I almost saw him yesterday.
Or rather…I saw almost-him yesterday. Yes. That’s more accurate.
I certainly couldn’t have almost seen a person I know to be halfway around the world right now.
I did see almost-him, though.
I was in the mall with my mom during a marathon-shopping day that left me with blisters on both pinky toes and a new credit card balance. She has plans for a big downtown Christmas date with my dad next weekend, and we were on a focused mission to find her the perfect party top. I was so keyed in to this task, I barely noticed how gruesomely crowded the mall was that day, didn’t give anyone but my mom and various sales ladies a single (let alone a double) look.
We passed the Wetzel’s Pretzels kiosk, and I lifted my nose in the air to fully engage in its glorious aroma. And that’s when I saw him.
Well, almost-him. The resemblance was arresting.
Almost-he was walking toward me, dressed head-to-toe in standard Army camouflage, with a long, graceful stride so familiar that watching it produced physical pain in my chest. He was the perfect combination of tall…taller than me by a foot…and skinny. His cheeks were a bit sunken in, making his jaw line look strong and decisive. He grasped his camo cap at his side with long, beautiful fingers and wore his dark hair in a classic Army fade.
And his eyes. Oh his eyes.
They were the cruelest pretenders of all. Deep-set and hiding under heavy, dark eyebrows, they lured me out of reality. They told me he was home on leave. They told me the war was over. They told me he’d come to the mall to look for me.
For a moment, I lost myself in the make-believe.
I watched in stunned silence as he walked right up to me and framed my face with his knuckly hands. He rested his forehead against mine and, as a tear fell off his cheek and into my Express bag, he spoke the perfect words to feed my hungry ego.
“I’m so sorry.”
It was just a whisper, but the sound of it drowned out the sounds of rustling bags, shoes scuffing the floor, and kids screaming in Santa’s lap.
“If it takes me 100 lifetimes, I will win you back.”
And then he kissed me. And kissed me. And kissed me.
“Quit staring!” My mom grabbed my wrist and I felt myself hurdling back to reality.
I blinked twice, released my brow from the deep furrow I’d been unconsciously holding it in, and focused my eyes forward.
I hadn’t stopped walking, and neither had almost-he. The distance between un us had shrunk to only a few feet.
Now, only a few inches.
As we passed each other, I must confess that I breathed a deep, searching breath, hoping to catch hints of lavender-scented laundry detergent and Camel Lights.
Almost-he smelled like musky cologne and sweat.
I sighed and shook my head.
“What’s wrong with you?” my mom asked.
“That guy looked like…” the thought of saying his name choked me.
“Oh,” she said.
And we went on with the rest of our day never speaking about it again. Only once did I allow my brain to acknowledge what my heart was screaming.
It still hurts.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Surprise Potty
I always try to pee before any kind of important event begins...like a meeting, or a graduation ceremony, or a Bon Jovi concert. I especially keep to this practice before classes.
Nothing...absolutely nothing...makes me blush faster than getting up in the middle of class and going to the bathroom (except maybe not getting up in the middle of class...and going to the bathroom). I mean, everyone knows what's going on when you do that. And they're all asking themselves the same question: Number 1? or Number 2? It's a heinous experience, and I avoid it as much as possible.
This morning, my pre-class pee was an experience I'll never forget.
I know...what a statement.
I entered one of the three stalls in the ladies room, closed the door behind me, and sat my bag (against my better judgement) on the tile floor. I was beginning to fiddle with my belt when I noticed a post-it note stuck to the inside of the stall door, about eye-level. It read: "No TP. Have a good day."
It was the greatest public bathroom moment of my life.
Someone had obviously been in the stall before me and probably suffered the mortification of discovering a toilet paper shortage post-poo. Most likely, she had to throw out an "excuse me," to a perfect stranger in the neighboring stall and ask for an under-the-wall hand-off. Ugh...I'm embarrassed just thinking about it.
The difference between this girl and the rest of us who've experienced the same thing is this: she had the character and presence of mind to think outside herself in the middle of a, well, crappy situation. This has happened to me before, and all I could think about was getting the heck out of the bathroom before I could make embarrassing, "yeah, it was me" eye-contact with anyone. Forget washing my hands; germs don't scare me nearly as much as awkward social interaction.
Not so with my post-it pal.
