1 Shot Glass of Sunscreen: My First Melanoma Talk

Last night I gave my first presentation as a certified melanoma educator to my sorority sisters. My journey to this point began in 2012, when my aunt Kris was diagnosed with stage IV melanoma and our family became embroiled in the unfairness of the disease. For a long time, I flirted with involvement: I worked on lobbying for a version of an anti-tanning bill in Kansas that we are still fighting for, four years later.  When I discovered I could become a peer educator, I was elated. Finally, I could use my passion for being the center of attention for some good.

I had prepared a lot of jokes for this presentation and I was, unsurprisingly, excited to tell them (side note– if I could have any job without consequence it would either be a farmer or a late night talk show host). I was also really nervous. My presentation was about something that could be perceived as a personal attack for much of my audience because indoor tanning is extremely popular among young women and UV exposure (from the sun and indoor tanning) causes 90% of melanomas. I was scared that people would roll their eyes or even walk out on me. I avoided telling people what my presentation was about until they were already seated. I prepared a long speech for the beginning of my presentation about how this was a non-judgmental space which included that I would avoid making direct eye contact if it made people uncomfortable.

I didn’t end up making that speech. When I told my audience that my presentation was about melanoma prevention and detection, several people exclaimed, “Yes! I needed this.” I nearly had to pick my jaw up off the floor. When I expected hostility, I was welcomed. When I talked about melanoma detection–  a section called “Moles Outta Control”– I saw people inspecting their moles. One girl even shared her own melanoma scar. When my voice broke as I talked about my aunt Kris’s heartbreaking battle with melanoma, they listened to my story as raptly as if I was announcing the themes for the rest of the year’s date parties. Though I feared talking about my story would make me a pariah, after I was finished people came to talk to me the same old way about the same things: our marketing test, my plans for Friday night.  Everywhere that I expected apathy, there was willingness, engagement, and empathy. I could not have asked for a better first audience.

It was a lesson to me in the ways we try to protect ourselves from injury: by assuming the worst in others, by losing faith before even starting. It takes courage to go where you think you will fail, but it is calming and revitalizing to weather a storm– or calm water where you thought a storm would be. I need to take more leaps of faith.

xo, happy Friday, stay out of the sun.

Megan

The title of this post is from the amount of sunscreen you should use every time you apply: one ounce or a little less than a shot glass worth.

February

If it had been any other year I would’ve already missed my chance to do a February update. However, fortune favors those who don’t own calendars or something like that.

The past two months have been a whirlwind of activity. I started my second semester of sophomore (really junior because I came in with mad AP credits but I’m refusing to take less than four years) year. It’s been an uncomfortable adjustment. My classes are really hard and there’s a sense of pressure in the air to get an internship and start climbing that corporate ladder. For the first time, the academic pressure might not be created solely by me being a total competitive psychopath. It might actually be real. At the same time, I’ve been reading the controversial book Lean In by Sheryl Sandberg, which deals with women in the workplace and her personal philosophy on work-life balance. It’s been interesting to try to scope out some form of balance in my life when my natural inclination is pedal-to-the metal.

I am lucky to have a great sounding board in this. My mom is a #girlboss, though she would probably argue with that term. She is my personal momager, if only because momtor (mom mentor) and moss (mom boss) sound weird. 

She rocks. In a world that tells me to relentlessly go forward, she reminds me that sometimes it is better to lean out. Earlier this year, I said almost jokingly that if I couldn’t get an internship I would go camp and volunteer at Yellowstone all summer and she asked if she could come too. I was surprised that someone as accomplished and organized as my mother would even consider that to be a valid plan. She reminds me daily that I am young and life is long and no one really has a plan or knows what they’re doing. Word is still out if you will be able to find us in a tent this summer, but I know no matter what she will support me (my dad will also support me– from the comfort of his power recliner).

In the spirit of leaning out, or rather, leaning into only those things I really care about, I became a rho chi recruitment leader. While it doesn’t sound as impressive as some of the other things I work on (no one ever asks me about it in an interview), finding out that I was chosen to help 90 freshmen women find their home during rush week brought me to tears. I screamed and jumped and scared my boyfriend when I found out; I still count it as one of the happiest moments of my life. I think about my chance to make an impact on these women often; I already feel personally invested in their success. If nothing else goes right with my internship search or my summer plans, but I am able to help my rho chi group find community at Alabama, I will feel successful. I am overjoyed to have something in my life that makes me feel so on top of the world, even if it is not an internship or a job (hiring manager$: plea$e con$ider hiring $ome intern$).

