Confronting Fears

Walking toward the crowd, I wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotions that would overwhelm me. I felt the choking tears coming on, the kind that never fall unless you have to speak. You only feel them in your throat until you open your mouth and the emotions burst forward. For that reason I was glad I was alone in a sea of faces standing at the waters edge. However, I wondered if that was the very reason I wanted to cry, since he wasn’t standing by my side.

I was relieved I knew no one amidst the three thousand or so people surrounding me. I felt ridiculous in my tight yellow swim cap, goggles, and running clothes. I was self -conscious knowing I weighed at least 50 more pounds than every other girl there my age. It was too late to turn around. The chip was attached to my ankle, and the swimmers had already begun diving into the lake in waves of 100 at four-minute intervals. I was in the last wave, number 13. The first wave began at 7:00 a.m., and I needed all 45 minutes to psych myself into doing this without crying.

I had prepared physically, prepared mentally, but nothing could have prepared me emotionally. There are no words to describe the rush one feels as you stand at the starting point of your first triathlon and the count down begins. 5…4…3…2…1, and I stood there. I let the bulk of the women go in front of me, too intimidated to lead the pack. Normally I’m the strongest, most confident person in a room and lead others without even realizing it. Today, I abandoned all tendencies and waded into the water, through the seaweed, until the water was deep enough to swim. I began the freestyle stroke.

I had done infinite laps around my pool while training, taking about 20 minutes to complete the half-mile swim. Today was completely different. The water was much thicker, and each stroke took twice as much effort. Normally I would keep my head underwater for about five strokes, take a breath, and go back under water. This time, I couldn’t bare to take my eyes off my path. I had to keep my head above water.

Every ten feet the lifeguards in kayaks, boats and floating on noodles kept asking if we needed help. They offered us to rest before continuing on. I saw several women accept noodles and pass me with their newfound help. I refused. “You can do this Sophia. You don’t need any help. Just keep going,” I kept repeating to myself. It seemed too easy, and much like cheating to accept assistance.

Many women passed me, but when I looked behind there were still about 15 bobbing yellow caps holding up the rear. Again, I was all alone. There was a cluster of women about 20 feet in front of and behind me, but I was swimming at my own pace with no one by my side.

With each stroke those tears in my throat grew thicker and thicker. I couldn’t answer, “I’m okay,” to the lifeguards in fear I may cry. I just gave a thumbs up and kept swimming. When I was approaching the end, I dropped my knees and felt the sand. I stood up and starting running toward dry land. A crowd had gathered and was cheering for me as I came up out of the water, splashing with each step. I literally swallowed my fears as those tears broke into a smile. It was exciting to know I had completed the first phase.

I rushed over to the transition area, put my shoes and socks over my muddy feet, snapped on the helmet, and started on the bike race, soaking wet. This time it was sunglasses, not goggles hiding my fear. The smile had long since faded, and I was ready to cry again. Twelve miles of cycling. I could already see bikers coming back from the other direction finishing up this portion. Mine was just beginning.

Maybe I would have felt stronger if I knew Brandon was at the finish line waiting to congratulate me, but I knew he wasn’t. In fact, he was far away and probably still sleeping, completely unaware of how badly I needed his support. My husband was three hours behind me in California, and I was cycling through the Florida humidity.

I found the cycling to be easier than the swim. The emotions soon passed and were replaced with determination. Each biker in front of me became my immediate goal. If I could pass them one at a time, I could make up for lost time during the swim. However, over the course of twelve miles, I passed less than ten women. It probably didn’t help that I was riding a rusted ten year old bike my little sister used in middle school and everyone else had fancy racing bikes that went twice as fast with half the effort. But I just kept cycling.

As I turned the corner nearing my second finish line, I saw them waving saying “That’s her! There she is!” My mom and childhood friend, Kim, were on other side of the fence waving, cheering and snapping pictures as I rode past to drop off my bike.