She must have stuck around AT LEAST as long as it took to rummage around for a post-it in her purse, to write a note (including a word of encouragement) on that post-it, and to stick it in a place where she knew it would be visible.
Awkwardness be damned! She couldn't let this happen to someone else!
After reading the post-it, I snatched my bag back up and moved stalls. I was able to enjoy an embarrassment-free bathroom experience because of the sacrifice of one of my predecessors. Wherever you are, Post-it Potty girl, you've inspired me. If you can do something like this for a perfect stranger...well just think of the possibilities.
Nothing...absolutely nothing...makes me blush faster than getting up in the middle of class and going to the bathroom (except maybe not getting up in the middle of class...and going to the bathroom). I mean, everyone knows what's going on when you do that. And they're all asking themselves the same question: Number 1? or Number 2? It's a heinous experience, and I avoid it as much as possible.
This morning, my pre-class pee was an experience I'll never forget.
I know...what a statement.
I entered one of the three stalls in the ladies room, closed the door behind me, and sat my bag (against my better judgement) on the tile floor. I was beginning to fiddle with my belt when I noticed a post-it note stuck to the inside of the stall door, about eye-level. It read: "No TP. Have a good day."
It was the greatest public bathroom moment of my life.
Someone had obviously been in the stall before me and probably suffered the mortification of discovering a toilet paper shortage post-poo. Most likely, she had to throw out an "excuse me," to a perfect stranger in the neighboring stall and ask for an under-the-wall hand-off. Ugh...I'm embarrassed just thinking about it.
The difference between this girl and the rest of us who've experienced the same thing is this: she had the character and presence of mind to think outside herself in the middle of a, well, crappy situation. This has happened to me before, and all I could think about was getting the heck out of the bathroom before I could make embarrassing, "yeah, it was me" eye-contact with anyone. Forget washing my hands; germs don't scare me nearly as much as awkward social interaction.
Not so with my post-it pal.
She must have stuck around AT LEAST as long as it took to rummage around for a post-it in her purse, to write a note (including a word of encouragement) on that post-it, and to stick it in a place where she knew it would be visible.
Awkwardness be damned! She couldn't let this happen to someone else!
After reading the post-it, I snatched my bag back up and moved stalls. I was able to enjoy an embarrassment-free bathroom experience because of the sacrifice of one of my predecessors. Wherever you are, Post-it Potty girl, you've inspired me. If you can do something like this for a perfect stranger...well just think of the possibilities.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Red Light, Green Light
Isn't Red Light, Green Light the greatest game in the world?
It's really every woman's fantasy...
You're the goal, the prize, the ultimate destination. People compete for just one chance to touch you. When you say go, they go. When you say stop, they stop. They hang on your every word, react to the tiniest twitch in your body, try to guess what you'll do next and when you'll do it. If they mess up, even a little, you shake them off like a bad habit. Only the strongest, the smartest, the most committed make it within arm's reach of you. Only the best have a chance.
What's more, you can play it anywhere...with anyone...at any time. No equipment necessary. The only thing you really need is a ruthless sense of detachment, a willingness to cut people loose for stupid reasons...like a toe-wiggle, or an eye-twitch.
Now, I've been a fan of this game for a long time, and over a couple decades of dedicated play in every kind of situation imagineable, I must say that the best place for a rousing game of Red Light, Green Light...is with your boyfriend. I have several friends who agree.
Take Bethany, for instance.
Bethany used to be an RLGL fiend. And man, was she good. In college, she used to make me play for weekend plans with her.
"Yes, I'll go," she'd say. "Wait, maybe I won't," the next day. "Okay, sure," the next. "Weelllll, who's gonna be there?" the day of.
Red Light...
Green Light...
Red Light...
Green Light...
Talk about road rage...I about went insane.
But as bad as it ever got for Bethany's friends...it was much worse for her men. One in particular.
I remember a long Friday night spent sprawled across a futon, listening to her gushings and musings about the man who was after her heart. Max was his name, and apparently he was the funniest, sweetest, smartest, kindest male roaming the planet. She read me the love e-mails he wrote, brought out the trinkets he left on her car, showed the pictures they took of themselves hugging and kissing and making monkey faces. She was smitten.
Max had a bright, shimmering, sparkling, able-to-be-seen-from-space green light on Friday.