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Here is a picture of me dressed as a boy for a skit last year during rush, just for funsies.

Today I leaned in to a warm sunny day, checking my email a reasonable number of times, and spending time watching reality TV with my best friends. I can’t put that on my resume, but I feel good. One of my favorite poems, “The Orange,” by Wendy Cope ends as such: “The rest of the day was quite easy/ I did all the jobs on my list/ And enjoyed them and had some time over/ I love you. I’m glad I exist.”

I am glad.

Megan

An Open Letter to My Case of Pink Eye

Dear Pink Eye,

Remember me? The innocent girl who could never figure you out? I remember when we first met. I was in a sorority meeting and someone asked me if I was high. I was not high on marijuana, but in fact high on the inevitability of our future affair.

At first, I was so naive. I believed you were just irritation from using the cheapest brand of eyeliner and applying it directly to my eyeballs. I lived in denial for days, but it never got easier. I had never had pink eye before, even as you tore through elementary schools and freshman year dorms, leaving a wide, red, gooey trail. My friends danced around the subject, afraid to tell me that I looked like both Cheech and Chong.

Eventually, it was time to face the music. I woke up with my eyes crusted shut, like a metaphor for the blindness I had had to our situation. When I got the diagnosis that I had pink eye in both of my eyes, my world stopped. For an entire week, I would have to use eyedrops and not wear eye makeup, but you never cared. When I put those eyedrops in, it felt like the tears that were ready to fall down my face. It was over.

In fairness, I neglected you, too. I frequently forgot to put my eyedrops in every four hours– even though I once tried to in the middle of a fraternity party– which allowed me to string you along for several more days than necessary. I’m sorry.

Years from now, I’ll think back on all our good times, like when you made me look totally blazed the first week of classes or when people asked me if I had slept in my contacts. I’m sure when I look back, I will know that a passive-aggressive open letter was the best way to deal with our situation. Because I need you (and all our mutual family and friends and everyone else on the internet) to know how I feel and how you changed my life. And I need the ad revenue.

For anyone who went to a group workout class at the rec and got pink eye, I am sorry. I refused to deal with my problems and now you have to deal with them. I hope you can find some solace and inspiration in the fact that I didn’t let pink eye stop me from getting my spring break bod.

With love,

Megan

8 Things I Learned in The South

I was born in Topeka, Kansas and lived there until my freshman year of college. When I moved to Alabama, I did not think it would be that different. Both Kansas and Alabama were solid red states with an agrarian past, and though those were the only traits they had in common, it seemed like enough. I was wrong. Without further undulation, Eight Things I Learned in The South.

1. Where you’re from matters. It’s not enough to be from Birmingham; people want to know if you’re from Homewood or Vestavia Hills. Other popular questions include what high school you went to and if you have ever lived anywhere else. I once had a conversation with someone who argued that Kansas was “kind of like the South” even when I argued vehemently that it wasn’t (I think he was trying to do me a favor). In the South, meeting someone new inherently involves an unabridged geographic autobiography.
2. Food. The South has a monopoly on fried chicken. In fact, the easiest way to tell if you’re in the South is if the McDonald’s still carries the Southern Style Chicken Biscuit for breakfast. On another note, southerners have terrible Mexican food and can’t or won’t admit it.
3. Names. If you’re moving to the South, you need to step up your name game. The towns have great names: Hoxie, Humansville, Tupelo; the streets have great names: Tallapoosa, Arkadelphia; and the people have great names: Caroline, Mary Collier, anything ending in a III or IV. Southern names have spice.
4. Getting ready. I was not prepared for the amount of effort Southern women put into their appearance. I have never heard one say “Am I wearing too much makeup?” or “Does this outfit look like a costume?” even though sometimes the answer is yes. The concept of a natural look is not very popular here.
5. Dating. Dating in the South is magical. A Southern man carries no qualms about paying for dinner. I am actually unsure if my arms are physically capable of opening a door for myself or if they have atrophied beyond repair from disuse. I once offended a boyfriend by telling him I could walk myself home. It is truly a whole new world.
6. The climate. “Brrr,” says a Southerner wearing a long sleeve t-shirt when it’s 40 degrees outside. Southern people seem unfamiliar with the concept of anything heavier than a light jacket. I want to tell them that they don’t have to live this way; they can put on a coat.
7. Attractions. I can visit Gulf Shores, New Orleans, Nashville, the Great Smokey Mountains, Atlanta, Birmingham, and just about every SEC college town within five hours of Tuscaloosa. Within five hours of Topeka, I can go to such marvelous destination as Kansas City, St. Louis, Omaha, and Oklahoma City. The last two only half count because they’re terrible.
8. We have different definitions of what a gas station is. In Kansas, a gas station is a place for gas, snacks, and grabbing a gallon of milk when you forgot it at the grocery store. In Alabama, you can buy beer at the gas station but you can’t buy a zero-calorie beverage. Alabama gas stations are what stereotypes are based upon.

