, bringing home a paycheck and paying bills. What? Who am I? Where has my youth gone?  

Last weekend, three of my best gal pals from my college years came in town to visit. We have scattered all over the East coast since graduation, and this was the first opportunity we had to get back to our old selves. We headed downtown to our old stomping grounds. We had some dinner, and more importantly we had some two dollar drinks before meeting up with my better half and some of his friends for a night on the town. We dropped by a gas station we frequented in our younger years to pick up some brews for the boys, and well for us too. It was there that I entered into one of the most entertaining conversations I can recall.

As my girl, Chelsy, and I approached the counter with our post-grad appropriate purchase of Mich Ultra bottles, we began ranting about how we had become old hags over night. I’m assuming the fine young lady behind the counter could not help but listen in on our rants. When she carded me she said in the most serious of tones, “Girl, you’re only two months older than me, and I got three kids at home. I know how you feel.”

Excuse me, ma’am? You may think you know how I feel, but I can assure you I have no idea how you feel. I have grown up a little bit, and it does suck, but I cannot begin to imagine what it is like to be in this woman’s shoes. Sure, maybe now I buy Mich Ultra instead of Four Loko, but at least I am buying beer and not baby formula.

I have come to the conclusion that I am not quite there yet. I am still growing up. I have entered the work force and the nine to five slump, but I do not have three children, and I certainly do not plan on having any for quite a while. In the mean time I will enjoy my weekend reunions with my best gals, and I will relish in my college years when life was simple.

Life.

    Sometimes life sneaks up on you without you even noticing.

And it brings with it whatever it pleases.

The good, the bad and the scary.

It has its own plans, and it won't bother consulting your schedule.

It doesn't give a damn what you think about it.

     I was living life according to my own schedule. I had everything planned out,

and I was checking things off my to-do list.

 I was at my annual GYN appointment when all of a sudden everything stopped.

The doctor's hand stopped. My world stopped.

 Life stepped in and took over without ever giving me a chance for rebuttal.

     I never thought my boobs were that great,
but suddenly this doctor couldn't get his hands off of them.

 I couldn't remember the last time I had gotten so much action in such little time,

 but everything was happening so quickly.

Before I knew it I was making appointments with experts at the Medical University for the following week.

     I was in shock.

 I walked out of the doctor's office.

I took a seat behind the wheel of my car, and the first of many tears began to fall.

    

    The doctor had found a lump, but they were convinced it was just sign of a period on the horizon, and I was told to come back in two weeks. Everyone was certain I was far too young for this to be anything serious. Who has ever heard of a 21-year-old with breast cancer anyways? I went back and the enemy was still there -- hanging out right above the left side of my rib cage. They passed me along to the next set of doctors and the next set of hands.

    In a closet-sized dressing room, I am wearing a pink ribbon-robe,

and I am waiting for another round of cold-wrinkly hands to give my boobs a feel.

 A nice lady finally rescues me from my thoughts, and she escorts me to my ultrasound.

An hour passes by, and a weight is lifted from my shoulders and my chest.

     After four doctor appointments and hours of poking,

 it was determined that I am a victim of “lumpy boobs.”

 The ultrasounds showed no need for concern.

I'll take lumpy boobs over cancer any day.

Tears fell again, but this they were tears of joy and tears of victory.

My boobs told life who was boss, and now we are on a mission to not let her get in our way again.

xo,

Shans

How Jenni Got Her Wings

I was 16. She was 14. She was the youngest of four girl cousins all born within two years of each other. For as long as I can remember it was the four of us against the world, or at least against the Davis family. We were a tight-knit group, and I didn't think anything could tear us apart. The four of us always had a special bond, but I could have never guessed how Jenni would change my life.

Her dad called his six siblings for a family meeting at his house. It was an emergency, and we were to be there as soon as possible. I was shopping online for prom dresses, and I remember being annoyed as my mother dragged me away from my laptop. When we arrived  my mother's siblings were  standing in the yard with pale faces, and I immediately knew  bad news was on the way. I can't even remember what happened in the next few hours that we spent together. All I remember is that Jenni had cancer.

Oseosarcoma, or bone cancer, had attacked her knee. After and second, third and fourth opinion all we could do was hope that they had caught it in time to save her. The next few years were full of ups and and downs. The Medical University of South Carolina became the young girl's second home, and our entire family was filled with uncertainty. I still think the three of us were effected more than anyone. She was our baby cousin. We had treated her like our fragile child since we could walk, and now she was fighting a life-threatening disease. There was nothing we could do to help her or to ease her pain. All we could was be there.

