I have always been a big fan of nicknames. I seldom call my friends and family by their real names. Some of the nicknames make more sense than others. Some are simple and self-explanatory. For example, Baron (my brother) is “Brother.” I don’t use his real name anymore. Others, like “Paul the Destroyer,” usually require a little of explaining. Not to mention, it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. But there is something that connects you to people when you have special names that only you call them. A bond of sorts. Like a secret that you get to share.

If you were to have met me before my fifth grade year, you would not have been introduced to “Barrett.” No sir, my father would not have stood for that. Without fail, no matter who you were (be it my teacher, friend, parents’ friend, etc.) you would have been introduced to “Bull.” My friends didn’t even know my real name was Barrett.

When my parents divorced and we moved to another state, I was just a shy little kid who didn’t know anyone at my new school. It was during these first introductions in my new school that “Bull” was lost. I was scared enough going to a new school in a distant state; introducing myself as “Bull” was just too much.

To this day, my father refuses to call me Barrett. He gave me the nickname. He likes it better than Barrett. And that’s that. My oldest friends still call me Bull. My family, too. Truth be told, it feels strange when they try to call me Barrett, like someone randomly starting to call me “David” or “John.”

I like my nickname. I like the fact that my old friends and family still call me “Bull” even though I am 27 years old. Some say it fit me quite well, especially growing up.

Why in the world would your dad nickname you Bull?

My sister Julia or Baron could probably give you a much better answer than I could, since they are blessed with the capacity to remember the past in great detail. Rumor has it I was a little rambunctious, a hellion of sorts, who fancied charging people head first, wrestling and various physical oddities that all involved someone or something getting struck.

See for yourself; this is a picture of “Bull” teaching my older brother a little lesson. Note the smug grin on my face. Indeed, a nickname well earned.

bull

I’m not having very much luck with crime rates these days. I have filled out three police reports in one month’s time. That seems a little much, even if I do live in a large metropolitan area.

For me — and my naive suburban background — this theft is a bit overwhelming. I was notified of the first theft from a debt collector.

Are you Sam Thompson?

Yes.

Is your social security number… ?

Yes.

Are you planning to pay your $588 Direct TV bill?

Um… what?

Someone had managed to get his hands on my social security number and ring up a Direct TV bill in my name.

Welcome to new age crime.

I called the appropriate people and made the appropriate reports shortly after I called my mom and had a minor breakdown about why people are mean and shouldn’t steal from me. I mean, what did I do to them? Didn’t they know I was busy teaching children and needed to make copies, not call my bank to put security holds on my checking and savings accounts?

I moved on relatively quickly from my brush with identity theft mainly because it didn’t cost me anything. No blemish on my credit report, no $588 charge for cable I never watched.

Two weeks later, I came home from a camping trip to find flyers posted all over the mail room of my apartment announcing the theft of a very nice bike from my complex. Because I had seen the flyers and had been gone for four days, I decided it would be a good time to check out the bike rack where I kept my borrowed bike securely locked up.

Gone.

No borrowed bike.

No borrowed bike lock.

Goodbye plans to buy myself a new road bike.

I talked to the owner of the other bike that was stolen before I filed my second police report and we commiserated over the loss of our bikes and wondered why people felt the need to target us. What had we done?

Again, I moved on with only the nagging thought that sooner rather than later I needed to replace my friend’s bike and figure out when I was going to save up enough to buy my own. Lucky for me, I live in Houston and work twice as many hours as is reasonable by most standards, so I have no interest or time to be on a bike right this second.

My third — and hopefully final — brush with thievery came as I walked to my car on a Sunday afternoon. I had left my car parked on a residential street near the townhouse I will soon be moving into. As I approached my car to drive home, I noticed that my passenger side window was smashed. In all my suburban naivety, I instantly thought, Did someone hit my window with a ball? It wasn’t until I reminded myself that I was, in fact, not in Kansas anymore, that I realized my cell phone, which had been charging inside the car, was gone along with the charger and stereo.

This one hurt.

The first theft had no effect except minor panic about my credit report. The second theft left me indebted to an unbelievably kind and patient friend and delayed a future purchase. This theft affected my car, my bank account and my ability to communicate with anyone. All for a phone that cost me $40 two years ago.

Again, I had to wonder why me? What is wrong with this city? People in general? Why did they keep stealing from me?

In each of these situations, my friends and family jumped to action with help, support and comfort. But even with all the added help, I couldn’t chase the sour feeling in my mouth.