I wrote this for my Southern Studies class but it is 100% true. I only feel the need to tell y’all this because it violates my personal standard against writing lists but I actually thought it was pretty fun so I’m a hypocrite. Maybe there will be more lists in our future. Maybe I have a new lease on life.

Y’all.

Megan

Megan Anderson: Insufferable Goodie-Goodie

One thing most people don’t know about me is that I am a big ole nerd. Not in a cute or sexy way either, like a play-by-the-rules, dinner before dessert kind of way (except in the actual case of dessert; it’s just a metaphor, y’all).

I take school very seriously. I cheated on something, once, in the sixth grade, and I cried about it for four-ish days. Part of the trauma was because, even to this day, I am a massive teacher’s pet. Of course, I got caught. While I’m not above a little homework assistance that maybe doesn’t fit the exact tutoring specifications, I don’t play around with serious honor code violations.  I am not as bad as my friend Emily Garbutt, though. If Emily was in a bizarre, Saw-like situation where she had to cheat on a test to save her own life she would probably at least vomit. I don’t think she would die, but she would be extremely uncomfortable. I choose to take a lot of classes with Emily because even though she freaks me out when she talks about studying for tests two weeks in advance, she’s a really good influence.

People who follow me on Instagram and don’t read my blog (sticks in the mud, all of them) don’t know that my social life is not as intense as it seems. Many people, upon seeing me after a while, will say something like It looks like you’re going to a lot of theme parties he he he with this weird, raspy Frenchman-lurking-behind-a-tree laugh at end like it isn’t rude to make value judgements based on social media. The secret is that I post something Every Time I Go Out. True socialites don’t do that because they’re out so much they would probably overwhelm Instagram’s servers but I have to because I go out (leave the house at all) probably half as often. I own six independent photo editing apps so I can make the one blurry photo I took look good because I have an accounting test and this is my one shot at relevancy this week. D-List stars that get a lot of plastic surgery and I: we’re not so different.

In closing, I would like to say that I stayed up sort of late applying for internships and I’m on a new flossing kick. Even though I try to pretend I am fun and flirty I am actually just that girl in the second grade who had to wear blue retainers full time and take them out at lunch, leaving a spitty puddle on her tray (this actually happened for nearly 3 years and my friend Connor will never let me forget it).

Retainers still dutifully in,

Megan

2015: The Year in Review

Although TIME has chosen Angela Merkel to be the 2015 Person of the Year, the Megan Anderson Person of the Year is, once again, me. A lot of stuff happened in the news this year, but I’m sure someone else will cover that. The question on the minds of many, if not most, is what I did this year, and this blog post is here to let you know.

January: Returned to Tuscaloosa (Roll Tide). Had my first “snow day” (canceled for up to 1/10 of an inch of freezing rain) and used that as an occasion to go out with my friends, though I had a math test approaching. At this party, I truly believe I was served non-alcoholic jello shots. Month rating: 5/10

February: The highlight of this month was going to formal in New Orleans. Excellent. Month rating: 8/10

 

Why do I have screenshots of all my snapchats? My mom.

