The Only Pirate at the Party

by Lindsey Stirling

  Having spent so much time in the air, I can say with confidence that a long flight is only as good as the people around you. Sitting by someone with bad flight etiquette is like moving into a new house and finding out your neighbor is a serial sex offender. I know, I’m being a little dramatic. Having a sex offender for a neighbor isn’t quite as bad as sitting by an inconsiderate flyer, but you get the idea.

  Here are the types of flyers you will want to avoid, and if you can’t avoid them, at least avoid becoming one of them.

  THE SECURITY LINE STOPPER

  I give you the reason we all have to arrive two to three hours early for a flight. I’m usually behind this person in the security line—the one who accidentally leaves their laptop in their laptop bag, forgets to take their shoes off, is carrying an open water bottle, and tries to go through the metal detector with a switchblade in their pocket. When I’m in a hurry, part of me feels like helping this person. The other, more assertive part of me would like to push them onto the luggage conveyor belt and get it over with.

  THE BIN HOGGER

  I think we’ve all witnessed this one—the person who is trying to wrestle a gigantic carry-on into the overhead bin. Not only is it a little bit selfish to take up that much space, it’s also uncomfortable to watch. If you haven’t witnessed this spectacle yet, here’s a short recap of what it looks like: Man lifts giant bag toward tiny overhead bin. Giant bag falls backward on man’s face. Flight attendant tells man his bag won’t fit. Man is convinced it will fit if he grunts harder while pushing. Man’s shirt comes untucked during the scuffle, and his hairy belly button is now exposed. It’s a lose-lose for everyone.

  THE SCREEN PUNCHER

  Most planes have nifty touch screens on the back of every seat. Modern technology is really great. What’s not really great is when the person behind you has never used a cell phone, tablet, or ATM, and attacks every button like a game of Whac-A-Mole. The touch screen is not a punching bag; it’s the back of someone else’s pillow.

  THE SEAT GRABBER

  This is the person who thinks the seat in front of them is a handrail and uses it to hoist himself or herself up several times throughout the flight. This causes a jolting sensation for the person sitting on the other side of the handrail, because it’s not actually a handrail at all. It’s a seat—most likely one that someone is trying to sleep in.

  THE ELBOW RESTER

  Unless you are sitting in an aisle seat, you should share your armrests. You only paid for half, so don’t take up the whole thing—even if your arm is bigger, heavier, or more selfish than your neighbor’s.

  THE TALKER

  Guilty as charged! I’m the talker. I really enjoy conversing with strangers, but I think I’m pretty good at reading basic body language. Here are some common “I don’t want to talk right now” signs to look for. If you notice someone doing any of the following, it’s time to zip your lips:

  • fiddling with their headphones

  • trying to avoid eye contact

  • grabbing a book or magazine

  • glaring at you

  • squeezing their eyes shut

  Every now and again, I’m on the other side of the looking glass. When I need a little shut-eye, I use the above signals (minus the glaring), and if all else fails, my go-to is an original I like to call “the codfish face”—eyes closed, head back, mouth open. Works every time.

  THE COST

  In the dream I was at a party. I saw my roommates, a few people from church, and a woman with curly red hair. She wore a long, dark jacket that wrapped easily around her thin frame, making her look like a secret worth keeping. It was a crowded party, but she stared at me as if we were the only two people in the room. I can still picture her now—eyes narrow, lips pursed.

  In an attempt to ignore her gaze I tried to engage in conversation with other people, but my presence was invisible to everyone, except for her. As I was about to leave, I looked up to see her standing right in front of me. She smiled, and I saw the devil in her squinty eyes. A cold chill ran up my spine and I knew I couldn’t leave. Around us people laughed and played games, but all I could focus on was the woman in the long jacket and the fear in my chest. When she walked away I followed her involuntarily into the kitchen where she placed a contract in front of me, pricked my finger with a needlelike fingernail, and told me to sign it with my blood. Every time I wanted to do anything, a new contract appeared. I wanted to sit down—she handed me a contract. I wanted to wash my hands—she handed me a contract. I wanted to check my phone—she handed me a contract. As frightened as I was, the thought of trying to leave was always more terrifying, so I signed all her contracts and remained in her control for what felt like hours.

  Finally, I felt her power over me lessen and I was able to escape. I sprinted back to my apartment, slammed the door, and fumbled with the knob, but the lock was gone. In desperation, I turned and ran toward my room, but was stopped short by the sight of Brooke in the living room. She was tied to a chair in front of our large glass window. When I lunged to untie her, she spoke calmly.

  “DON’T. If you untie me, she will know. If you do anything, she will know.”

  Her wrists were raw from the tight cords of rope.

  I woke up trembling. Lingering in my mind were the memories of Brooke’s bloody hands and the face of the evil woman. I was home alone, and for the next hour I was afraid to leave my bedroom. So I retraced the steps of my dream, over and over again. I knew the woman represented my eating disorder—I understood her control over me—but I couldn’t understand why Brooke was involved. It haunted me.

