<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6848609757250736634</id><updated>2012-02-16T07:20:18.476-08:00</updated><title type='text'>ashleepeters</title><subtitle type='html'>The triumphs and lessons of a young, married professional looking to find her purpose in the world. I write with hope that just one person may challenge their views and traditional way of thinking for even a moment upon visiting this blog.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ashleepeters.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6848609757250736634/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ashleepeters.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>ashlee p</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>2</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6848609757250736634.post-3518852969170607179</id><published>2009-01-02T21:54:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-02T22:12:26.161-08:00</updated><title type='text'>An investment into the real world</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kqRtxxJkx4k/SV8BtZZs2mI/AAAAAAAAAB0/om2XLRbV-Lg/s1600-h/iStock_000003890475XSmall.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kqRtxxJkx4k/SV8BtZZs2mI/AAAAAAAAAB0/om2XLRbV-Lg/s200/iStock_000003890475XSmall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286946366980676194" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Byington;font-size:85%;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Byington;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Byington;font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At my college graduation our professors stood up and celebrated the years of education behind us and the years of beautiful careers ahead of us. “Welcome to the real world,” they would all say, “You’ve finally made it.” And naturally, I couldn’t wait to see it. I couldn’t wait to work 8-5 and I couldn’t wait to finally put my 17 years of education to use.&lt;br /&gt;So when I finally got that real job I’d been waiting for, I felt like I could officially join the real world.&lt;br /&gt;I smiled knowing I would never again have to bring drink refills or sides of ranch to negligent parents and their bad-mannered children as a waitress. It was a relief knowing I would never have to run around waiting on people left and right reciting “time is money, money is time” through my head.&lt;br /&gt;Well, I didn’t think I would.&lt;br /&gt;But, I’ve come to a shocking realization. It doesn’t matter where you work or where you go. Everyone is on the money clock. They cut you off on the freeway because they’re late to work. They can’t wait 2 seconds to hold the door for you and God forbid their latte doesn’t come the way they ordered it. Their needs come before everyone else’s because after all, they’re the only one in a hurry. They stay late at the office because they know their co-workers better than they know their own family. They can’t take a day off work when their kids are sick, so they have them sleep on two rolling chairs pushed together to make a bed. Time is money, money is time.&lt;br /&gt;Of course we all want to be successful. We want to make money and we want nice things to show we have that money. We want to work hard and we want to play hard. So, I figured now is a better time than ever to join the real world. &lt;br /&gt;I was running late to work the other day so I figured it was my turn to cut someone off. I was very particular in my choice of who my first target would be. I didn’t want to get shot nor did I want to pull in front of some huge truck who just may run me over. Then I saw him. A gorgeous black  Mercedes with no plates and a driver paying more attention to his Blackberry then the road ahead of him. &lt;br /&gt;He was perfect. &lt;br /&gt;I went to put on my blinker and stopped myself. He looked like the type that just might speed up to be sure I wouldn’t get in front of him. The more I thought about the proper etiquette of cutting him off, the closer he got. I could feel my heart rate increase as the adrenaline began to flow throughout my body. Last minute, I whipped my steering wheel to the right and squeezed in front of him. I glanced up in my rearview mirror as an act of curiosity. I wondered if he’d noticed, if he cared or if he’d just cut me off in return. He merely nodded his head in frustration and threw his right hand into the air. But it didn’t feel like it should. As ridiculous as it sounds, I was hoping to feel like an accomplished grown-up, letting everyone on the freeway know I had somewhere important to be. But I didn’t. &lt;br /&gt;Stepping in the real world and seeing the frustration on that mans face made me feel more like I was getting one of those “I’m not mad, just disappointed” talks from Dad rather than a “Nice job, you get a raise” talk from my boss. &lt;br /&gt;There was no fulfillment, no satisfaction. In fact, I was probably the cherry on top of that man’s stressful morning sundae. I was probably the last thing he needed. &lt;br /&gt;So, I’ve come to the conclusion that I just don’t fit in. I can’t yell at the Starbucks Barista because she can’t write triple grande sugar free non-fat vanilla latte on the cup fast enough and I won’t tell my friend that I can’t stay up with her on the phone at night and listen to her boy problems because I have to wake up early for work. &lt;br /&gt;This thing we call the real world is anything but real. It’s selfish, void of compassion and motivated by something we can never have enough of. And I was reminded once again, time is money and money is time.