The very next night, unable to kick the habit, Bethany flipped the green light to a bold, frightening, stop-sign shade of red.
It was nothing he said. Nothing he did. She hadn't even seen the guy that day. Still, by that evening, they were "on a break." It wasn't the first time; not even close. And Max had grown tired of the stop-and-go. He didn't wait for the light to change again. He walked off the field with his pride and a broken heart.
Luckily, Bethany has a few friends (myself included) who'd been through her RLGL ringer, and weren't afraid to tell her that playtime was over. After a long, hard conversation with us, she retired from the sport she'd dominated for so long. She finally took herself out of the game. Max was kind enough to give her a seventeenth chance, and if you ask me, they'll be playing a different playground game before long.
The one where, if you swing side-by-side, it means you're married.
Bethany's Red Light, Green Light rehab taught me a valuable lesson. It's all fun and games... until people quit playing. And they will. Eventually, we all get tired of games. They're fun at first, but what's the point in playing them if no one ever wins? Then they're just a waste of time.
And there's a reason that real traffic signals don't switch from green straight to red. That's how people get hurt. The next time I feel the urge the change colors, I'm gonna shoot for yellow.
It's really every woman's fantasy...
You're the goal, the prize, the ultimate destination. People compete for just one chance to touch you. When you say go, they go. When you say stop, they stop. They hang on your every word, react to the tiniest twitch in your body, try to guess what you'll do next and when you'll do it. If they mess up, even a little, you shake them off like a bad habit. Only the strongest, the smartest, the most committed make it within arm's reach of you. Only the best have a chance.
What's more, you can play it anywhere...with anyone...at any time. No equipment necessary. The only thing you really need is a ruthless sense of detachment, a willingness to cut people loose for stupid reasons...like a toe-wiggle, or an eye-twitch.
Now, I've been a fan of this game for a long time, and over a couple decades of dedicated play in every kind of situation imagineable, I must say that the best place for a rousing game of Red Light, Green Light...is with your boyfriend. I have several friends who agree.
Take Bethany, for instance.
Bethany used to be an RLGL fiend. And man, was she good. In college, she used to make me play for weekend plans with her.
"Yes, I'll go," she'd say. "Wait, maybe I won't," the next day. "Okay, sure," the next. "Weelllll, who's gonna be there?" the day of.
Red Light...
Green Light...
Red Light...
Green Light...
Talk about road rage...I about went insane.
But as bad as it ever got for Bethany's friends...it was much worse for her men. One in particular.
I remember a long Friday night spent sprawled across a futon, listening to her gushings and musings about the man who was after her heart. Max was his name, and apparently he was the funniest, sweetest, smartest, kindest male roaming the planet. She read me the love e-mails he wrote, brought out the trinkets he left on her car, showed the pictures they took of themselves hugging and kissing and making monkey faces. She was smitten.
Max had a bright, shimmering, sparkling, able-to-be-seen-from-space green light on Friday.
The very next night, unable to kick the habit, Bethany flipped the green light to a bold, frightening, stop-sign shade of red.
It was nothing he said. Nothing he did. She hadn't even seen the guy that day. Still, by that evening, they were "on a break." It wasn't the first time; not even close. And Max had grown tired of the stop-and-go. He didn't wait for the light to change again. He walked off the field with his pride and a broken heart.
Luckily, Bethany has a few friends (myself included) who'd been through her RLGL ringer, and weren't afraid to tell her that playtime was over. After a long, hard conversation with us, she retired from the sport she'd dominated for so long. She finally took herself out of the game. Max was kind enough to give her a seventeenth chance, and if you ask me, they'll be playing a different playground game before long.
The one where, if you swing side-by-side, it means you're married.
Bethany's Red Light, Green Light rehab taught me a valuable lesson. It's all fun and games... until people quit playing. And they will. Eventually, we all get tired of games. They're fun at first, but what's the point in playing them if no one ever wins? Then they're just a waste of time.
And there's a reason that real traffic signals don't switch from green straight to red. That's how people get hurt. The next time I feel the urge the change colors, I'm gonna shoot for yellow.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Shelly's Creeper
Here in the Midwest, we're famous for a few things: farms, Big Ten sports (Go IU...fight, fight, fight), good cooking (not to be confused with good-for-you cooking), and being nice. For proof of this list's legitimacy, see any piece of music, literature, or art ever created about our little section of the nation.