It was exactly the boost I needed to get ready for the final leg of the race. I dropped the bike and replaced my helmet with a visor. I began with a mild jog, but had to resolve to walking when my heart was beating too fast. I couldn’t help but think of Kim on the other side of that fence realizing my life had truly come full circle.

Kim and I had reunited at 22 years old, having not seen each other since fifth grade. She was my elementary school best friend and knew me at my worst. At ten years old I was bossy and fat. My mom likes to say that you couldn’t tell if I was standing or sitting because I was as wide as I was tall. The same Kim who knew that Sophia was watching me race in my first triathlon.

Unfortunately, as I walked and jogged through the coned paths, I couldn’t help but see that old Sophia. Twelve years later and my self-image hadn’t changed much. That’s still the girl I see most mornings when I look in the mirror. The only difference is I don’t let it hold me down anymore. In fact, I had nothing but adoration for the many women out there racing with me who were twice my age and carrying 100 more pounds.

This time when I thought about Brandon, it didn’t make me want to cry. It gave me the strength I needed knowing he would be so proud of me to know I crossed the finish line. In the last quarter mile there were three women beside me. Though all strangers, we made a pact that when we came around the corner we would start jogging so the crowd would think we had been the entire time. I started my jog a little before them and the roar of applause I heard as I rounded that corner made me completely forget the pain my body was in. I saw my mom with the camera again, I threw both arms into the air. Crossing that finish line was exhilarating. I had done it, all by myself.

Racing in the triathlon was completely about proving it to myself. I would have been content with last place. I just needed to know I could do it. I came in 887 out of 936. The swim that normally took me 20 minutes took me 36 that day. The 12-mile bike took me just over an hour, and the 5k took me 45 minutes. My times were nothing to brag about, but those 2.5 hours were all I needed to prove to myself. I was never an athlete growing up, but that day I was.

This rat race I live in every day is in so many ways exactly the same. It’s overwhelming to think about the end knowing how far away it is. In reality, I just need to concentrate on the next step, and eventually the finish line will come. The moments I wanted to cry were always when I could only see how far away I was, not how much closer I was getting.

I’m at a point in my life where I’m approaching dry land. When I put my feet down I can feel the sand beneath my toes, but I’m still in the water. I’ve successfully completed the first phase of my life. I think I’m prepared for the next, but I’m certain it will challenge me in many unexpected ways. I so desperately want to know what it feels like to get back on dry land, but it’s not time yet. I’m still a few steps away. It’s transition time. I just wish I knew what I was transitioning into.

Integrated Media Approach

Okay, I know I said I was converting my blog to story sharing (as I just updated a new one below), but I must share this interview you.

I am passionate about media because I believe its purpose is to share a story. No matter what spectrum of media you come from (social media, advertising, public relations, marketing, editorial, print, broadcast, film, etc), it’s all about sharing the story. Because of my passion, I have developed experience in every single aspect of media I just listed off. It fascinates me.

In the interview with Matt Murray, Oakley’s Sports Marketing Media Manager, he shares how media has all become one. I highly suggest you take the five minutes to listen to what he says. I could say something cliche like “this is the direction media is going.” But that’s a lie. It’s already here. Brands that are not jumping on this are behind the times.

This is where I see myself. I want to be able to walk into a company and help them incorporate all aspects of media into their communication strategies. I love people. I love connecting with people and trying to understand what makes each individual unique. I want to know everyone’s story. Therefore, taking a brand’s story and infiltrating it into the masses fascinates me. Does that make me a nerd? If so, I’m okay with that.

Thanks Matt for sharing your story.

Parking Spot Number Two

My husband is a film maker. I have asked him several times to make a comedic short film displaying the habits of the bingo hall ladies. Since he has declined my proposal, I have decided to write about them, well her.

Our magazine office sits above a coffee shop. Many interesting characters walk through The Daily Grind door, and there is certainly no stereotype to apply to the clientele. However, I have yet to meet a personality as perplexing as the woman about 60 years my senior.

Next to the coffee shop is the bingo hall where senior citizens gather to play bingo four evenings a week. Each afternoon at 3:00 the parking war begins.