March: Darty season, beautiful glorious darty season, hits full swing here. Additionally, I go on spring break to Maui with my parents and my friend Aly. Life is really good. Month rating: 9.5/10

April: Spring break is over, crawfish season is ending, finals are approaching. Fun is dead. I don’t have any photos for this month because it sucked. Month rating: 2/10

May: I went to Italy! I spent most of my time in Florence but also visited Rome, Venice, Cinque Terre and Lucca. This is the best month. Month rating: 12/10 

June and July: I work at my job at the pool in Topeka and hang out with my high school buddies. Pretty fun, nothing groundbreaking. I go see my boyfriend in Nashville and see a show at Red Rocks with my mom. Month(s) rating: 7/10

August: Rush happens, school starts, and I’m in my groove. It’s good to be back. It is hotter than hell in Alabama. Month rating: 7/10September: Football is back. I go to Dallas with Ferons to watch the opening game. I’m at a point in my life where I have $100 to spend on a football game, a feeling which is now foreign to me. This month is good but feels really long. Month rating: 8/10October: I turn twenty, my family comes to visit me, and I come home for Halloween. Time really starts to pick up and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m old now or the semester is just really busy. Month rating: 8/10

November: I have my last tests the first week of November, so most of the month I just coast. I go to my sorority formal, get appointed to ADPi executive board, and go to Denver for Thanksgiving. November is a bang up month. Month rating: 9.5/10

December: 50% finals, 50% Christmas. A real mixed bag, this one is. Month rating: 6.5/10 finals hurt

Quick Hits: 

The blog was founded in March with my first post, Anything for a Joke.

Total readers, to date: 2,354

Most popular post: That’s a Weird Thing to Say to Someone (April)

My favorite post: Pull It Together (September)

Total # of posts: 18

Additionally, I reformatted the sidebar so that it makes some amount of sense. You can now subscribe to this blog without a WordPress account! Be the first to know when a post goes live by entering your email address. What a time to be alive.

Happy Holidays!

Megan

I Was Wrong: A Once-in-a-Lifetime Admission

Forget everything I said in my last post. Coffee creamer, laying on the ground– what was I thinking? Those are inadequate treats for finals week. They are perfectly fine for your run-of-the-mill Tuesday, but not for finals week. Listen to me very closely:

Get a massage. 

Go to a really ritzy salon and get a massage. I did this a few days ago and I would describe myself as “too relaxed to drive.” I am confident that if I ever went through something very traumatic and had to imagine my happy place, the spa I visited would be it. Sometimes, in our lives, events mark a before and after– a crossroads, after which nothing is the same. That massage is a crossroads in my life. Never in my life will I have extra funds, because I am now a massage addict. Veritably, I can see myself as a homeless person begging on the street when someone sees me and crassly tells her child, “Don’t give her anything; she’ll just spend it all on massages.”

I now have to get good grades so I can grow up to one day support my massage habit. Call that finals motivation.

“Can you spare a dollar?”

Megan

 

Finals Motivation: They Don’t Think It Be Like It Is, But It Do

We’ve arrived at the end of the semester, which means it’s time for Christmas cocktail parties, study snacks, and still wearing shorts because it is Alabama and seasons are but a societal construct. Most importantly, it’s time to crack down on classes and finally learn everything I put off learning since I had my last tests. Last year, especially, I found myself wondering in the days leading up to finals, “Why me?” I had a Calc 3 teacher who I can only describe as Satan incarnate. I had four cumulative finals. Everywhere I went, people were playing with dogs, eating crawfish, and listening to jam bands while I had to stay inside and watch video after video trying to understand “curl.” It felt downright cruel.

I have always loved school, but that doesn’t mean I have always enjoyed it.  In fact, though I love to learn, I have really hated the structure of school at various points in my life. Still, three ideas have helped me survive the hardest times in my educational career; this is what I want to share in the days leading up to finals. My keys to success aren’t study methods (cram if you want to– I do) but general ideas to help motivate, inspire, and direct efforts.