As I discussed the pains of moving with another co-worker today and answered his question that No, I wouldn’t need help. My friends are great. They’ll be there to help. They always are. I realized that I was looking at my brush with the darker sides of Houston in the wrong direction. Thse thefts weren’t about me at all. They were about people and stuff.

People I don’t know.

Stuff I can live without.

What was about me was how I reacted and how my friends and family reacted.

In all honesty, I reacted poorly. I was sad and frustrated for days longer than I needed to be. My friends and family reacted in ways I wish were my default response in stressful situations. They cleaned and vacuumed my car. They gave up their cell phones so I could have one. They offered comfort and advice. They said don’t worry about it, we’ll figure it out. And we did.

I sat and sulked. And missed the point.

I would really prefer not to make any more police reports for a very long time, but if I do it won’t be the end of the world or the loss of my faith in humanity. I’m finding out quickly as I pack my things into boxes and prepare to move that possessions are just things. What I truly need — support, time, love from those who matter most to me — are the things I seem to value the least in the day to day.

These are the things you can’t list a numerical value for on a police report because they mean so much more than any dollar amount. These are the things that only I can take from myself by not taking the time to stop and notice them.

These are the things that cannot be stolen.

I still haven’t seen the first half of High School Musical 2. Maybe I never will.

We haven’t lived together for years — after that one awful semester in an all-girls’ dorm — but Kate Brown was my roommate until just a few weeks ago. She was that place’s one saving grace. She was the only person who could have possibly made our cinder-block room feel like home. She was the only person who could make me feel safe when everything began to fall apart.

I am fully convinced that she is the only person who could have resolved somewhat-serious disagreements with pillow fights from across the room and the only person who could have made talking about a sex column in the school newspaper more intellectual than differential equations homework. (What are the bases, anyway?)

But really, it’s not the plastic box of chocolate cookie ingredients we carried to C.J.’s apartment, the hand-painted dishes we made or her late-night Coyote Ugly (or Saved!) DVD intros on repeat that kept me awake long after she had fallen asleep that made Kate my roommate. It was High School Musical 2, on TiVo (probably actually Moxi, but who’s worried about brand names?), two years and three apartments after we stopped living together that is making it so hard to accept that Kate’s label has lost its singular nature; she is now my first roommate, my freshman year roommate, my insert-qualifier-that-the-new-roommates-don’t-have-here roommate.

When HSM2 premiered, Kate and her two roommates recorded it on DVR. The day they watched it, at least three other people were crammed into her living room. When I knocked on her door — sobbing after a fight with the ex-boyfriend-turned-best-friend-turned-what-the-hell-is-he? — she just invited me in. I sat with her on the floor with my back against her couch and watched Vanessa and Troy figure out summer lovin’ in full-on musical style. All I remember about the movie is that Miley Cyrus is dancing in the final scene. And that I felt safe.

But when I got “home” to my new place tonight, a two-page, carefully stapled lease was on my bed. Rent. Security deposit. Rules (no dogs… with a line crossed through it). I scribbled my name at the bottom of the lease; Haven — she lives across the hall — signed one too.

I lived with Kate for the Fall 2004 semester; since then, I’ve lived alone, and she has lived with nine other girls in two places. But today was, officially, Kate’s last day as my roommate… my only roommate ever.

My friendship with Kate has changed a lot since we shared a mini-fridge and nearly everything but our toothbrushes during our first semester of college, but this is the first time I’ve ever really thought about how much has stayed the same. We have lunch plans for Wednesday, and I anticipate her supportive giggles when I tell her about my recent changes-of-plans, her just-prying-because-she-knows-I-want-to-tell-her questions about my love life and the way she carefully expresses any hint of disapproval at our differences. I’m excited to be updated about her housing situation, to hear about her internship at Vintage and to catch up on the details of the life plan.

But mostly, I look forward to just being me and feeling safe. With my (what’s the perfect modifier?) roommate.

I love to water ski. It is one of my favorite things to do. It’s hard to beat a day out on the lake, out in the sun, skiing until you feel as if your arms are going to fall off from exhaustion. Well, maybe not fall off, but you get my point. Also allow me to clarify what I mean when I say “water skiing.” I do not mean one ski for each foot, being towed behind the boat at a low speed and enjoying the scenery from behind the boat. I mean both feet in one ski, flying behind the boat at break-neck speed, with everything flying by so fast that you don’t have time to enjoy the scenery — slalom skiing.

Slalom skiing has been one of my loves for many years. My grandparents used to live on a large lake in north Texas, and every summer that I can remember, until I graduated from high school, we would spend one or two weeks at the lake. There were many other things that we did at the lake: hiking, swimming, fishing, etc. But skiing was always my favorite.