There are only six parking spots directly in front of the bingo hall, otherwise they must park in the municipal parking lot that requires them to walk across a small brick-paved road. During business hours, these six spots often become filled by our staff, visitors, or coffee shop customers. Though bingo does not get into full swing until the evening hours, there are a select few retired Floridians who come as soon as the doors open to secure their parking spots. Here are a few experiences I’ve encountered that are beyond my comprehension.

My friend, unfortunately I do not know her name, is often the first to arrive. She feels that spot number two, which rests directly in front of the bingo hall entrance, is her personal property. To protect her precious spot I have witnessed some very strange occurrences. On a good day, she arrives hours before bingo begins, no one has yet to park in spot number two and she parks her car. She unloads her home made cushion for her seat made out of the same fabric she used for her bingo paraphernalia  carrier and walks to the third table from the door near the window, but sits one seat away from the glass.

On a slightly off day, spot number two is taken so she must settle for spot one or three.

On a frustrating day, all three are unavailable, but she is still able to park on the front row. On a terrible day, the entire row is filled and she has to park in the municipal parking lot.

However, remember how I described her seat? I believe she sits there because that chair has the best view of parking spot number two. On frustrating or terrible days, I have seen her time and time again stare at spot number two. Then, as soon as the car leaves who stole her spot, she grabs her keys, signals her friend and they exit the bingo hall. Her friend STANDS in spot number two while she retrieves her car and moves it into spot number two. I have seen her do this when she was in spot number four or when she was in the back of the municipal parking lot 100 feet away from the bingo hall side entrance.

For two and a half years I have watched this lady and her friend. She always sits at the same table, in the same seat, and from the other side of the glass we smile at each other when I leave the office for the evening. We always make eye contact and exchange a smirk.

When I see a tan Le Sabre in spot number two I smile because I know my friend’s mind is at peace. When there is no tan Le Sabre in the front row, my friend doesn’t return the smile, and I know it is because she is frustrated that her parking spot has been stolen. However, she will smile back if spot number two is taken by my green Beetle because she knows that seeing me leave means she can come and move her car.

Can someone please explain the logic to me here? Why does her happiness rest upon that parking spot. You cannot tell me it is because she must park as close to the door as she can due to bad knees or a health problem because I have seen her walk two hundred feet to her car on a bad parking day to move it to the better spot. How does that make sense?

Or, is it like in middle school? Is parking in spot number two the cool thing to do? Does she find internal satisfaction knowing that of the three hundred people in the bingo hall, she alone has the best parking spot and is closer to the door and shame on everyone else for not getting there early enough? Like when you were 12 and came to school the day after your birthday wearing your new outfit that makes you so cool. (when in reality you are being a billboard for a clothing company PAYING THEM for allowing you to tell your friends they are cool)

I have my own theory, the only one that can remotely make sense for her paranoia. I like to think that she does it for her own well being. Parking directly in front of the door is clearly the safest option. I have seen bingo nights run until after 10:00. She could not be better prepared for her safety than to park as close as possible and have a close eye on her vehicle the entire evening. For her, this could mean a life or death situation.

I’m not sure why she is absolutely determined to park there every day. And her friends help her in the act. The little old ladies stand in spot number two so no stranger can come along and steal the spot away in the five minutes it takes her to pull the car around. I once witnessed her sit in her car with the air condition running for two twenty minutes idling at the entrance to the parking row so that as soon as some one pulled out she could slide right in.

Every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday afternoon when I walk past the glass windows at the bingo hall between 3:00-9:00 I make eye contact with my friend, and we usually exchange a smile. Hopefully one day I am able to ask her for her name. Maybe I’ll even get up the courage to ask her why parking in spot number two is so important to her.

Change in Pace

I have decided to change the pace of my blog. I just updated my about page. I have been pondering this for several weeks and have decided that I would like my blog to focus on story-telling. Although occassionally an opinion of mine may peak through regarding public relations or media, the focus of my blog will be on sharing the stories of those with whom I come in contact. I have heavily considered my next topic and will soon be sharing with you the story of a tiny old woman I see three times a week, and she never ceases to amaze me.