Case in point... "The Midwest's farmers' daughters really make you feel alright," croon the Beach Boys.
See...
We farm.
And, we're nice.
Sure, it seems more exciting to be a hot California girl, or an edgy New Yorker...or even a prim and proper Southern belle, but it's pretty neat being America's Sweethearts too, right?
In fact, I've felt a certain sense of pride at the way people view Midwestern women: honest, fun loving, take-home-to-mom gals who can catch a football, bake a casserole, and look hot in a pair of faded blue jeans. Who wouldn't want to be described this way? It's every man's fantasy woman.
A couple nights ago, some friends and I went out to a local club to celebrate being our sweet little selves. Midway through the evening, an older gentleman (and by this I mean old creeper) offered to buy my buddy Shelly a beer. Shelly, having both a serious boyfriend and a full beer in her hand, declined his offer.
Twenty minutes later, I turned around just in time to see Old Creeper McCreeperson fondling Shelly's booty with an open hand and a sick little smile on his face. Shelly, trapped in her spot on the dance floor could do nothing but look and feel horrified.
I can't fully explain what happened to me internally at the sight of this. It was a little bit like what I imagine The Hulk feels right before he starts greening and sprouting sedan-sized biceps. All I KNOW is...I was ready to be anything but nice.
I flew at Old McDonald...my finger in his face...shouting every expletive that came to mind. "Don't you f****** touch her, you f****** sicko!" I screamed. Seeing the shocked look on his face and the timidity with which he began backing away, I made the mature decision to keep right on talking. There really was no need. He'd gotten the picture. I was just SO angry.
I believe my last words to him were, "Walk away right now before I beat your ass."
Ah, yes. I was the picture of Midwestern hospitality.
The creeper left the bar as instructed (after a bystanding young lad jumped in between us and urged him toward the door) and our evening went on without another hitch. But even after we'd gotten home, I couldn't get the run-in out of my mind. I kept replaying the moment, wondering how I'd seemed to on-lookers, and hoping I hadn't ruined my God-given rep as a drama-free Indiana sweetie.
Now, maybe Old Fogie's disgusting actions warranted a good tongue-lashing. Maybe it was fitting for me to get a little hardcore in the defense of a friend. But I couldn't shake the feeling that my attitude that night had been about more than one handsy creepster.
When I replayed the emotions I felt that night, underneath a hefty layer of motherly instinct I found traces of spite...betrayal...and loneliness. I saw pictures of a hundred fights with all my ex-boyfriends, heard echos of insults hurled my way over the years, felt the sting of old tears running down my cheeks.
It became obvious, the more I thought about it, that my little rage black-out had been the culmination of all the things I never said while trying to be...nice.
It was about my best friend in 6th grade, who told me I was a bad dresser. I just thanked her for being honest.
It was about the time when, after a fight, my ex let me walk home...by myself...a few months after I'd gotten mugged in the same neighborhood. He never called to ask if I made it home okay. I just wrote it off as a bad night and never mentioned it.
It was about my old boss, who talked to me like he would a 2-year-old. I guess he thought secretaries weren't capable of adult conversation. I never corrected him.
Now, I'm not one of these girls who has no opinions on anything except hairspray and baby names. I've done a fair amount of reading and traveling...and dating...and I think I have something of substance to offer in all sorts of conversations. Still, I'm no stranger to that mangy feline who grabs our tongues just when we need them the most. Translation: I freeze-up in the face of real, uncomfortable, unavoidable confrontation...and I let the other person be right.
There are countless moments in all our lives that produce the need for confrontation...for the expression of anger and hurt. Most of us avoid this like a bikini wax...you know you need it, but it's so damn awkward and painful that you put it off anyway.
There are countless moments in all our lives that produce the need for confrontation...for the expression of anger and hurt. Most of us avoid this like a bikini wax...you know you need it, but it's so damn awkward and painful that you put it off anyway.
This is especially true for us Midwests' farmers' daughters. We've been brought up in a stereotype so thick with niceties, we can't find our way out of it. It's not that we don't feel anger, we just keep it in. Maybe this makes us seem sweet to The Beach Boys, but I wonder if it makes us bitter inside...so that on some random day, for some ridiculous reason, we explode.