The first two weeks of January 2010 were hell. Jenni had been through every treatment possible  on the East Coast, and the doctors finally said there was nothing left that they could do. She made it to her 18th birthday and  through her senior year of high school. She fought harder than anyone could have ever fought, but the fight would be over soon.

She moved from the hospital bed to her bed at home, and hopsice wasn't far behind. For three weeks their home was filled with friends, family and food. All were waiting around for something to happen and praying for that something to be a miracle. Jenni Shae Davis passed away on January 18, 2010. She was 18-years-old, and the most amazing person I have ever met. In the four years that she battled cancer I never once saw her cry, and she was always making me laugh, even the last time we spoke.

I will never forget the perfect baby cousin I was blessed to have for 18 short years, and although we may not have gotten the miracle we were all hoping for, I say we are all pretty lucky to have ever known her at all.

Granny

Growing up in the South is hard to explain. It’s a little different from growing up anywhere else -- especially for a girl.

Prim and proper in patent leather Mary Jane’s with frilly socks and a smock dress. According to some, that is how a young girl living in the South should always be. That is my childhood. I grew up on the outskirts of Charleston with parents who could not have cared less about fitting with the social norms of a southern life. They were borderline hippies unconcerned with my wardrobe or my social etiquette. Luckily for me, my grandmother lived next door.

Barbara, or “Barbie” as we affectionately called her, was born and raised in the South. She was an active member of the church, and even had a building there named for her family. She was your stereotypical southern matriarch, the head of the Vaughn family to say the least. She was a master in the kitchen where butter was a staple. Her cornbread, cheese grits, fried pork chops, and monkey bread were all to die for.  It didn’t get much better than having her for a next door neighbor.

Since the day I was born Granny was there -- right there -- to make sure I had everything I needed, and by everything I needed I mean everything she thought I needed. Of course I did not need a different dress to wear to Sunday school each week, but that is what Granny thought was right. That is was what I had. I could always count on her for anything I needed. She was the best thing that could have happened to my childhood.

I guess you could say she raised me right, and morphed me into a vision of a perfect little lady. She taught me so many things that are still with me today. I learned to keep my presence, to sit like a lady, to cross my legs at my ankles, and to fold my hands in my lap. My only regret is not picking up any of those cooking skills.

She was my best friend. We did everything together. I was her mini-me, and she was my idol. Granny passed away when I was in the eighth grade, and I was crushed. It took a whole week off school, and it took me months to get back to normal. She did nothing less than make me into the southern lady I am today. I will never forget the legend that was my grandmother, and when I go back to her home church I consider it a privilege when the old ladies refer to me as “Little Barbara.”

Yo, Please Pull Up Your Pants

        This is for all of the College of Charleston students who obviously do not have someone to  approve their outfits in the morning. Please pull up your pants. I don’t care to see the skateboards on your boxers today, and I certainly do not care to see your crack. I can not count how many times I have wanted to say something to boys rocking this look. It is time they know the truth. They look like idiots. The attire some of the young men on this campus choose to wear from day to day baffles me. Sideways hats, t-shirts with marijuana leaves on them, and pants “busting a sag” are not things I find attractive. 


I have so many questions for these young men who better deserve to be called boys. I want to know who taught them to dress this way. I think it is logical to assume that it probably was not their mothers. Better question yet, who funded these wardrobe options? I bet this was not their mothers either, but if they bought them on their own doesn’t that mean they must have had something better to wear to the interview? We can only hope. 


One would assume that you boys are on the College of Charleston campus because you go to school here, and that you are an intelligent human being who got this far and now is eager to receive a higher education. Do you plan on wearing these same outfits post graduation? If so, I don’t see a CEO position heading your way anytime soon. Do you hope to find a wife and start a family with her someday? This is another reason you might need to go shopping. I can guarantee you no employer or woman will see your baggy pants and think this guy is the one I’ve been looking for.


We go to college to mature and to find ourselves. If shirts with marijuana leaves on them are all you have found thus far, I recommend you keep looking. I am not demanding you dress up if shirt and tie everyday for class. I just ask that you present yourself in a way that is suitable for an intelligent College of Charleston student. Impress your professor and the ladies in class by throwing on a shirt without “I’m a pothead” written all over it, and you may find them beginning to respect you a little more. So I will ask you one more time -- please, pull up your pants. 