Making News

I firmly believe that although our economy is not at its prime, the media makes the problem worse. Fox 13 News, Tampa’s local news station aired this piece following USF’s Friday commencement, of which I was involved. The angle they spun on the exciting event…a difficult job market. Do you want to know my thoughts? Jobs are out there if you are willing to look hard enough, take risks, and prove you did more than party for four years. However…I can’t help but share with you that Fox did decide to show me walking across the stage. Thanks to the Honors College, I was the 2nd person to walk across the stage. Here’s the piece…I’m somewhere in the middle, standing next to President Genshaft, but not shaking her hand due to Swine flu.

(I have tried several times to embed the video…can’t figure it out. Here’s a link)

Sophia Graduating on Fox News

Childhood Dreams

In 1989 a young couple moved to North Carolina with their three-year-old daughter and new-born baby girl to pursue a company promotion. Behind their town home was a vast field, and at the bottom of the hill was a house. In this home lived a four-year-old boy, Christopher, with his mother and teenage brother.

When the little boy and girl met, they instantly became best friends. Everyday they played together, as if they were brother and sister, since their siblings were so far apart in age from them. He would push her through the field in her Corvette Barbie car, and she would pretend to love listening to his rock and roll music. (Yes, even at four he was a rocker.) The little girl had an imaginary friend, and although Christopher couldn’t see him and didn’t really like his existence, he would play along to make her happy. Behind Christopher’s house was a forest. Many days were spent clearing paths to walk and build forts.

Their birthdays were only one day apart, so every November 15 the little girl was so excited that she was the same age as Christopher, even if for only one day. They shared everything, even the chicken pox. When they were old enough to start school, they went to different schools but would still play together everyday when they got home. Several years went by, and they truly grew to become best friends.

One day the girl’s daddy came home and told her they were moving again for his job, all the way to Louisiana. She was seven years old and didn’t want to leave Christopher or her friends at school, but the decision wasn’t up to her. After that day, she never saw him again.

Life takes many turns, and once again her dad’s job moved her to Florida in the third grade. She started over and made new friends. In 1996 she was in the fourth grade and her parents decided to take the family on vacation back to North Carolina. They visited their former neighbors, and the little girl asked elderly Mrs. Ruth, “Does Christopher still live in the house back there?” She replied, “No sweetheart. I think they moved a couple years ago.” Her heart was deeply saddened as she didn’t know if she would ever see him again.

She went behind the home and realized the vast field was only a plot of land. The “forest” they played in was about 10 trees that somehow survived residential development. Maybe her little fantasy childhood wasn’t as magical as she imagined. Christopher probably didn’t even remember who she was.

The family remained in Florida where she was able to graduate high school, attend college, and even get married. Her life was finally rooted in one location, and she had built a solid foundation for herself. The little girl is now 22 years old, and one month away from graduating from USF.

If you haven’t figured it out already, I’m the little girl. This past week, Christopher tracked me down and found me. We wrote back and forth on Facebook catching up on the 16 years we lost touch.

Turns out, he’s gone on to have an extremely successful career as a drummer. No surprise, all he ever wanted to do was pretend we were in a rock band. He had posters on his wall of his favorite bands, and always sang the song “Dumas Walker.” Everywhere he went he carried around a pillow guitar. Apparently he got his first set of drums in fourth grade and never looked back. Now he lives in Nashville, but has traveled all over the country, playing with many of the “big shots.”

I cannot put into words how happy it makes my soul to have found him. I feel like I’m six years old playing outside again, jumping ramps with our bikes and getting bruised and cut up. I’m sure over the last 16 years we’ve each had our fair share of life’s cuts and bruises, but catching up with Christopher washes it all away.

One thing in particular he said really stuck with me. He said, “Every November 15 I wish you a happy birthday, wherever you are.”