  A few hours later Brooke returned home from her morning shift at a nearby barn. Her hair was in a messy bun, the smell of wood shavings on her clothes. As she removed her dirty jeans and pulled on a fresh pair, I told her about the dream and the woman in the long jacket. I talked while she brushed her hair into a ponytail, buttoned up her jacket, and pulled on a pair of rain boots. When I finished, she looked at my reflection in the closet mirror and said, “What a strange dream. We’re out of toothpaste and shampoo. Can you think of anything else I should pick up?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet.

  Then she walked down the hall, past the large glass window, and out the door.

  A few years later, Brooke moved back to Arizona to get married and I was prepping for my first tour. Out of the blue she called me and broke down on the phone.

  “I forgive you,” she said. “I just need to tell you I forgive you.”

  I was confused. Our last conversation had been about my latest awkward date and the best shade of sea-foam green for her wedding.

  “What do you mean? . . . Did I do something that upset you?” I asked carefully.

  “I forgive you.” She paused to steady her voice. “For your eating disorder. For what it did to you, for what it did to me, for what it did to our relationship.”

  “Brooke, I didn’t know . . . I don’t understand.”

  “I know you’ve noticed that we aren’t as close as we once were, and I know you don’t understand why, but it changed you. It changed us.”

  I heard what she was saying, but it still hadn’t sunk in.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, “but I still don’t understand. How did my eating disorder affect you?”

  She sniffed, and I imagined one of her tears falling onto the receiver, inky with mascara.

  “Every time Mom called, I felt like it was to see how you were doing—I knew she cared about me, too, but I couldn’t talk to her about my problems when she was already so worried about yours. And when you cried because you didn’t feel like you fit in with our new roommates, I wanted to tell you it was because you couldn’t connect with anyone anymore, but instead I listened and tried to make you feel better. Or when I wanted to go out for ice cream or hot chocolate, you went running instead. And when I finally convinced you to come out to eat with friends, I saw the way you focused on picking around the cheese i
n your salad instead of joining the conversation or listening to anything I had to say. And when we got home, I always got to hear about how fat and bloated you felt—and it was I who constantly had to convince you it wasn’t true. Even when you stopped complaining about it out loud, I noticed the look in your eye when you turned sideways to look at your stomach in the mirror instead of my face when I talked. You stopped being my sister, and you didn’t care about anything besides your body, and I’ve been so angry at you for it.”

  After a pause, Brooke spoke again.

  “I don’t want you to feel bad. Please don’t be sad. I know I played my own part in all of this, too . . .”

  “I didn’t know . . .”

  “I needed to tell you so that we can move on. So we can get back to where we used to be. I want to be sisters again.”

  The line went still and I felt dizzy. Could this really be true? I had spent the last few years healing on my own, and it had never occurred to me to say sorry to anyone else. In a matter of moments, my mind reeled from shock to devastation. How selfish I had been, assuming my problems were mine alone. The fact that I never knew to ask forgiveness was almost as painful as the fact that I had hurt her in the first place. This was why we weren’t friends anymore. I was why we weren’t friends anymore. And then my mind drifted back a few years, and I remembered the woman wrapped in black from my dream, the needlelike point of her finger, and Brooke tied up by the window. We hung up the phone, and I cried. I had made my sister a captive to my own problems.

  Following the phone call we both tried to start over, but it was difficult to do from opposite sides of the country, or different countries altogether. It wasn’t natural. It felt like we didn’t have anything in common anymore, and when we talked it was stale. After a year of obligatory phone calls and “how are yous,” I found out Whitney wouldn’t be coming back on tour, and in a spur-of-the-moment decision I asked Brooke if she would come out on the road with me for a few weeks. When she said yes, I was surprised. Our relationship was still awkward, and the thought of spending three weeks in close quarters with her made me nervous.

  While on tour, Brooke found small tasks here and there to help with, but her most important job was to be my sister. We stayed up at night talking, our similar sense of humor resurfaced, and she became my constant companion. We started sharing things again—clothes, food, a bus, friends, hotel rooms, jokes—and every night she stood side-stage and jumped up and down throughout the entire set. We also found a pear that looked like it had a butt crack, so we drew low-rise jeans on it and left it around the bus to moon people. You know, sister stuff.

  On the night before she left, I purposely scared her as she came out of the bathroom. She jumped forward, stumbled over my luggage, and face-planted violently into the floor. We belly-laughed for what felt like hours, making up for some of the years we had lost.

  The next morning, I found the following letter on my suitcase:

  Lindsey,

  The thought of leaving has had me on the verge of tears for the last few days—these three weeks have been some of the best of my entire life. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I came out here. I was nervous, but it has been better than I could have ever imagined. I feel so blessed to have been able to be here, to be part of your new life, and to meet all the wonderful people you have on your team; but more than anything I feel like we are finally sisters again. When I left BYU our relationship wasn’t where I wanted it to be, and although we’ve both made some changes, we never quite got the opportunity to put it back together. This is the first time I have “lived” with you since then, and I can finally say we are as close as we used to be—probably closer than ever. It has been an experience I will never forget.