Luckily for me, I exploded all over someone who deserved it. But what about next time? The only way I can see to prevent this from happening again (to someone who didn't have it coming) is to get good and mad when it's time to get mad...and then to express it and deal with it. It's something all us ladies of the Heartland had better consider. Otherwise, all the boys will be wishing we all could be California girls.
Luckily for me, I exploded all over someone who deserved it. But what about next time? The only way I can see to prevent this from happening again (to someone who didn't have it coming) is to get good and mad when it's time to get mad...and then to express it and deal with it. It's something all us ladies of the Heartland had better consider. Otherwise, all the boys will be wishing we all could be California girls.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Oh no she didn't...
When I first moved back to the glorious metropolis that is Indianapolis, I got a part-time job cocktailing at a particularly well-established bar/nightclub. As my one-year anniversary there rapidly approaches, I can't help but think back on all the crazy, twisted things I've seen while carrying a tray or manning a beer tub.
I am not exaggerating when I say that I couldn't make up better stories than I actually leave with every night. Seriously. I'm talking about the most "oh no she didn't"..."he'll regret that tomorrow"..."is that even legal" moments imaginable.
A few examples:
I watched a girl try to do a straddle-slide down a two-story staircase railing...with no underwear on.
I had a customer open a tab with her husband's credit card...and then go home with a guy she just met...who didn't speak English.
I saw a fella so drunk and confused that when he got in a bar fight, he broke a beer bottle over his own head.
Pretty unbelievable, right?
Typically, after I witness an incident like the ones I've described, I file it away in the "Stories to bring up in an easy-going crowd who likes to laugh" file and think of it no more. A couple nights ago, though, I saw something truly outrageous happen. It was so shocking that I haven't been able to get it off my mind. In fact, I believe I've actually been learning from it.
Picture this:
I'm being escorted to my car (parked in the back) by a security guard. We're laughing and talking about the evening when we hear a loud crash-bang-boom-like noise from across the lot.
"Holy crap," he says.
I look up.
"Holy crap," I say.
I blink a couple times, just to be sure I'm not hallucinating. When nothing changes, I commence laughing hysterically. It seems that someone driving a Chevy Cavalier...circa 1995...has managed to back COMPLETELY THROUGH the brick wall of a building next door.
I immediately have a few questions.
First, how did she (the driver was female...males readers please reserve judgment) not see a brick wall behind her?
Second, how fast was she going that she put a Cavalier through that brick wall? I mean, we're not talking about a Land Rover, here.
Third, why is she driving away?
That's right. This chick put a mid-level-sedan sized hole in the local shoe shop, and I was watching her attempt to drive off as if nothing occurred. She would have gotten away, too, if it weren't for a police officer heroically throwing his body in front of her vehicle.
As I drove away from the scene of the blunder, I couldn't help but sympathize with the poor girl. Hadn't I made a few big, embarrassing, messy mistakes of my own? Of course, they didn't involve the destruction of property, but they were nonetheless damaging. And hadn't I occasionally run away from dealing with those mistakes?
Over the next couple days, my mind reeked with the staleness of so many screw-ups swept under the bed. I thought about the men I shouldn't have dated, the words I shouldn't have said, and the times I didn't do my best...all the minor bungles and major missteps in my past. How many of them had I made right? How many had I even owned up to?
I began to see the Cavalier Calamity less like a good story to tell over a round of beers and more like a metaphor for my life and the lives of my girlfriends, whose countless tales-of-oops I've heard over the years: We all back our proverbial car through the figurative brick wall once in a while...and most of the time, we turn it into a hit-and-run.
Why? I'm not sure. It could be any of a million reasons (we're embarrassed, we're afraid, we're indignant and convinced of our own innocence). The point is, we do it...a lot. We make big, ugly messes and then refuse to acknowledge them...refuse to clean them up...refuse to learn from them. Is it any surprise that we statistically change friends every 3-4 years (and spouses every 7)? Our relationships get filled to the brim with all the messes we make and never clean up. Is it surprising that we repeat the same mistakes over and over? It's impossible to to learn from them if we always leave the scene of the accident.
Our lives are not so different from the crowded parking lot behind my bar, so many of us clamoring for a better spot, edging each other out, cutting each other off, taking up more space than we should...and of course, parking in the handicapped zone (I mean, who hasn't). In our rush to get in (or out) all of us inevitably do things we wish we hadn't. What separates the good drivers from the Cavalier drivers of the world is refusing to drive on by like nothing happened; it's standing up and taking ownership of even our most mortifying mistakes.