&lt;br /&gt;So as any young, naive girl would do, I decided that rather than just submit to a money-driven world offering no satisfaction that I just may try to change things. Maybe not for the world, but maybe for just a few people I interact with each day. &lt;br /&gt;Perhaps there are millions of lessons I have yet to learn. But something inside me can’t help but wonder if the saying “time is money, money is time” was meant for something entirely different. &lt;br /&gt;Let me explain. &lt;br /&gt;I’ve decided to let someone into my lane even if it means I have to slow down. I’ll thank my waitress each time she stops by my table and I will hold the elevator when I hear the sound of heels running across the lobby. I’ll smile and greet people I don’t even know and I will always hold the door. I’ll run across the crosswalk if there is a car waiting to turn left and I’ll pick up the papers the hurried businessman fumbled. I’ll change someone’s real world, even if it is only for an instant.&lt;br /&gt;You don’t have to have an abundant savings account, an incredible home or even a sweet corvette. I know its cliché, but would you like your tombstone to reflect the great things you got with your money or the great relationships you got with your time? You see, no one will ever remember the boat you drove or the lavish dinner you bought. They’ll remember the time they spent with you. It’s true. Think of all the great memories you’ve had. They weren’t sitting in the office talking about your stocks and investments. Great memories are derived from great relationships. Family vacations, sleepovers, late nights out. You always remember cooking lessons with your roommates, girl talk over chips and salsa or a first kiss with an old love. I couldn’t tell you what cool outfit I was wearing or what kind of car we drove in. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.&lt;br /&gt;So in the end, the motto of the real world will always be. It won’t change. But for now, I will spend my time deciding who I should invest into rather than spend my money deciding what I should invest into.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&amp;#9788; ap&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6848609757250736634-3518852969170607179?l=ashleepeters.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ashleepeters.blogspot.com/feeds/3518852969170607179/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://ashleepeters.blogspot.com/2009/01/investing-into-real-world.html#comment-form' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6848609757250736634/posts/default/3518852969170607179'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6848609757250736634/posts/default/3518852969170607179'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ashleepeters.blogspot.com/2009/01/investing-into-real-world.html' title='An investment into the real world'/><author><name>ashlee p</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kqRtxxJkx4k/SV8BtZZs2mI/AAAAAAAAAB0/om2XLRbV-Lg/s72-c/iStock_000003890475XSmall.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6848609757250736634.post-1794032954469482301</id><published>2009-01-02T19:30:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-20T20:18:24.995-08:00</updated><title type='text'>It's about time...</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;A blog is something that I've been wanting to start for a very long time. With a new year beginning, I figured this would be the perfect time for me to finally commit and start my blog. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Writing has always brought me many pleasures. I enjoy the therapy of it and I enjoy reflecting on my life regularly because of the personal growth if offers me. I'm looking forward to sharing my experiences and trials with you. I hope that through this blog I am able to challenge your views and traditional thoughts--maybe allow you to think outside the box for even just a moment.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"&gt;I'm looking forward to the things 2009 will bring us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;☼ ap&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6848609757250736634-1794032954469482301?l=ashleepeters.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ashleepeters.blogspot.com/feeds/1794032954469482301/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://ashleepeters.blogspot.com/2009/01/its-about-time.html#comment-form' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6848609757250736634/posts/default/1794032954469482301'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6848609757250736634/posts/default/1794032954469482301'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ashleepeters.blogspot.com/2009/01/its-about-time.html' title='It&apos;s about time...'/><author><name>ashlee p</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