I learned how to ski on two skis when I was 9 or 10, but as you can probably tell from my previous description, I was not even close to satisfied. I wanted to go faster. So by the time I was 12 or 13, I was trying my hand on the slalom. My parents and siblings probably got pretty tired of watching me zip back and forth across the wake of the boat, but I just loved being back there. I would improve my technique a little bit each summer, and my confidence grew in direct proportion to the speed I was traveling. The faster I went, the more I loved it.

When I got to college, I worked at summer camps as a boat driver and water ski instructor. This was a pretty sweet gig: I got to teach kids how to do something that I loved to do, and I got to spend a little time behind the boat myself. And as much as I love to ski, there are no words to describe the feeling that I would get each time one of my campers was able to get up on skis for the first time. I’m guessing I will have many more moments like those when I become a parent, but seeing the exhilaration on a kid’s face as you swing the boat around to pick him back up is absolutely priceless. I loved those summers. Whether it was teaching kids or skiing on my own, I was living the dream.

About this time last year, I began to feel as if I had awoken from that dream. The reality of life began to set in after finishing with graduate school, and the prospects of me doing any skiing in the future were not looking good. This was a sad realization. I mean, slalom skiing had become so much more than just something I love to do. It had come to represent who I was, and how I want to live my life. I want to go flying across the boat wake of life, back and forth, throwing myself full-throttle into the path that lies before me. And I thought that was slipping away.

So I bought a slalom ski. A nice one, too. It had all of the features that I could have possibly wanted, but I won’t bore you with those details. Just trust me: it was awesome. I thought that if I spent the money on it, I would make more of an effort to get out to the lake; that has not been the case. I have used it a grand total of one time. Pathetic, I know.

But it has also allowed me to have a different sort of realization: I can’t spend all of my time behind the boat. There has to be a significant amount of time spent in the boat, and this time is just as important as the time that I spend actually skiing. It’s breathing deeply, letting the wind hit you in the face and take your breath away, and the time that you spend with your family and friends that really makes that lake trip worth all of the time and effort.

I still have that ski, and I intend to get a lot more use out of it in the future. Only now it has a slightly deeper significance. While I will always love the thrill of riding a slalom ski, I have learned that there are many things in life that can be thrilling and fulfilling. I’m not sure exactly what this means for me yet, but at least it’s a start. I firmly believe that life is not to be attacked at break-neck speed by yourself behind a boat, but rather to be relished and shared with others who can help you see the beauty around you.

I’ve always been a little anti-cell phone. I held out getting one until sophomore year of college, arguing that the only reason a person needed one is to call for help when your car breaks down on the side of the road. Because I didn’t own a car, this didn’t seem to pose a problem. But as more and more friends complained that it was too hard to keep track of me during the day, and my parents wanted to speak with their daughter while she was away at college, I finally got one.

You would think that this would make me more likely to keep in touch with people. It would be, you know, a beneficial tool and means of communication with friends in far-flung places. But things keep getting in the way. I have what seems to be chronic poor reception (curse you, Verizon), which means I end up standing stock-still in the middle of the living room or kitchen, trying not to angle my head or move my hand and leave my square foot of clear reception. Combine that with a proficiency at procrastination that extends to communicating with loved ones, I tend not to call people very much. It’s a flaw and I recognize it, but even after making a New Year’s resolution about it, I still don’t call. I have plenty of Catholic guilt about it, but not enough to pick up the phone, apparently.

Admitting this feels a little bit like owning up to some kind of reverse addiction: Hello, my name is Katie. It’s been two months since I talked to my college roommates.

Because of this, when my phone rings and I see that it is indeed one of my far-flung friends, I get pretty excited. Two days ago, I picked up the phone when I saw that my friend Claire from Raleigh, one of my former Jesuit Volunteer Corps community members, was calling.

I’m at the Ben Folds concert! she told me excitedly. Claire, Elyse (another one of our roommates), and I had been Ben Folds fanatics together, singing along to his songs as we washed dishes or cleaned the house or drove our minivan to run errands. In March of our year together, we managed to snag two tickets to his concert in Chapel Hill, and Claire let my roommate Elyse and I take them, on the grounds that I had never gone to one of his shows before and Elyse was probably the biggest fan of the three of us. So I sat enthralled in the hall, listening to Ben rock out, crouched over his piano like a sprinter for nearly two hours. At one point, during his song Landed, I called Claire on my cell phone and held it up for her to hear. It was a crummy substitute for not being there, but it was my way of saying I wished she was there with us.