It's letting go of a man who's bringing us down. It's holding onto a friend who we run the risk of losing. It's seeking forgiveness. It's swallowing our pride. It's hard, and it's embarrassing, and it's scary.
But it's better.
You and I may never knock down any permanent structures, but we will do some damage in our lifetime. It's part of being human. The question is, will we face it and fix it, or will we drive away?
I am not exaggerating when I say that I couldn't make up better stories than I actually leave with every night. Seriously. I'm talking about the most "oh no she didn't"..."he'll regret that tomorrow"..."is that even legal" moments imaginable.
A few examples:
I watched a girl try to do a straddle-slide down a two-story staircase railing...with no underwear on.
I had a customer open a tab with her husband's credit card...and then go home with a guy she just met...who didn't speak English.
I saw a fella so drunk and confused that when he got in a bar fight, he broke a beer bottle over his own head.
Pretty unbelievable, right?
Typically, after I witness an incident like the ones I've described, I file it away in the "Stories to bring up in an easy-going crowd who likes to laugh" file and think of it no more. A couple nights ago, though, I saw something truly outrageous happen. It was so shocking that I haven't been able to get it off my mind. In fact, I believe I've actually been learning from it.
Picture this:
I'm being escorted to my car (parked in the back) by a security guard. We're laughing and talking about the evening when we hear a loud crash-bang-boom-like noise from across the lot.
"Holy crap," he says.
I look up.
"Holy crap," I say.
I blink a couple times, just to be sure I'm not hallucinating. When nothing changes, I commence laughing hysterically. It seems that someone driving a Chevy Cavalier...circa 1995...has managed to back COMPLETELY THROUGH the brick wall of a building next door.
I immediately have a few questions.
First, how did she (the driver was female...males readers please reserve judgment) not see a brick wall behind her?
Second, how fast was she going that she put a Cavalier through that brick wall? I mean, we're not talking about a Land Rover, here.
Third, why is she driving away?
That's right. This chick put a mid-level-sedan sized hole in the local shoe shop, and I was watching her attempt to drive off as if nothing occurred. She would have gotten away, too, if it weren't for a police officer heroically throwing his body in front of her vehicle.
As I drove away from the scene of the blunder, I couldn't help but sympathize with the poor girl. Hadn't I made a few big, embarrassing, messy mistakes of my own? Of course, they didn't involve the destruction of property, but they were nonetheless damaging. And hadn't I occasionally run away from dealing with those mistakes?
Over the next couple days, my mind reeked with the staleness of so many screw-ups swept under the bed. I thought about the men I shouldn't have dated, the words I shouldn't have said, and the times I didn't do my best...all the minor bungles and major missteps in my past. How many of them had I made right? How many had I even owned up to?
I began to see the Cavalier Calamity less like a good story to tell over a round of beers and more like a metaphor for my life and the lives of my girlfriends, whose countless tales-of-oops I've heard over the years: We all back our proverbial car through the figurative brick wall once in a while...and most of the time, we turn it into a hit-and-run.
Why? I'm not sure. It could be any of a million reasons (we're embarrassed, we're afraid, we're indignant and convinced of our own innocence). The point is, we do it...a lot. We make big, ugly messes and then refuse to acknowledge them...refuse to clean them up...refuse to learn from them. Is it any surprise that we statistically change friends every 3-4 years (and spouses every 7)? Our relationships get filled to the brim with all the messes we make and never clean up. Is it surprising that we repeat the same mistakes over and over? It's impossible to to learn from them if we always leave the scene of the accident.
Our lives are not so different from the crowded parking lot behind my bar, so many of us clamoring for a better spot, edging each other out, cutting each other off, taking up more space than we should...and of course, parking in the handicapped zone (I mean, who hasn't). In our rush to get in (or out) all of us inevitably do things we wish we hadn't. What separates the good drivers from the Cavalier drivers of the world is refusing to drive on by like nothing happened; it's standing up and taking ownership of even our most mortifying mistakes.
It's letting go of a man who's bringing us down. It's holding onto a friend who we run the risk of losing. It's seeking forgiveness. It's swallowing our pride. It's hard, and it's embarrassing, and it's scary.
But it's better.