Even though the plot of land wasn’t a prairie, and the handful of trees weren’t a forest, one thing wasn’t blown out of proportion by my five-year-old perspective on life. I had a best friend in Christopher, and true friendships last a lifetime.

We’re both adults now, all grown up. Life keeps us busy and hectic. But it’s refreshing to know that this friendship has been reunited, and my long lost childhood friend is now only a phone call away.

This one’s to you Christopher. Thanks for finding me. And thanks social-media for making it possible.

Foreign Advertising

In public relations, we hear many horror stories of companies going global and creating failed compaigns because they didn’t understand the culture. I subscribe to the AdFreak blog, put out by AdWeek. Today they posted an ad from Russia that is supposed to celebrate the fact that America has a black president. Here is the post from Ad Freak:

"Foreign Ads with Obama Continue to Offend" - AdFreak

Somehow we missed this Russian ice-cream ad when it hit the Web a few weeks ago. But we’ll post it now anyway, in honor of foreign companies’ continuing clumsiness and stupidity in their efforts to capitalize on Barack Obama’s election. The company behind this ad claims to be “celebrating the fact there is a black president in the White House.” Which is basically the same thing that the German company which made “Obama-Fingers” fried chicken said. See the full Russian ad over at Ads of the World. A cartoon Obama in front of the White House under the words “Flavor of the Month” is a bit coarse for us. And really, it’s not like Russia is above suspicion in this regard. Via Ads of the World.

—Posted by David Kiefaber

Thankful for the Trials

The camel’s back broke today. The last straw was finally placed on top of the heaping pile, and it all fell apart.

Anyone who works in the media field understands the pressure of deadlines. It’s a never ending cycle. I’ve lived the lifestyle for years and transition fine from one stressful situation to the next. Usually it gives me this sick pleasure to have the finish line in sight with mountains between me and the end. For those who have been in my shoes, you can relate to the feeling of accomplishment when the day (or hour, or minute) finally arrives and you some how, in some twisted way, finished everything you need and hit “send.” Mission accomplished.

But right now….it’s not going that smooth. It’s the rough period. I’m simultaneously facing about 10 deadlines that all unfortunately land on the same day: April 1. I’m really doing my best to balance it all, but today I hit my breaking point.

I’m not going to bore you with all the things I have on my plate because we are all busy people. I’ll just put it like this. I am always busy. Always bite off more than I can chew. I never stop, and the phrase “free time” is not in my vocabulary. All things considered, that Sophia is at about double capacity and ready to explode. However, to everyone I come in contact with (except my husband) I appear to be very calm, collective and same as usual.

So what was my breaking point? I realized in order to function I had to hit the gym to work off some of this stress. I tried to make it up there Sun, Mon, Tues and this morning to no avail. Life happens. After work I walked over to the Power Shop. I greeted the woman at the front desk. Waved at a friend using free weights. Walked into the locker room and knew two more people. I entered a stall and changed into my shorts and tank top. I decided I was thirsty and opened my red Gatorade. Half a second later my blue shorts were purple. I sat down on the toilet seat and wanted to cry. I felt like it took all the effort I had to get to the gym, now I ruined my outfit, and I didn’t want to look like a doofus to all the people I just greeted.

I went into problem solving mode. I put back on my dress and faked a call to my iphone. I answered loud enough for everyone in the locker room to hear “oh no! Are you serious? It’s okay. I’m on my way now.” I made no eye contact as I faked this panicked look on my face all the way back to the Beetle. I felt like a complete idiot. Now there was no way I would go back there tonight.

I drove home, and that’s when I broke. The strong, masculine, “tough” qualities gave out and I did what all women when they’re an emotional basket-case. I cried to my husband. His answer, “So are you upset because you spilled Gatorade on your shorts? I don’t understand why you can’t change your clothes and go back.”

Once I got over my pity party I said “Brandon, I have a to-do list that could keep me up all night. But I am mentally worn out. What should I do?” His suggestion was I still needed my workout so if I can’t go to the gym, go bike riding. Brilliant!