So she told me that she was sitting at an amphitheater with her boyfriend and was thinking of me. We chatted for a few minutes, and I let her go because the concert was about to start.

A little later, the phone rang again and I picked up to hear the faint strands of Landed coming over the earpiece:

Moved to the West Coast
Away from everyone
She never told me that you called

This made me think of you! Claire shouted into the phone. And we listened, together, her on a grassy lawn in Raleigh and me in my Denver backyard.

She called me once more, later, to sing along to his song Army, in which we did a master-level impression of a horn solo together last year. I sang my part into the phone and she sang hers, and my housemates wondered what the heck I was doing singing alone in the backyard.

For me, that one little moment was a reminder of how lucky I am to have friends who hold up their end of the bargain even when I drop mine. Friends who I can sing with, laugh with, and forget to call on my cell phone, and who love me in spite of it all.

Ginger came swaggering down the hall, her shoulders a little cock-eyed because of her age, and her face scrunched up like a little girl laughing at her own mischievousness. She swung her thin arms onto the reception desk in front me, hand over her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. Behind her, a group of men were congregating outside my brother’s office, shaking hands and talking in loud voices.

I gave Ginger a knowing smile. I just joined the staff at my dad’s construction office two months ago, but Ginger has been here forever; she nearly watched me and my brothers grow up as we scampered in and out of the office to draw Dad pictures with his multi-colored highlighers and red pencils while he worked at his plan desk.

What are you laughing at? I asked her, knowing full well her intent at stopping by my desk was to tell me.

Her soft eyes, lined by barely-there gold-rimmed glasses, were caked with eye makeup, and her jewelry seemed to sparkle, something I noticed even when I was young. With her bleach-blonde hair, cropped short with several strands that flickered when she blinked, she reminded me of a sandy little shitzu puppy. At least half of her big-knuckled fingers had gold or diamond rings. She always seemed to wear two necklaces that made soft noises as she moved, and every day she wore some type of angel pin.

Well, she began, A guy from this excavating company stopped by and wanted to meet your brother. So I brought him back to meet him but I didn’t realize Keith was already there looking at plans.

This brought on a fresh round of stifled laughter.

Keith was from another excavating company that we worked closely with. The two men from competing companies probably weren’t prepared to run into each other at the office they sought business from, but I’m sure the awkwardness wasn’t unbearable. But Ginger found the hilarity of the moment absolutely gleeful, and I couldn’t help but share in the moment.

I grabbed the oversized candy mug on my desk and moved it in her direction.

Oooh! she said, her laughter turning to high-pitched glee. She daintily plucked a Hershey’s kiss and began unwrapping it. I leaned back, unwrapping my own piece of chocolate.

So, are you going to the race this year? I asked her, referring to the Indianapolis 500.

Oh, yeah, she answered quickly. I go every year with some friends. They let me set the pace. I’m a little slow these days, she added, chuckling softly. But I sensed a fragile waft of sadness in her tone.

The fact that Ginger feels her slow gait hinders others made me more aware of her age. And not even in the sense of the number of years she has lived, but the experiences and relationships and events she has been a part of. Though she lives alone now, she has been a daughter, a friend, a wife, a mother, a grandmother. She once kept up with everyone else, her legs strong and sturdy.

She was once a newlywed like me. She once dreamed of what her children might be like, like me. She celebrates her friends’ birthdays, like me. She gets excited when family is in town to take her out to dinner. She still gets a good joke, still flirts when the UPS men drop off plans at the office, and keeps chocolate at her desk to keep us coming around more often.

And maybe she hates living alone, like me. It made me think of all the times her endless stories kept me hanging around her desk longer than I intended and how she always waited to eat lunch until other people were in the break room.

The realization made me very aware of myself. It still hits me sometimes that I’m an adult. That I pay a mortgage, take care of a home and do yard work on Saturday afternoons. It won’t be long before my dreaming of children will become a laughing, dancing reality in my home, God willing. It won’t be long until my six- and seven-month wedding anniversary dates turn into 10- and 20-year anniversary dates, courtesy of a baby-sitter. It won’t be long until my husband and I are face to face, wrinkly and different, yet the same.

And it won’t be long until my own tell-tale signs of old age make me wonder if I made the most of my youth. Of my life.

Ginger’s stories and laughter and desire for human contact remind me what’s important now. Not the spreadsheets or the Post-It notes or the files or the copies or the deadlines or the networking. But the people…messy, hilarious, striving people.

We can reach all our lives and pull as much as we can into it. But in the end, the only treasure waiting at the end is what we have collected along the way.