You and I may never knock down any permanent structures, but we will do some damage in our lifetime. It's part of being human. The question is, will we face it and fix it, or will we drive away?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
What's the plan?
In an impromptu Facebook chat with my buddie today, I said something that surprised me. That's right...I'm surprising myself with my own thoughts.
"My brain is on overload with planning," I told her. "I swear I can't plan one more thing. Although," I thought on it further, "I'm oddly addicted to it."
What is that?
How did that happen?
How did planning become my cigarette...my 11pm bowl of ice cream...my new coach bag every season?
Here's my attempt at an answer.
I think I love planning, because it feels like I'm accomplishing something EVERY TIME I partake. Scheduling a lunch with someone (and I'm referring to physically putting it on my schedule) provides the same kind of satisfaction as actually having the lunch. It's like a sweet mini-hit of successful activity, which I'm learning is something in which I find a great deal of identity.
They say that when a person (hmmm, how do I say this tactfully...nope, can't do it) poops, his or her body releases 0.5% of the glorious chemical concoction we get during an orgasm. No wonder so many people look forward to an activity which is otherwise so obviously repulsive and unfun.
This reminds of my body's response to planning. Each click of the "Create Event" button in my GCalender gets me a little high, like maybe 0.5% of the high I'd get from starting a company, or selling a million records, or getting married. It's like I'm tricking myself into thinking that I'm accomplishing great things, and that really does it for me.
At the same time, it drains me faster than one of those super-suck toilets in department stores. I feel suddenly tired, as if I've already DONE the thing I've actually only made a PLAN to do.
What's funny is, when I mentioned this to my Facebook friend, she agreed whole-heartedly, saying she suffered from the same little mental tick. I think it's safe to assume that a lot of women are in the same tightly wound ship as the two of us.
So what's the cure? How do I stop responding to the siren call that is Outlook, Palm, and the OfficeMax desk calendar beneath the keyboard upon which I now so feverishly type?
I don't have a clue.
I expect knowing is half the battle.
Or maybe like. 0.5% of it.
"My brain is on overload with planning," I told her. "I swear I can't plan one more thing. Although," I thought on it further, "I'm oddly addicted to it."
What is that?
How did that happen?
How did planning become my cigarette...my 11pm bowl of ice cream...my new coach bag every season?
Here's my attempt at an answer.
I think I love planning, because it feels like I'm accomplishing something EVERY TIME I partake. Scheduling a lunch with someone (and I'm referring to physically putting it on my schedule) provides the same kind of satisfaction as actually having the lunch. It's like a sweet mini-hit of successful activity, which I'm learning is something in which I find a great deal of identity.
They say that when a person (hmmm, how do I say this tactfully...nope, can't do it) poops, his or her body releases 0.5% of the glorious chemical concoction we get during an orgasm. No wonder so many people look forward to an activity which is otherwise so obviously repulsive and unfun.
This reminds of my body's response to planning. Each click of the "Create Event" button in my GCalender gets me a little high, like maybe 0.5% of the high I'd get from starting a company, or selling a million records, or getting married. It's like I'm tricking myself into thinking that I'm accomplishing great things, and that really does it for me.
At the same time, it drains me faster than one of those super-suck toilets in department stores. I feel suddenly tired, as if I've already DONE the thing I've actually only made a PLAN to do.
What's funny is, when I mentioned this to my Facebook friend, she agreed whole-heartedly, saying she suffered from the same little mental tick. I think it's safe to assume that a lot of women are in the same tightly wound ship as the two of us.
So what's the cure? How do I stop responding to the siren call that is Outlook, Palm, and the OfficeMax desk calendar beneath the keyboard upon which I now so feverishly type?
I don't have a clue.
I expect knowing is half the battle.
Or maybe like. 0.5% of it.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Pigs and Condoms
I ran across an ad in a particularly well-selling women's magazine today. It pictured a crowded restaurant in which every table was occupied by a beautiful woman and a pig.
Now, when I say pig, what I mean is...pig. This isn't an analogy. These perfect-10 ladies appeared to be enjoying cocktails with curly-tailed, dirt-rolling, H1N1-carrying piggies.
Needless to say, the image got my attention. Bravo, Madison Ave. I took a closer look.
Standing in the midst of this sea of odd couplings, a particularly lovely young woman was talking to the only human male in the room. The two appeared to be getting along, their smiles and body positioning indicating high interest levels.
