Why I eat gummy bears..

Tommorrow let's celebrate! Passion. Emotion. Love.
Right now I am at my internship at the Springville Museum of Art, eating gummy bears. Sharlene Stule and I listen to classical music up in the library attic. I hear the clock tick and catch reflections of my dark hair ("Is that really me?") in the rows of alphabetically-arranged metallic cabinets. I don't even like gummy bears.

You know, I often overflow with tears. My eyes brim--like that game you play as a second-grader when you try and make your classmate laugh so hard that milk shoots out from her nose--and tears fall in spite of my consistent efforts to miraculously grow retracting muscles near my tear ducts. Call it a curse or a blessing, either way it is me. And lately I have thought: BLESSING. Truth be told--I love that I cry.
Sometimes you just feel a nearly spiritual inclination to look into the mirror and fall in love with yourself and to find all of those facets of yourself (like crying) somehow endearing. Odd? Maybe. Healthy? Definitely. When I try this trick I sometimes think, "I hate mirrors. I will be so sick of looking at myself by the time I reach age 30." or simply, "Ewww." Looking at your reflection becomes more about the act of seeing yourself than surveying surface elements. Replace "I like my mouth" or "My nose curves upward in a bizarre beak-like fashion" with "My mind scintillated and shone with brillance as I just wrote that beautiful essay" Today--for some reason-- when I gazed at myself, I took a voyeuristic approach. A skeptical and strangely removed look at ME. After self-criticisms up the wahzoo, I suddenly went back to Hawaii.
I didn't know what to think. What do you tell yourself when you realize that you will leave your tropical paradise? That soon you will run smack into the rough brick wall of reality? My roommates and I had woken up at literally 4 am to go to the Hukilau Beach (across the street) and watch the sunrise. Sitting in the sand, bundling up (cold is SUCH a relative sensation), and absorbing the pure rays for the last time, I felt too sleepy to feel grateful. After laughing and talking and snapping some photos, my friends went home. I stayed by myself. I ran up and down the beach barefoot. Normal joggers in normal clothes passed me by. After a little bit of hesitation, I stripped down. Yes, you better believe it. I walked into the waves with my green underwear and white bra. A couple of kids watched me from a distance. I dove in. Swim. Swim! Laughing underwater kind of destroys the perfect breaststroke. I had always wanted to do this. I did it. I walked out of the water--my tan body contrasted against my yellow-blonde mess of hair and my embarassingly paste-white stomach--with a sense of self that I will never forget. Who cares if I was going home? I sure didn't. I just loved that moment when I felt like my own novelist in my real-life novel.
So, basically, I hope that everyday--not just on Valentine's Day--that I experience that head-over-heels, butterflies-in-the-tummy, take-my-breath-away emotion. The emotion that inevitably comes when I venture into sincere self-appreciation. Like right now: I still swallow those somewhat stale, sugary beasts. I still don't like them. Honestly, I think they are perfectly STUPID waste of calories. Yet, I do it in honor of my mother. She loves gummy bears and so does Grammy. Haribo Heaven at Grammy's house every Sunday. My self-awareness of all of these factors makes me sigh. Oh. I LOVE myself.