1. Focus. My motto for pretty much all of high school was “I will because I have to,” which doesn’t roll off the tongue and is actually grammatically incorrect, but the substance is there. There’s not a lot of wiggle room in a motto like that: it doesn’t ask if I can, it doesn’t ask what I want. This motto got me through my junior year, when I (unwisely) took seven AP classes and also helped me survive literally any time I had to run (any speed or distance) for soccer. The corporate version of this saying is “Just Do It,” but I like mine better not only because I thought of it but also because it involves the next idea, which is:
2. Dream big, do a little. The “because I have to” part of the motto implies some greater goal, which I think is imperative to success. Pick something, and aim for it, then decide all the little steps you need to take to achieve it. I knew I wanted to get out of Kansas for college, and I knew I would need a large scholarship to make that goal financially practical. I knew my best shot was to become a National Merit Scholar, and I knew I had to score at least a 212 on the PSAT to have a chance. I knew I had to practice every day, until I scored well above a 212 every time I took the test. So I did. When my goals were firm and unmoving, everything else could wiggle, which brings me to:
3. Treat yo’ self. Do three things that make you happy every day, even if you have a math test. Some days will still suck; that is unavoidable. Some days, the biggest treat I can afford is to put peppermint mocha creamer in my coffee instead of vanilla. Some days it’s painting my toenails or taking time to listen to Enya and just lay on my carpet for five minutes in the dark (which makes me sound mentally unhinged but I can’t think of another way to phrase it). Love yourself; treat yourself.

Knee deep in coffee and flashcards,

Megan

P.S. Always remember that studying never looks as cool as it does on tumblr (see first image). It’s ok to have bad handwriting and a crappy desk and look like an actual dust bunny when you study. It doesn’t make you less smart or successful. This idea actually inspired the title of this post but I didn’t get around to mentioning it until now. As Elle Woods said, “What you want is right in front of you.” Chase it.

Last week: Moving into Your “Third Place”

Coming soon: End of year wrap-up, probably, maybe

Moving into Your “Third Place”

I realized this title sounds like the third place I’ve ever lived, which would be my freshman dorm, but there’s actually a pretty well-recognized concept known as the “third place.” The third place is basically a place you go very regularly that isn’t your home or workplace/school. For my strict definition of third place, it should be a place you visit multiple times a week.

Third places are important and the end of the third place for American adults is troubling because it signals a loss of connection (according to a lot of very serious articles). Third places in the past consisted of bridge clubs, lodges, church groups and similar locations. Some have suggested the internet as the modern-day third place, something I have some qualms about. Though I am on the internet every day (every second, some might say), it doesn’t foster the kind of close connections traditional third places do. It doesn’t build me. It does build my collection of cute dog pictures.

Starbucks even considers itself a third place, which is incidentally how I came to know about third places at all. The only person I actually know who makes Starbucks their third place is one of my economics teachers, who goes to Sbux every day and even intentionally decorated his apartment like a Starbucks.

Unless you’re my econ teacher, the chance of you moving into your third place is probably slim. My whole life, my third place was my dance studio, and though I loved it, I doubt they would let me move in. So when I had the unique opportunity to move into my college third place, I jumped at the opportunity– but not for that specific reason.

The ADPi house is my college third place, though I award Jimmy John’s and certain fraternities honorable mention. As a freshman, I came to the house every day to eat, study, and meet with my friends. During rush, I told PNMs (potential new members for those unsaturated with greek life) all about how I loved the house, spent so much time at the house, and even frequently napped on the couch we were sitting on. I usually followed it with this:

NAILED IT. But what I didn’t realize was how different living in the house would be. There were all the things I had hoped for: spontaneous trips to get takeout, random meetups in the second floor living room that turned into movie marathons, free laundry. To be honest, there were fewer pranks than I expected, which was disappointing. However, overall it has been about as cool as one could possibly hope for.

Unexpected dilemmas still arose. During rush I didn’t leave the house for two weeks. I had become unaccustomed to sunlight and was actually 70% through the naked mole rat transformation process. Who knew it was so simple? I have also totally removed commuting from my life, which is both a positive and a negative. People who actually have to commute like an hour for their jobs would probably give anything to give up their commutes, but there’s something psychological about physically going home that allows you to take off the day’s stress and be off duty. Walking upstairs doesn’t really have that same effect. On the other hand, I can roll out of bed, grab 8 strips of bacon (we always have bacon– don’t think sorority girls don’t eat) and be to class in 10 minutes.

Sharing a room is different, too. My roommate, Aly, was my roommate last year and we don’t have any of the major roommate problems I’ve heard of in my time at college– and there are some doozies. Aly’s worst roommate flaw is probably “watches too many movies,” so I’ve been pretty lucky. Still, for the last five years of my life, I was the only child living at home. I had basically unlimited alone time and space. I thought always being around others would annoy the daylights out of me, and for about two weeks, it did. Then, something amazing happened:

I became someone who loves to have other people around. It weirds me out when Aly goes on trips with her mock trials team and I have to fall asleep in our (totally normal sized, not overly large) room alone. Studying alone feels weird. I’m writing this in the basement study room/TV room and honestly feel a little weird about being alone. Living in the house really does connect you to your sisters.