Across the bottom of the page the tag-line read: Choose the one who uses a condom every time.
"Oh IIIIIIII get it...," I thought to myself.
The pigs represented the scores of men who send the fox into numerous hen houses without a helmet --those filthy animals. The only real man in the room, bless his heart, was the rose among thorns...that one-in-a-million guy who wraps it up each and every time he lets his horse out of the barn. Ah, the difference a little latex makes.
I felt mostly impressed with the ad's creativity, but an unidentifiable sense of annoyance was also looming over my head. I couldn't pin down what exactly was triggering it, so with a little sigh of appreciation for a product well-sold, I flipped the page. It wasn't until I was halfway through an article on the dietary benefits of roughage that I realized what about the clever little ad had bothered me.
"Wait a minute," I thought, flipping back to the page and getting a closer look at the stud in the pumas, "all a man has to do to be a prince among pigs is to roll on a condom before he plows every field in town?"
Hogwash!
How about he keep his tiller in the tool shed to begin with? It's not like the world's a big orgy and random sex is compulsory!
When did it become so mainstream to treat sharing bodily fluids like sharing a bowl of ice cream: just use a different spoon to avoid germs? Call me old-fashioned...call me delusional, even...but I think sex is the kind of transaction you reserve for special relationships, the kind that take more than a crowded bar and a few shots of tequila to cultivate. Yes, condoms protect against STD's, but that's not the only gross thing about doing a stranger. To me, the most unappealing thing about random sex is that it's random sex, a characteristic against which latex wields no power.
I'm not suggesting we all choose celibacy, but don't expect me to swoon for a man-whore just because he's health-conscious. I'm looking for an actual gentleman, a guy who (dare I say it...dare I even dream it) doesn't sleep around. I don't think that's too much to ask.
Until I find this dreamboat, I'll surely avoid being set up by any condom company execs. Clearly, our ideas of a "real man" are very different.
Now, when I say pig, what I mean is...pig. This isn't an analogy. These perfect-10 ladies appeared to be enjoying cocktails with curly-tailed, dirt-rolling, H1N1-carrying piggies.
Needless to say, the image got my attention. Bravo, Madison Ave. I took a closer look.
Standing in the midst of this sea of odd couplings, a particularly lovely young woman was talking to the only human male in the room. The two appeared to be getting along, their smiles and body positioning indicating high interest levels.
Across the bottom of the page the tag-line read: Choose the one who uses a condom every time.
"Oh IIIIIIII get it...," I thought to myself.
The pigs represented the scores of men who send the fox into numerous hen houses without a helmet --those filthy animals. The only real man in the room, bless his heart, was the rose among thorns...that one-in-a-million guy who wraps it up each and every time he lets his horse out of the barn. Ah, the difference a little latex makes.
I felt mostly impressed with the ad's creativity, but an unidentifiable sense of annoyance was also looming over my head. I couldn't pin down what exactly was triggering it, so with a little sigh of appreciation for a product well-sold, I flipped the page. It wasn't until I was halfway through an article on the dietary benefits of roughage that I realized what about the clever little ad had bothered me.
"Wait a minute," I thought, flipping back to the page and getting a closer look at the stud in the pumas, "all a man has to do to be a prince among pigs is to roll on a condom before he plows every field in town?"
Hogwash!
How about he keep his tiller in the tool shed to begin with? It's not like the world's a big orgy and random sex is compulsory!
When did it become so mainstream to treat sharing bodily fluids like sharing a bowl of ice cream: just use a different spoon to avoid germs? Call me old-fashioned...call me delusional, even...but I think sex is the kind of transaction you reserve for special relationships, the kind that take more than a crowded bar and a few shots of tequila to cultivate. Yes, condoms protect against STD's, but that's not the only gross thing about doing a stranger. To me, the most unappealing thing about random sex is that it's random sex, a characteristic against which latex wields no power.
I'm not suggesting we all choose celibacy, but don't expect me to swoon for a man-whore just because he's health-conscious. I'm looking for an actual gentleman, a guy who (dare I say it...dare I even dream it) doesn't sleep around. I don't think that's too much to ask.
Until I find this dreamboat, I'll surely avoid being set up by any condom company execs. Clearly, our ideas of a "real man" are very different.
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