I changed clothes and took off to the one place I go for refuge. My secret garden. If you don’t have a quiet time place, I highly suggest you seek yours out. I found my garden three years ago and it’s the place I go when the world needs a pause button.

Plant City is a very special place to live, and unique in so many ways. There are these elderly sisters a few miles down the rode who live next door and have been gardening together for 50 years. Their backyard takes my breath away. They always leave the gate unlocked and tell people you can come anytime. Don’t call ahead. It blesses them to have others enjoy their garden.

It’s about a 10 minute bike ride to the garden. The yard backs into the property of the local Catholic church and I arrived just as the bell stuck three times; it was 7:15.

I spent about 45 minutes in meditation. I walked around and admired nature’s beauty. I listened to the crickets. I watched the sun fade. I listened to the water flow from the creek into the pond. I watched the goldfish eat their dinner. Then, I thought about life. Thought about how trivial the things were I was killing myself over. Realized how little my tiny problems matter in the scheme of it all. The world is so much bigger than me, but too often I forget it doesn’t revolve around me. I let my heart, mind and soul rest.

Just before the sun faded into night I got back on my bicycle and peddled home.

In the end, I was very thankful I spilled Gatorade all over my clothes and made such an idiot of myself that I couldn’t go back to the gym. I firmly believe everything happens for a reason. It was meant for me to hit my breaking point, so I would force myself to rest and recuperate.

Just so you can appreciate the beauty of my favorite place in the world, I am attaching some engagement pictures (raw and unedited) that I took this weekend there. I want you to be able to visualize the peacefulness.

The entrance of my secret garden

The bridge across the creek

Okay, so this one doesn't showcase the garden, but it was my fav of the day

Nouns are dead

It finally clicked for me.

A dear friend of mine who loves to stir up controversy, debate and discussion decided to share a passage from The Shack, the novel he is currently reading. I’ve not yet read this one, but apparently God is portrayed as a large black woman, the holy spirit as a woman, and I can’t remember who Jesus is.

Anyway, the few portions he read were mostly spoken from the holy spirit’s character. She was trying to explain to the protagonist that one should not think in nouns, but rather verbs. Nouns are dead, but verbs are living. It’s about a four page explanation, but I want to share with you what I learned from the concept.

As long as things remain a verb, they are actively occurring. Once you place a noun on something, it ends.

Although I’ve often been told I’m a great writer, my professors constantly critique me for writing in passive not active voice. Think about it….passive voice kills it, active keeps it alive. Passive: the action has occurred. Active: the action is occurring.

Think of relationships you are in, whether with friends or partners. The relationships that succeed are the ones that have an expectancy. One expects (a verb) the other will always be there for them, support them, love them, care about them, etc. Relationships fail when one individual focuses on an expectation (noun). Expectations are set without clearly being communicated and the person living with expectations is constantly let down. I can see so many examples of this in my life and others’ around me.

Now, remember, this concept is coming from “the holy spirit.” She goes on to talk about law and abolishing law, which also related to nouns and verbs. I’m not sure how well-versed you are in biblical lingo, but the pre-Jesus days for the Jews were filled with endless laws and rules. Of course, everyone has heard of the ten commandments, which are certainly rules. In this passage my friend read, she completely discounts them. Get this concept…it left me in awe.

She said rules serve no purpose but for humans to abuse them and use them as a way to judge other people. All rules are written with dead nouns. She claims the law ended with Jesus, and he teaches to live in verbs, through our actions.

This is not meant to be a religious post. Break down this concept and see if you can apply it to your life. Think of as many verbs as you can in how we interact with others. How does it apply when we use the word as a noun, versus a verb?

Another example. Love is an action. To constantly show someone love is an ongoing process. However, feelings are hurt when love is limited and given a definition. Everyone shows love in different ways, but when made a noun it can kill a relationship. If love is gifts, or love is kisses, or love is a word, or love is time, then feelings are hurt when the “thing” is not being given. However, when you love (verb) someone, it becomes a more complex word and can’t be narrowed into a definition.