        

Bike Lanes Necessary

     Living in Charleston comes with its ups and downs. It is a beautiful place with some of the nation's most beautiful people, but even beautiful people do annoying things – a lot of annoying things. The list is extensive, but ask me to pick one thing about living here that bothers me the more than anything, and I could do it without much hesitation. One word comes to mind – bicyclists.

     The worst part is that that are everywhere. I consider myself lucky that I haven't accidentally run one over yet, and I know I can't be the only one who is bothered by them on a daily basis. There is just so much to be annoyed by. It is better for the environment than driving a gas-guzzling SUV to and from class, and therefore it is indeed a good idea, but people around this town have got to get their bicycling habits in order. The things they do perturb me just as much, if not even more than, the things they don't do.

     They think that they own the streets, and frankly they don't. They have just as much right to the streets as, believe it or not, actual cars do. That's right no more and no less. What is even worse than when they think they own the streets is when they think they own the sidewalks too. Sidewalks are called sidewalks for a reason. They were meant for walking not riding.

     There are laws, and they have to follow them. Bored cops are on the prowl for Charlestonians breaking traffic laws all over the peninsula, and they are even starting to write tickets to perpetrators on bicycle. I don't feel bad about it either. They deserve what they get. Before you pick up a bike and decide to ride it all over a busy city you should educate yourself. Maybe then you would know that bike riders must adhere to the same rules as car drivers. I know it is astonishing, but just because your mode of transportation has only two wheels and lacks a motor you are not considered above the law. When traffic gets backed up you are not allowed to bob and weave through vehicles, and you certainly are not allowed to hop on the sidewalk to avoid the chaos all together.

     Life in Charleston would be much more peaceful without them.Drivers wouldn't feel anxiety about beach cruisers popping out of no where. Pedestrians could walk without having to share their sidewalks with anyone other than those who are actually walking, and the members of my bicyclist haters club would have one less thing to be annoyed about. Hey, a girl can dream can't she?

What the heck am I going to do with my life?

     Five weeks. I have five weeks to figure out what I am going to do with my life. In five weeks, I will be an alumni of The College of Charleston, and as of now I have no idea what I want to do post-grad. I have had a few different career aspirations over the years, but I am still confused. 

     In high school I loved to write. My English teacher junior year set my passion for writing on fire. She told me I was good at it. I immediately knew I was going to be a journalist. I had never had a talent before. I have no athletic capability. I can't sing. I don't play an instrument; although, I forced my father to be me a guitar when i was 10-years-old. I took two lessons before I decided the instructor creeped me out. I am not artistic. I am definitely not the brightest crayon in the box, and  to my misfortune, I am also not a model. I was ecstatic to finally be good at something. As high school progressed, my love for journalism morphed into a love for broadcast journalism. I became infatuated with Oprah and Katie Couric, and I knew that one day I would be just like them. I watched the Today Show, and Oprah religiously. 

     When I enrolled at the college I was eager to let everyone know my plans for the future, and I immediately declared my major in communication media studies. Then I got discouraged. Everyone who I told about my dream to be an anchor shot me down. I persevered for a semester or so, and then gave up and changed my major -- to early childhood education. That lasted for half a semester, and I switched back to communication. This time I decided to focus on broadcast, and most of my electives were focused on television. That is until my last semester. My last semester ever. 

     I needed one more communication elective to graduate. It had to be a writing class. Hmm...I think I used to like to write. I had forgotten. My freshman year I decided that I was no  longer good at writing. My English classes discouraged me by handing me C after C on literary essays, and I had come to accept that my high school teacher must have been wrong about me. I was not a good writer. I decided my final semester was just as good of a time as any to find out the truth for myself, and I signed up for opinion writing. 

     The class is taught by a local newspaper writer who knows his shit. This was obvious to me right away. I received my first assignment back with the grade of a 95. There are three weeks of classes left. I have gotten high A's on almost every assignment in the class, and once again, I have fallen deeply in love with writing, and I have no idea what to do with my life. 

     The plan is to find a job and start freelancing. Fingers crossed, I will get a few things published, and I will be able to build up my resume. Ideally, I would like to have my own column. I would really like to have an assignment editor say "Shannon, I trust you. You are good at what you do. Write about whatever you want, and it will be published." Then I could rant and rave about all of things that annoy me most, and I would get paid at the same time. Dream Job. But for the meantime, I will blog. I plan on posting all the things I have written all of the things I will write. Maybe someone will stumble upon this place and fall in love with my writing while I am trying to figure out to do with myself. That sure would be nice.