I would absolutely recommend living in your sorority house. You’ll feel like you’re always on call– and if you have a leadership position, you are– and you’ll never be alone, but that’s half of the point. My sorority house is the safest, loudest, coziest (even though they keep the thermostat at 68 and I’m getting frosted out) and 2nd most meaningful place I’ve ever lived. First most meaningful is obviously my parents’ house but that’s a given for so many reasons. If you have the chance to live in a sorority house, do it. The only other chances to live with 64 other women are jail or a brothel and this blog post applies to neither of those places.

xoxo gobble gobble,

Megan

Last week: Word Vomit

Next week: Not really looking to commit to anything because it’s Thanksgiving but I have some extra days off school so maybe if the mood strikes me (why does this sound like a Tinder bio)

Word Vomit

My mom and I are very similar, which is concerning because I have already reached her level of… let’s say executive skills… in the few short years I’ve been on Earth. And by executive skills, I don’t mean earning power, but rather the need and desire to achieve and tell others what to do. Being in charge is a burden I would not want for anyone else, mostly because then I wouldn’t be in charge. Still, besides our drive, my mom and I share a desire to be what she once called “observational students of life.” Two observations I’ve been thinking on this week:

One thing I was very surprised to find is that people don’t really change in college, which seemed counter-intuitive to me. Of course I changed in the sense that I made new friends and developed some capability to behave like a responsible adult, but my core motivations didn’t change dramatically.

I don’t know what I expected. Though I love going to school at Alabama, it’s not any secret that it was my safety school. After an intense season– year, in actuality– of college applications, making a decision, especially a comfortable one, was an immense relief. I imagined myself luxuriating in the free time and plentiful social events I would experience in college. The phrase “C’s get degrees” played in my head like the comforting introduction to an episode of Law and Order: SVU lulling me to sleep. In my imagination, college was a collage of parties, sorority crafting (?), and decorating my dorm (???). I never considered that I am both sort of messy and totally neurotic about building my resumè, which is not really cohesive to that sort of lifestyle.

The first time I applied for something in college, I had no college activities or experiences. I think I had a low level identity crisis. “Who am I without my accomplishments?” I wondered as I lie in the fetal position covered in a marinara sauce stained blanket (#dormgoals). Instead of developing some sort of greater identity not based on extracurriculars, I applied for everything. I actually was able to do most of the things for which I applied, which was like a gentle rub of Bengay on the sore muscle that is my inferiority complex. It was great. It still is great. I love being involved. I love meetings. I’m addicted to power.

…

Young people are really flippant about cancer. The attitude seems to be that we are all going to die somehow and it doesn’t really matter how, but that is bullshit. If we can decide lethal injections are more humane than death by firing squad, certainly other natural deaths have a hierarchy. Cancer is pretty much the “stoning” of natural deaths. If you die of cancer, you will probably die unnaturally young, it will be excruciatingly (and let’s not undermine this part– excruciatingly) painful, and you will likely know for a few months that your death is imminent. I know young people aren’t world-renowned for their ability to weigh present benefit and future cost, but it makes me want to get a tattoo on my forehead of the blog my mom wrote about my aunt Kris’s decline over the span of 5 months so I can point to it whenever someone says “We all die somehow anyway!” Oh yeah, 42 is practically ancient! I’m sure I won’t care how I go by then. Pain is a construct and your family is just a group of people that share DNA. Shades of gray have no meaning; the world is black and white.

Learn more about melanoma, the black ribbon cancer (yes, really) here.

In an effort not to end this post with bitterness I maybe should’ve rearranged these stories but I like to think of every blog post as a journey into my stream of consciousness, which is my favorite style of writing because you can have terrible transitions and no true message to your stories and it’s still fine.

It’s fine,

Megan

Posts to look out for: some product reviews, some sorority stuff I’ve been baking on for a while, vague promises to post more frequently with little follow through.

Last month in anythingforajoke: I Turned Twenty and All I Got I Got Was This Quarter-Life Crisis!