I started using this concept to evaluate how I communicate with others. If I communicate with verbs then I am constantly moving forward. But when I communicate in nouns, I am limiting myself.

Just as a heads up, this concept consumed a two hour conversation between eight people and the evening ended with some people in awe, and others still having no clue what we talked about. Leave feedback as to what you think. Some people completely disagreed with the thought, and others, like me, embraced it. What do you think? Are you living passively or actively?

When Social Media Meets Reality

Yesterday, my husband and I spent most of the day in Ybor City to finish up the filming for my thesis/documentary/ethnographic study, as well as doing a photoshoot for my website I’m creating. The original plan was to shoot for the entire afternoon, and then after sunset have dinner at one of Ybor’s many killer restaurants (i.e. Spaghetti Warehouse, Tampa Brewing Co, Columbia). However, the day was full of unplanned circumstances, many of which brought humor to the day.

When we arrived, we saw people walking around in extravagent pirate outfits and decorative green costumes. In Ybor…you never know. Then we saw signs restricting parking in certain areas after 3pm “due to parade” . I asked two of the pirates what was going on, and turns out there was a St Patrick’s Day parade at 8 p.m. Needless to say, we encountered many drunk personalities in green attire throughout the day.

The filming/photography went great. But considering the crowds of people filling the streets, we had no desire to stay in Ybor for dinner. After brainstorming restaurants we decided on Maggiano’s. After parking in the only available spot at the end of the row in Westshore Mall, we found out there was a 2 hour wait. P.F. Changs next door sounded great as well, also a two hour wait. I commented “If the economy is doing so poorly, shouldn’t there be some awesome restaurant in Tampa dying to have guests?” I really didn’t want to wait that long, considering it was already after 7:00.

Plan F was to go to Cheesecake Factory. The one hour wait seemed good enough to settle for. While waiting, we strolled through International Plaza. We stumbled on this little Sushi and Sake bar. Before making a reservation I wanted to glance at the menu; I know sushi places can get very high on the price tag sometimes.

When I walked in, the girl greeted me and said “You’re Sophia! Aren’t you?” Ummm…wow…considering I wasn’t wearing a nametag and had never seen this girl before, I was a little caught off guard. “I know you from Facebook.” And she proceded to list all these things she knew about me, as in where I went to middle school, high school, and college. As well as where I go to church, mutual friends we have, and that I was an editor on yearbook staff. Still a little in shock mode, I confirmed that indeed she was correct in her description of me.

As it turns out, she was in sixth grade when I was in 8th. I was yearbook editor-in-chief, and then I ran for President of the student body in 8th grade and won. So there were plenty of people who knew me, whom I may not have known. It happens pretty easily when you plaster posters with your picture and name everywhere trying to win people’s votes. I went on to be in the IB program at King High School, where her brother apparently went. Since she remembered me from middle school, she recognized my name in the newsletters and such. Post graduation, she found me on Facebook and had still been following me because of the things we had in common, which is how she knew so much information about me, and what I look like several years later.

It completely caught me off guard how someone could tell me so much about myself, and I didn’t even know her name. Now I consider myself to have made a new friend because she was such a sweetheart, and an awesome waitress. I love social media, as well as meeting new people. But it’s spooky to think that people can be learning so much about you, when in reality you’re strangers. I love learning from others, so the more people I know the better. But there’s this hesitant part of me that questions how good it is that I so greatly expose my personal life on the internet. What are your thoughts?

I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. There was a reason we chose to do my shoot in Tampa. There was a reason we could not have dinner at Tampa Brewing Co, Spaghetti Warehouse, Columbia, PF Changs, Maggianos, or Cheesecake factory. (For those in Tampa…you know that’s a killer list of dining experiences!) We were meant to end up at Plan G, where by the way, there was no wait.

P.S. They have awesome sushi. And, my husband and I tried Sake for the first time. AWESOME! Very strong. Brandon said he didn’t know how people could take shots of this stuff…but don’t worry…I showed him it can be done.

P.P.S. Here are a couple of the pics from yesterday’s shoot.