  When I get home I know I will wish I was on the road with you again, but being sad means these memories are worth missing. I can’t thank you enough for sharing your time, your money, and your friends. I’m so sad I won’t be there to see your biggest show, but I know there will be more where that came from in the future. If you ever need a roadie again, you know where to find me.3

  Keep chasing rainbows girl, you’re going to catch them all.

  Love you infinity,

  Brooke

  When I finished the letter, I cried—not because she was gone, but because she was back.

  Day off in Orlando, Florida. She’s wearing my shirt, I’m wearing her pants.

  * * *

  3. The following summer I brought Brooke out with me on my entire US tour. When I got extremely homesick the following year in Asia, my management flew Brooke out to bring me a piece of home. I found her in my Tokyo hotel room—wearing every article of clothing from my suitcase. You know, sister stuff.

  FALLING IN LOVE

  IS HARD TO DO

  I think one of the biggest challenges we all face is falling in love . . . with ourselves. In junior high, all the popular girls had chunky blond highlights and golden-brown skin that glistened while they talked with boys in the courtyard. I had dirty-brown hair and the Irish pallor of my forefathers. My mom didn’t want me to color my hair yet, but I heard it from a reliable source that lemon juice would bring out my natural highlights. I was also told that olive oil would accentuate a healthy glow in my skin. I lathered myself in these liquids, head to toe, and literally baked in the sun for several hours. When I was finished, I walked away with the same brown hair as before. My skin, on the other hand, now had the healthy glow of a ripe tomato. Given that I was essentially wearing the ingredients for vinaigrette, I had made myself into a caprese salad.

  Not long after, “scrunching” hair was the thing to do. If I couldn’t have blond hair, maybe I could at least make it wavy. The secret formula? Eggs. I slapped a few egg whites on my scalp and scrunched for several minutes until my hair was a very stringy (but still straight) mess. Even recently I went for a more official treatment to help control the frizz in my hair—a Brazilian blowout. Word on the street is it works for everyone . . . except me. My hair was just as frizzy, only after the blowout, it was also extremely flat.

  When it comes to appearances, I believe we can all find things to love about the things we don’t like. For instance:

  1. I love my full-scale horse teeth because I got them from my dad.

  2. I love my hairy arms because brushing them calms me.

  3. I love my small boobs because they don’t pummel me in the face when I dance.

  4. I love my stubby fingernails because they don’t get in my way when I play my violin fast.

  5. I love that my hair won’t grow much past my shoulders because . . . I just do.

  6. I love my four recurring chin whiskers because I’ve named them “the Whisky Bros,” and they’re like a loyal gang of friends.

  7. I love my acne-prone skin because it reminds me of my youth.

  8. I love my hairy knuckles because they collect pollen and help support the ecosystem.

  I love myself.

  See, that wasn’t so hard. Now it’s your turn.

  1. I love my ___________ because _____________

  2. I love my ___________ because _____________

  3. I love my ___________ because _____________

  4. I love my ___________ because _____________

  5. I love my ___________ because _____________

  6. I love my ___________ because _____________

  7. I love my ___________ because _____________

  8. I love my ___________ because _____________

  I love myself.

  As you should! Don’t let the bad guy tell you otherwise. Looks aside, the battle to fall in love with ourselves starts much deeper than the surface. I was on a panel for an “Empowering Women” event, when someone from the audience asked how she could feel more comfortable in her skin. One of the other speakers responded, “You just have to be confident, you have to own yourself!” I liked where she was going, but I felt like her answer was a little lacking. You can’t simply tell an insecure person to be confident, the sa
me way you can’t tell a depressed person to be happy, or a slow person to be fast. I wish it were that easy, but there are steps to every process. I’ve tried to will myself to be the things I want to be. Pull yourself together, Lindsey. Be happy. Be confident! It might work momentarily, but without anything to support it, this kind of approach is exhausting. It’s like doing a sprint when you’re out of shape—you’ll crawl to the finish line and never want to run again. I’ve since learned that positive thinking and confidence are muscles that need continuous work and attention. I exercise these muscles by meditating, eating properly, talking to a life coach once a month, listening to motivational speeches, and starting my days with scripture study. Do I always succeed? No. Am I always happy? Of course not. But I’m working on it, and that’s all anyone can do.

  As someone who has lost every shred of confidence multiple times, I’ve had to rediscover myself more than once. Every time, I learn something new. I’ve learned that I don’t like asking for help, I’m afraid of being a disappointment, I rely too heavily on positive feedback, I have a habit of comparing myself to others, I use work to run from my emotions, and I worry I will literally become invisible (I never claimed I was always rational). I’ve also learned I have the ability to change and that I can become the kind of person I admire. But it takes practice.

  It comes as no surprise to me that a prima ballerina has put in hours upon hours of practice. And yet, I see a mother of four with the patience of Job, and I assume she was born with it. She wasn’t born with it any more than that Maybelline model was born with dark eyeliner and perfectly angled eyebrows! That model practiced long and hard to get those brows right, and that mom is patient because she works at it, not because she’s perfect. I’m so far from perfect I couldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. Luckily I don’t need to be perfect. I just want to do my best and love myself in spite of my imperfections. I want that for you, too.